Normally, he would leave the sleeper alone for a few hours longer while he joined his friends in the bars of Montparnasse, returning later to remove the body from his bed and climb into it himself. But tonight he felt unusually tired and not in the mood for socialising.

In fact, his general joie de vivre seemed to have deserted him completely since the moment Izabela Bonifacio boarded her ship back to Brazil.

Even Landowski had noticed that he was quieter than usual and had commented on it.

‘Are you sick, Brouilly? Or perhaps pining?’ he’d asked him with a knowing glint in his eye.

‘Neither,’ Laurent had replied defensively.

‘Well, whichever kind of sickness it is, remember that these things always pass.’

Laurent had taken comfort from Landowski’s perceptive and sympathetic words. Often he thought the professor lived so much in his own world he hardly noticed Laurent’s presence, let alone his mood. Currently, he felt as though someone had gouged his heart out and then trampled it underfoot for good measure.

Walking towards his bed he shook the body in it, but the man simply groaned, opened his mouth and let out a whistle of stale alcohol before rolling over. Laurent knew there’d be no rousing him, so with a heavy sigh, he decided to give him a couple of further hours to sleep off his drunkenness while he went in search of supper.

The narrow streets of Montparnasse were as vibrant as usual, with the sound of the gay chatter of people glad to be alive. Even though it was a cold night, the pavement cafés were overflowing and a cacophony of different music from inside the bars assaulted Laurent’s senses. Normally Montparnasse and its vivacity exhilarated him, but lately it had irritated him. How could everyone be so happy when he himself seemed unable to rise from the torpor and misery of his affliction?

Avoiding La Closerie des Lilas, as there would be too many acquaintances who would drag him into witless conversation, Laurent made his way to a quieter establishment, sat down on a stool at the bar and ordered himself an absinthe, knocking it back in one. He looked around at the tables, and immediately noticed a dusky brunette who reminded him of Izabela. Of course, when he looked closer, he saw the girl’s features were not as fine, and that her eyes were hard. But these days, it seemed that everywhere he went, he saw her.

Ordering another absinthe, Laurent pondered his situation. In the past, he’d been known as a Casanova, a charming, attractive man envied by his friends, as it seemed that with the merest blink of an eye he could have any woman he chose to warm his bed. And yes, he’d made the most of it, for he enjoyed women. Not only for their bodies, but for their minds.

As for love . . . he had thought on a couple of occasions in the past that he was perhaps experiencing what all the great writers and artists spent their lives describing. But both times the feeling had passed quickly enough and Laurent had begun to convince himself that he would never truly know how it felt.