‘I . . . I think so,’ Bel replied.

‘You don’t seem convinced. So I will try to explain,’ he said. ‘Many people think that the art of sculpture is only about the outer, physical shell of a human being. And indeed on a technical level, they would be right. But any great sculptor knows the art of producing a good likeness relies on interpreting the essence of the object they are portraying.’

Bel looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see.’

‘To use a simple example,’ he continued, ‘if I was sculpting a young girl, and I saw in her eyes that she had a soft heart that bled for others, perhaps I would place an animal, such as a dove, in her hands. I would have her cupping it tenderly. However, if I noticed another woman’s greed, perhaps I would place a showy bracelet on her wrist, or a large ring on her finger. So’ – Laurent opened the sketch pad, his pencil poised – ‘you will talk to me and I will sketch you as you do. Tell me, where did you grow up?’

‘For most of my childhood, on a farm in the mountains,’ Bel answered, and the image of the fazenda she loved immediately brought a smile to her lips. ‘We kept horses, and in the mornings I would ride across the hills, or take a swim in the lake.’

‘It sounds idyllic,’ Laurent interjected as his pencil danced across the sheet of paper.

‘It was,’ Bel agreed. ‘But then we moved to Rio, into a house at the bottom of Corcovado Mountain. The Cristo will one day be erected at the top of it. Although it is beautiful, and far grander than our fazenda, the mountain which rises up behind it means it is dark. Sometimes when I’m there, I feel’ – she paused as she tried to find the right words – ‘as if I can’t breathe.’

‘And how do you feel being here in Paris?’ he queried. ‘It too is a big city. Trapped, like in Rio?’

‘Oh no.’ Bel shook her head, the frown that had appeared on her forehead disappearing immediately. ‘I love this city, especially the streets of Montparnasse.’

‘Hmm, then I would surmise that it is not your location that affects you, but more your state of mind. Paris too can be very claustrophobic, yet you say you love it here.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ she admitted. ‘It is more to do with the life I live in Rio than the city itself.’

Laurent continued with his sketching as he observed her expression. ‘And what is wrong with that life?’

‘Nothing. I mean . . .’ Bel struggled to find the words to explain. ‘I am very fortunate. I have an extremely privileged life. This time next year, I will be married. I will live in a beautiful house and have all a woman could want.’

‘Then why do I see unhappiness in your eyes as you talk of your future? Could it be – as you hinted the first time we met – because your marriage is an arrangement of the head and not of the heart?’