She hinted that in St Petersburg, where she had spent her youth, she’d had a secret affair with one of the princes (she then sighed as she mentioned the name of someone who had once been famous). This fact was not at all harmful to her reputation. Quite the contrary: there was no one who did not feel flattered to have someone so well-placed in high society under their roof, a woman about whom one could say with absolute certainty that she knew the correct way to eat asparagus (with a fork or with the fingers) and that she would only teach her pupils the very best French – its terribly difficult pronunciation and its amusing slang.

She quickly became fond of Lilla and Ada.

‘Lilla is born to inspire love wherever she goes,’ she said.

Then, with a swift, delightful movement of her long, dry fingers, as if she were scattering flowers from a bouquet, she seemed to evoke the spirits of the suitors whom Lilla would encounter on life’s journey.

‘As for little Ada . . . Ah! She knows her own mind . . . When she gives away her heart, it will be for ever.’

Ada felt flattered: the Frenchwoman’s opinions where matters of the heart were concerned were indisputable; she was like a master chef stranded on some deserted island after a shipwreck, enthralling the silent and adoring natives with talk of recipes from his homeland. Madame Mimi was ignorant of and looked down upon anything to do with business, commissions, brokerage or even the hierarchy of quarrels in the town, that is to say, everything that had to do with the daily life of the Sinners and people like them. But when it came to the emotions, she was in her element. It was impossible not to believe her. And Aunt Raissa dreamed of Lilla at the Cannes Flower Festival, on a float decked with blooms, while Ada grew to love more and more a shadow, a ghost: the boy, Harry, whom she hadn’t seen again since the day of the pogrom and who lived constantly in her heart.

Ada had only one other passion that rivalled her feelings for Harry: painting. She had always done sketches. But when she was about ten years old, she was given her first set of paints, and began tirelessly to copy the street covered in snow beneath her window, the greyish shades of the March sky and people’s faces. Whether it was Nastasia with her frightening, dark little eyes set in her reddish face, or Aunt Raissa, hands on hips, her bodice the shape of a mandolin, or Lilla in a smooth cotton petticoat, or the disdainful, elegant Madame Mimi who looked like an aging wagtail, she found everyone interesting, everyone pleased her. But, mainly, it was Harry’s face that she drew, over and over again, just as it was etched in her memory.

She showed her drawings to Madame Mimi, who one day recognised Harry among them.

‘I can organise things so you get to play with that little boy,’ she said, giving Ada one of her bright, knowing looks.

Ada went pale.

‘Do you . . . do you know him then?’

‘I’ve given lessons to his family and have excellent relations with them. So, then, next February . . .’

‘February?’ Ada repeated, breathless.

‘If you come to the party at the Alliance Française with your aunt and cousin, I will introduce you to him.’

Every year, the Alliance Française organised an evening of amateur dramatics, followed by a party; the profits went to charitable causes. The people from the middle town always turned out in force, while those from the upper town sometimes made an appearance. Madame Mimi always took great care over the arrangements for the party.

‘Ah!’ she sighed. ‘Once upon a time, in my beloved Prince’s house, I used to give balls where champagne flowed like water, where you could hear polkas and mazurkas playing all through the night, and I would dance, as light as a butterfly . . .’

‘But you still dance so well,’ said Ada.

Then Madame Mimi delicately lifted the petticoat under her skirt and, standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, danced a step, just one, but with so much grace, so much liveliness, combined with a hint of nostalgic self-mockery, that Ada was enchanted.

‘Ah! If only I could paint you just like that! But do you think my aunt will take me as well as Lilla?’

‘Of course, of course, I’ll make sure of it!’

It was autumn, and the party was to be in February. In February, thought Ada, she would see Harry. He would dance with her, play with her! In his eyes, she would no longer be that beggar girl, that vagabond, that outcast, that little Jewish girl from the ghetto. She could speak French now, she knew how to curtsey; she was ‘like the others’. Though she barely knew him, he was more real to her than Ben or Aunt Raissa. As she hurried home from school along the dark, wintry streets, blowing on her fingers, feeling the icy wind and snow burning her eyelashes, she could almost sense the presence of the young boy beside her; she would talk to him and make up what he said in reply. Over and over in her mind, she played out a drama full of surprises and delights, encounters, quarrels, reconciliations.

The day of the party finally arrived. Since morning, certain smells had filled the Sinner household: irons heating in the kitchen, the aroma of little bottles of inexpensive perfume that Lilla had opened, sniffed and nervously compared. Lilla and Ada had laid out their black tights, starched petticoats and Lilla’s new grey twill bodice on the bed. Lilla was going to be dancing, singing and reciting in an entertainment called ‘The Rose and the Butterfly’, especially composed for the occasion by Madame Mimi: Madame had many talents.

‘I will appear on stage,’ said Lilla, ‘and everyone will applaud me.’

She began twirling round and round with joy. She was extremely light and graceful; she had tiny little feet and the kind of legs that were admired in those pre-war days, with a delicate ankle, firm calves and full thighs.

She was in the bedroom with Aunt Raissa and Ada. Ada had grown a lot: her wild hair was brushed back into a short, thick plait, but on her forehead she had kept the uneven fringe that came down over her eyebrows and sometimes fell into her eyes; when that happened, she had the wild, intense look of some little animal hiding in a thicket.

The day passed slowly. Finally, the lamps were lit and the house was filled with the smell of red cabbage cooking for the evening meal, which gave off an even stronger odour than the curling irons.

In the dining room, Ben was entertaining a friend, a little boy from school named Ivanov, with whom he had formed an unusual friendship.