But I’m proud of them, and if they were ever hungry I’d cut off my arms to feed them. That said, the truth is we don’t have much to say to each other. So I’ll leave it there, except to declare, loud and proud, that I love them, those girls of mine. They’re magnificent, honest, and they’ve always accepted their fate without batting an eyelid. All of which is more than can be said for me. It seems that I am the last in the family line of adventurers.

The auctioneer charged with getting rid of all my rings after I emerged from the madhouse — Sale of the Contents of Madame P.’s Jewellery Case, a Discerning Collector — continued to send me his catalogues filled with jewels and other magnificent objects, no doubt believing that I was some high-net-worth individual.

At night, when everybody was asleep and the house was finally silent, I would sit at my desk with a glass of Guignolet Kirsch and religiously leaf through the luxury brochures. Reading each description, examining every photograph, I would play imagine the house burns down and you rip off the insurance company. I adore old things: they’ve witnessed the lives of so many people and you never get tired of looking at them, the way you do with new things.

It’s remembering details like this which makes me realize that even in the depths of my grief, I’ve always been open to positive ideas. I’ve never felt desperate enough to contemplate suicide; for that you need a spiritual strength I’ve just never had.

To get to the point: more than twenty years after scattering all I held dear to the winds, I stumbled across the photo of The Little Fireworks Collector, valued between 10,000 and 15,000 euros.

Obviously I had to buy it back.

On the appointed day I turned up at Artcurial auctioneers at the end of the Champs-Elysées. I was scared to death. Scared I’d miss out on the print, that the price would soar out of my reach. Scared of all those well-dressed people having fun with their money. Scared of being outed as an impostor in my pathetic chalk-coloured suit, with my expression to match.

I hung back until it came to my lot. It was an original colour print, showing the Belvedere terrace, 50 centimetres by 40 centimetres. The decor was typical of the 1970s: stone, glass and blonde wood furniture. In the background, a firework was about to explode into the deep-blue sky. Audrey Hepburn was wearing a magnolia-pink Givenchy dress. Her face was right next to mine, and in the foreground, in pride of place, sat my strawberry Melba ice cream. Everything was exactly as it should be; the absolute perfection of a moment fixed in time forever.