Robot-like, the black woman swung into action with her little trolley, heading towards the stench to do her job.

‘Good, so are we off?’ asked Hildegarde when I came out.

‘I’m tired, I feel like sitting down for a moment and watching the world go by.’

Just as I said that, a couple walked past sporting glacier glasses and coats made from the fake fur of some other worldly animal.

‘Okay then, I’ll leave you to it. Juliette, do you want to stay with Mum and count the lunatics, or do you feel like seeing a movie?’

Juliette started bouncing with joy and they left. I watched them for a while as they headed off, my heart overflowing with tenderness; my little girl knee-high to a grasshopper, with her 1-metre-93-centimetre-tall, spaghetti-limbed Tata Hildi in her trackies. Then my face twisted into a homicidal frown and I hobbled over to Adrienne’s stand, hands gripping my crutches in rage. I planted myself in front of one of the panels that clearly showed the panic-stricken expression of Philippe de Rigny confronting his instant justice and felt a little calmer. The rioters had not yet started to attack him, but he knew that this time there was no getting out of it. His eyes, wide with terror, reflected not only the fury of all those about to set upon him, but the rage of every one of those subjects imprisoned in the images exhibited at the Grand Palais.

‘Do you like it?’ the gallery attendant was asking me.

‘Yes, I like it a lot, that’s why I came back. I can’t get it out of my head, that photo. That’s the one I’d like to buy, but I won’t be able to with my credit card limit. I’ll have to come by your gallery, but I’d love it if you could put it on hold for me. What would be the best way of doing this?’

‘Well, you can pay me a deposit. What’s the limit on your card?’

‘500 euros.’

‘Right.’

‘I can pay you in cash or by cheque, but I’ll have to come back tomorrow. Please, do you think you could put it aside for me?’

I had said it in a pleading voice, eyes wide, channelling a Stendhal-esque rapture.

‘I’ll go ask the artist.’

And the gallery assistant went off to whisper my request into my cousin’s ear. She must have added something along the lines of can you make an effort, please, go and talk to her, she really likes your work and she might be the only person who’s going to buy anything, because Adrienne came over to me with the sort of look that said, gritting my teeth here, even though I might just crack them, but here we go.

‘So, it looks like you’re keen on this shot?’

‘Yes, hugely.’