‘Of course not,’ Bel confirmed, almost beside herself with excitement at Margarida’s confession.

‘And the people I know . . . well,’ she sighed, ‘they are quite extreme. You may be shocked.’

‘I’ve already been warned by someone who knows,’ Bel confirmed, staring out of the window as they crossed the Seine.

‘Surely not Senhora da Silva Costa?’ They both shared a chuckle.

‘No, it was a young sculptor I met at Professor Landowski’s atelier when I visited with Senhor da Silva Costa.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Laurent Brouilly.’

‘Really!’ said Margarida, raising an eyebrow. ‘I know him, or at least I’ve met him a few times in Montparnasse. He occasionally comes into the school to teach us when Professor Landowski is otherwise engaged. He’s a beautiful man.’

Bel took a deep breath. ‘He has asked to sculpt me,’ she revealed, relieved to be able to share her inner excitement at the compliment.

‘Has he really? Then you should feel honoured. I’ve heard our Monsieur Brouilly is extremely particular about his choice of sitters. He was the star pupil at the Beaux-Arts and he’s tipped for big things in the future.’ Margarida looked at Bel with new admiration. ‘Well, Izabela, you are a dark horse,’ she remarked as the car pulled up in a side street.

‘Where is the school?’ asked Bel, looking around.

‘Two streets away, but I don’t like the other students to see me arrive in such luxury, when many of them have walked several kilometres to get here and have probably eaten no breakfast,’ she explained. ‘Come on.’

The entrance to the Beaux-Arts school was set back behind the busts of the great French artists Pierre Paul Puget and Nicolas Poussin and accessed through an elaborate wrought-iron gate. The two of them stepped through it and crossed the symmetrical courtyard which was enclosed by elegant pale-stone buildings. The tall arched windows running along the ground floor were reminiscent of the holy cloisters which were rumoured to have originally stood there.

Once through the main door, they walked across the echoing entrance hall, full of the chatter of young people. A slim young woman brushed past them.

‘Margarida, she’s wearing trousers!’ Bel exclaimed.

‘Yes, many of the female students here do,’ Margarida said. ‘Can you imagine either of us arriving to take tea at the Copacabana Palace dans notre pantalon! Now, we’re in here today.’

The two of them walked into an airy classroom, the huge windows throwing shards of light onto the rows of wooden benches. Other students were filing in and sitting down with notebooks and pencils.

Bel was confused. ‘Where do we sculpt? And no one is in a smock.’

‘This is not a sculpting class, it is’ – Margarida opened her notebook and checked the timetable – ‘the technique of stone sculpting. In other words, we are learning the theory, but in the future we will have the chance to put it into practice.’

A middle-aged man – who, from the state of his wild, wiry hair, bloodshot eyes and a few days of stubble, looked as if he had simply climbed out of bed and walked straight into the classroom – arrived at the front of the room.