‘Where is your family from?’ Bel asked.

‘Why would that be of interest?’ Laurent chuckled. ‘Next you will ask me which social class I come from! You see, Mademoiselle Izabela, all of us artists here in Paris are simply who we are; we throw away our past and live only for the day. We are defined by our talent, not our heritage. But since you ask,’ he said, taking a gulp of wine, ‘I will tell you. My family comes from a noble lineage and has a chateau near Versailles. If I hadn’t walked away from them and the life they wished for me as their oldest son, I would be Le Comte Quebedeaux Brouilly by now. However, since my father announced that he would cut me out of his will when I told him I wished to become a sculptor, as I said before, now I’m simply me. I have not a centime to my name, and anything I earn in the future will only come from these very hands.’

He eyed her, but she said nothing. What could she say when her entire life was based on all the values he’d just derided?

‘Perhaps you’re surprised? But I promise there are many of us who are the same in Paris. And at least my father didn’t have to deal with the ignominy of his son being a homosexual, as several of my acquaintances’ fathers have had to.’

Bel stared at him, horrified that he would even voice such a thought. ‘But it’s illegal!’ she couldn’t help exclaiming.

He tilted his head to one side and studied her. ‘And because bigoted regimes make it so, does that mean it’s wrong?’

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she floundered, falling silent and trying to regain her composure.

‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, I fear I have shocked you.’

Bel saw the glint in his eye and could tell he was enjoying doing so.

Another sip of wine emboldened her. ‘So, Monsieur Brouilly, you have made it clear that you don’t care about money or material possessions? You are happy to live on thin air?’

‘Yes, at least for now, while I’m young and fit and living in the centre of the world here in Paris. However, I accept that when I’m old and infirm, and have never earned money from my sculptures, then yes, I might regret my actions. Many of my artist friends have kind benefactors who help them while they are struggling. However, as many of these benefactors are ugly dowagers who expect the young artist they’re supporting to gratify them in other ways, that is not the route for me. It’s little better than whoring, and I will not be a part of it.’

Again, Bel was shocked at the openness with which he spoke such words. Of course she’d heard of the brothels at home in Lapa, where men would go to have their physical appetites quenched, but it would never be spoken of in open company. And certainly not by a man to a respectable woman.