When he travelled to Italy and Germany to speak to two of the most renowned European sculptors of the day, the plan was for his family to travel with him.

But for the next week, Bel knew she could soak up Paris. After dinner that first night, she pulled up the sash window of the high-ceilinged room she shared with Maria Elisa and peered out, breathing in the new and very foreign smell, and shivering slightly in the cool evening air. It was early spring, which in Rio meant temperatures in the high seventies. Here in Paris, she surmised that it was barely in the fifties.

On the street below, she watched the Parisian women drifting along the pavement of the gracious boulevard, arm in arm with their beaux. They were all elegantly clad in the new, almost boyish fashion inspired by the house of Chanel, which featured simple, unstructured lines and knee-length skirts that were a world away from the formal corseted gowns Bel was used to.

She sighed and pulled her luxuriant hair out of its top-knot, wondering if she might dare to have it cut in the new short bobbed style. Her father, of course, would almost certainly disown her – he was always saying that her hair was her crowning glory. But here she was, thousands of miles away, and out of his grasp for the first time in her life.

A jolt of excitement shot through her and she craned her neck to the left where she could just see the twinkling lights of the Seine, the great river that flowed through Paris, and the Left Bank beyond. She had heard much talk of the Bohemian group of artists that populated the streets around Montmartre and Montparnasse; the models who were prepared to be painted naked by Picasso, and the poet Jean Cocteau, whose outrageous lifestyle, reputedly fuelled by opium, had even reached the gossip columns of Rio.

She knew from her art history lessons that the Left Bank had originally been the haunt of artists such as Degas, Cézanne and Monet. But these days, a new and far more daring set led by the Surrealists had taken over. Writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and his beautiful wife, Zelda, had been photographed at La Closerie des Lilas drinking absinthe with their famous Bohemian friends. From what she understood, the whole set ran fast and wild, drinking all day and dancing all night.

‘Time for bed, Bel. I’m exhausted from all the travelling.’ Maria Elisa broke into her thoughts as she entered the bedroom. ‘Please can you shut that window? It’s freezing in here.’

‘Of course.’ Bel pulled the sash down and went to the bathroom to put on her nightgown.

Ten minutes later, they lay side by side in their twin beds. ‘Goodness, Paris is so cold,’ said Maria Elisa, physically shivering as she pulled the sheets up to her chin. ‘Do you not think so?’

‘No, not really,’ Bel replied as she reached to switch off the bedside lamp. ‘Goodnight, Maria Elisa, sleep well.’