‘I shall tell her you are the daughter of an old friend and as she is now no longer with us, you’ve come to me in your hour of need. We shall say that you were married last year and your husband has recently died in the flu epidemic, leaving you expecting his child with nowhere to go. There is no reason to doubt such a story – lots of people have died of this dreadful flu, and there must be other women truly in the situation I’m describing. Why should my sister not believe us?’

Annette still looked at her anxiously and Agathe gave her a shake. ‘It’s the best we can do for now, Annette. That’s the story we’ll stick to and my sister will hear nothing of Father Thomas or the Clergy House. Now, give a name to your dead husband, because he has to seem real for you to be able to pull this off!’

‘Marc,’ replied Annette after a moment’s thought. ‘Marc Dubois.’

‘Good. A very common name,’ said Agathe. ‘Marc Dubois it is – which makes you Annette Dubois, so remember it if someone asks.’

When they reached Fleur’s apartment and Agathe opened its front door, she gave Annette a silent push down the corridor towards her own room before going to find Fleur in her salon.

As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, Annette crossed to the narrow bed in the tiny box room where Agathe slept. She had scrounged food, drunk from fountains and slept in doorways and under waggons for the past three weeks, flotsam in the bustle of the city, invisible, tossed aside and disregarded. The quiet of this room, where the noise of the streets outside was only a distant hum, claimed her, and the moment she lay down on Agathe’s bed, she descended into a deep and dreamless slumber. She was still fast asleep when, hours later, Agathe finally came to the room at the end of her working day. She had changed her mind about explaining Annette’s presence to her sister. So far she had not told Fleur that she had an extra lodger in her apartment; time enough for that in the morning when she had worked out her plan in detail.

Annette slept until morning and by the time she awoke, Agathe, who had slept only fitfully in her armchair, had finalised her plan. She would go to see Madame St Clair in Avenue Ste Anne, the St Clairs’ Paris home, and ask her for help. After all, Agathe thought, it’s worth a try, and she can only say no. Neither way would Annette be any the worse off.

She explained her idea to Annette as the girl ate the food Agathe had purloined from the kitchen.

‘Hélène’s mother? Why should she help?’

‘Why should she not?’ replied Agathe. ‘They have first-hand evidence of what can happen to a young girl forced to live on the streets. Hélène is safe now, but you are in need of help.’