Every day the cluster of tents lining the banks grew more numerous. The fall-outs and victims from capitalism. The irony was not lost on Laure.

She turned north and took the long way around, past peeling plane trees, the tabac, the grocery, the old tannery on the corner with its rusting ironwork and the medieval hôpital.

As she rounded a corner, she almost collided with a young couple. She was in shorts and he in cargo trousers. Both had rucksacks. ‘I don’t know where we are,’ he was saying in English. ‘We’re lost.’

The girl did not bother to look around but dug into her pocket and produced her mobile. ‘Google will tell us.’ Together they peered at the small screen, oblivious to Laure pushing past them.

Paris is in my blood, she decided and it was a supremely satisfactory thought. I will grow old here.

Back in the apartment, Laure sank down onto the sofa. The window was open. She had kept it so in the hope that Kočka just might return but it was growing chilly and, in a few minutes, she would shut it.

Her mobile rang a couple of times but each time she ignored it. Having earned it, she was going to indulge in the luxury of silence.

After a while, she got up and shut the window. Having been asked to work up her speech into a more substantial article for publication in an art journal, she sat down at the table and opened her laptop.

A hideous screeching from outside interrupted her and she leapt over to the window. In the courtyard outside, Madame Poirier was beating with a feather duster at a small form cowering under the bush with the white blossoms.

Within seconds, she was out the door and down the stairs. ‘Madame, stop it. Stop it at once.’

Madame Poirier placed a hand on her hip. ‘Excuse me?’

But Laure wasn’t listening. She was on her hands and knees beside the object of Madame Poirier’s brutality. ‘Kočka,’ she said, ‘Oh Kočka, you’ve come back.’

The cat’s tormented eyes locked onto Laure. By the look of her, she had been starving, possibly injured, and was too weak to do anything.

With a cry, Laure gathered her up. She stank of rubbish, and God knew what else, but Laure never been so grateful to see anyone, or anything. ‘You’ve come. Even though you can barely move, you came back.’

‘If you take that cat indoors, then I must file a complaint with the landlord,’ said Madame Poirier.

Kočka’s head was resting in the crook of Laure’s arm. ‘File away.’

‘You will have to leave.’

‘Then leave I will. But the cat is with me for tonight.’