“Come,” he said, taking my hand.

I looked at Hadley for her opinion.

“He’s honestly the best of all of them.” She winked. “And he knows Paris better than anyone. I’d go.”

Her earnest smile made me warm to her. Unlike the flappers, like Esmé, who had dyed and cropped their hair and painted their faces with sapphire and black eye shadow and dark-red lips, Hadley kept her face pristine. There was little pretension to her, and I’d liked her instantly. My own silver hair flowed down my back in ringlets like hers. As it is the fashion, I know that we have both been under pressure to bob our hair. She and I looked like we belonged in another time, like two American Gibson girls.

Sylvie, in a cozy corner and deep in conversation with an American socialite, eyed me warily as I made my way to the door. “Can you get home all right?” I could feel Émile’s impatience at the door. I’d never been alone with a man before and I was hoping that Sylvie wouldn’t spook me.

It was the woman who teased, twirling a strand of Sylvie’s hair. “She’s not going home tonight—at least not with you.”

Her eyes traveled to Émile pacing outside, and a wicked smile formed on her face. My face felt hot. I pushed through the door into the night.

During the taxi ride across the Pont Neuf, I could see that he was trying to impress me and that the price of the cab would likely cause him not to eat for a day, so this gesture was touching. We arrived at the First Arrondissement and the entrance of Les Halles, a hint of the bone-colored stones of the imposing Gothic Église Saint-Eustache shining above the pavilions of the central market. Even though it was two in the morning, the market still buzzed with activity.

Men were steering carts—trucks and black cars were weaving among horse-drawn carriages—all with buyers and sellers either loading or unloading crates of apples, cauliflower, meat, potatoes. Boys held empty baskets on their heads while weary women wandered around with full ones tucked under their arms. And throughout the crowd, men in evening coats guided women in ball gowns and furs, smoking long cigarettes, through the halls.

When I normally left the circus, I did so with Sylvie or Esmé. I had never ventured this far on my own. From the expert manner that he turned past the carts and wove through the crowds, I could tell he came here often. We cut through the opening of one of the marts.

“Have you been here before?” I could see hints of his breath in the cold air.

I shook my head.