‘Bon matin, mesdames et messieurs. Today, I will introduce you to the tools needed to create a sculpture from stone,’ he announced to the class. ‘So . . .’ The man opened a wooden box and began to place what looked to Bel like instruments of torture upon the desk. ‘This is a point chisel, which is used to rough out the stone by knocking off large portions. Once you are happy with the general shape, you will use something like this, a toothed chisel, also known as a claw chisel. You will see the many indentations which create grooved lines. We do this to add texture to the stone . . .’

As the tutor continued to talk through each tool and its function, Bel sat listening intently. But although her French was excellent, he spoke so fast that she had difficulty keeping up with him. Many of the words were also technical expressions that she struggled to understand.

In the end, she gave up and amused herself by studying her fellow classmates. A more raggle-taggle bunch of young men she had never seen, with their strange clothes, their overlong moustaches, and what must have been a current trend amongst artists: their beards and wild heads of hair. Bel chanced a glance towards her neighbour, and saw that underneath his facial hair, he was probably not much older than she. A rancid smell of unwashed bodies and clothes emanated from the room and Bel sat feeling conspicuous in her finery.

She mused on the irony that in Rio she had considered herself rather a rebel, with her discreet but passionate support for women’s rights and her lack of interest in material possessions. And above all, her complete antipathy when it came to netting herself a good catch for a husband.

But here . . . Bel realised she felt like a prim princess from a bygone age, transplanted into a world that had left the rules of society far behind. It was obvious that no one in this room cared a fig for convention; in fact, she thought, perhaps they felt it their duty to do all in their power to fight against it.

As the teacher announced the end of the class, and the students gathered their notebooks and began to leave the room, Bel felt out of her depth.

‘You look pale,’ Margarida said, studying her. ‘Are you feeling quite well, Izabela?’

‘I think the room must be stuffy,’ she lied as she followed Margarida out of the classroom.

‘And smelly, yes?’ Margarida giggled. ‘Don’t worry, you get used to it. I’m sorry if that class was not a good introduction for you. I promise the practical lessons are far more exciting. Now, we shall take a walk together and find some lunch?’

Bel was glad to be out on the streets, and as they walked along the Rue Bonaparte in the direction of Montparnasse, she listened as Margarida chatted about her time in Europe.

‘I’ve only been here in Paris for six months, but it already feels like home. I was away in Italy for three years, and will be here for another two. I think it will be hard to go back to Brazil after more than five years in Europe.’