‘Please, Laurent, don’t be like this. These are the last few moments we will ever spend together,’ she begged him.

‘Izabela, I have said all I can. I have declared my love and my devotion to you. I have asked you not to return home, but to stay here with me.’ He shrugged sadly. ‘I can do no more. Forgive me if I can’t bear to hear you telling me that one day you may love your husband.’

Bel’s mind was a blur of powerful contradictions. Her heart was pounding and she felt physically sick. She watched Laurent placing the dust sheet over her sculpture, hiding her from view as one would place a cover over a beloved relative who had just passed from the world. Whether the gesture was symbolic or practical, Bel did not know or care, but it roused her from the bench and she walked towards him.

‘Laurent, please, you must give me time to think . . . I must think,’ she sobbed, as she put her fingers to her temples.

Laurent paused, seeming to waver for a second before he spoke. ‘I know you can’t come here to the atelier again. But please, if it’s the last thing I ever ask of you, will you meet me tomorrow afternoon in Paris?’

‘Is there any point?’

‘I beg you, Izabela. Just tell me where and when.’

She looked into his eyes and knew she was powerless to resist. ‘By the south entrance to the park on Avenue de Marigny and Avenue Gabriel. Meet me there at three.’

He looked at her and nodded. ‘I’ll be there. Goodnight, my Bel.’

Bel left the atelier, for there was simply no more she could say now. Walking through the gardens, she spied the young boy standing alone, looking up at the stars. She walked over to him, and when he saw her, he smiled.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You look much better. How are you feeling?’

He nodded at her, and she knew he understood.

‘I’m leaving France the day after tomorrow, to return to my home in Brazil.’ Bel pulled a small notebook and a pencil from the purse she carried with her, and scribbled in it. ‘If you ever need anything, please contact me. Here is my name and my parents’ address.’ She ripped the sheet of paper from the notebook and handed it to the boy, watching as he read it, mouthing the words carefully. Digging once more into her purse, she brought out a twenty-franc note. Pressing it into his small hands, she leaned forward and kissed him on the top of his head.

‘Goodbye, querido, and good luck.’

Later, when Bel looked back on her time in Paris, one of the things she would remember vividly was the long, sleepless nights. As Maria Elisa slumbered contentedly in her bed, Bel would tweak the curtains open a fraction and sit on the window seat watching the Paris streets below her, dreaming of the delights outside.