‘Why do you cry?’

‘In Brazil, life is very different. We obey the rules.’

‘I understand, mademoiselle,’ he said softly. ‘And I can see already that you have agreed to one of them.’ Laurent indicated the engagement ring on her finger. ‘You are due to be married?’

‘Yes, when I return home from my time in Europe.’

‘And you are happy about this match?’

Bel was taken aback by his direct approach. This man was a stranger who knew next to nothing about her, and yet they were sharing wine, bread and cheese – and intimacies – as though they had known each other all their lives. If this was the Bohemian way, Bel decided she wanted to embrace it wholeheartedly.

‘Gustavo, my fiancé, will make a loyal and caring husband,’ she replied carefully. ‘And besides, I think that often marriage is not just about love,’ she lied.

He looked at her for a while before he sighed and shook his head. ‘Mademoiselle, a life without love is like a Frenchman without his wine, or a human being without oxygen. But,’ he sighed, ‘maybe you’re right. Some people accept the lack of it and are prepared to settle for other things, such as wealth and status. But me, no.’ Laurent shook his head. ‘I could never sacrifice myself on the altar of materialism. If I’m to spend my life with another, I want to wake up every morning and stare into the eyes of the woman I love. I am surprised you are prepared to settle for less. Already I can see the passionate heart that beats inside you.’

‘Please, monsieur . . .’

‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, I go too far. So, enough! But I would very much like to have the honour of sculpting you. Would you object if I asked Monsieur da Silva Costa if I can practise my art using you as a model?’

‘You can ask him, but I couldn’t . . .’ Bel, blushing from embarrassment, did not know how to phrase the sentence.

‘No, mademoiselle,’ said Laurent, reading her mind. ‘Rest assured I will not be asking you to remove your clothes. At least, not yet,’ he added.

Bel was rendered speechless at the intimate insinuation. It thrilled and frightened her in equal measure. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked, desperate to change the subject.

‘Like any true artist, I rent an attic room, along with six others, situated in the alleyways of Montparnasse.’

‘You work for Professor Landowski?’

‘I wouldn’t quite use that expression, because I’m paid only in food and wine,’ Laurent corrected her. ‘And if the attic I rent with the others in Montparnasse is too crowded, he allows me to sleep here sometimes on a pallet. I am learning my craft, and there is no finer teacher than Landowski. As the Surrealists are experimenting in painting, Landowski is doing the same in sculpture with Art Deco. He is moving forward from the busy, overly fussy works of the past. He was my professor at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts and when he chose me to be his assistant, I was delighted to take up his offer.’