But I know. And, what’s more, I understand them too. They may push me. They may kick my ball out of the way. They may think, “What a pain these little girls are.” But I’m craftier than they are. Even though I’m a little girl, I’ve seen more things than they have in all their long, boring lives.’

She was thinking all this when she saw the Christmas displays in the windows of one of the biggest department stores. Once again, she imagined with yearning a Parisian family, a little apartment and a Christmas tree beneath a porcelain light hanging from the ceiling …

She was growing up. Her body was losing the stocky robustness of early childhood; her arms and legs were becoming lanky and thinner; her face was paler; her chin was longer and her eyes deeper; the beautiful pink blush in her cheeks was fading.

She spent the winter before the war in Nice, where she turned twelve. It was here that her father would appear, one day, back from Siberia to collect his family and take them to live with him in St Petersburg.

In Nice that year, Hélène listened for the first time to the gentle, loving sound of the sea, to romantic Italian songs and to the words ‘love’ and ‘lover’ without feeling indifferent scorn. The nights were so warm, smelled so sweet … She had reached the age when little girls suddenly come to life, their hearts pound and they press trembling hands to their flat chests beneath their ruffled blouses and think, ‘In this many years I’ll be fifteen, then sixteen … In this many years I’ll be a woman …’

Boris Karol arrived one March morning. Later on, when she thought of her father, she would always think of his face as it looked that day, amid the smoke and bustle of the train station. He was stronger, with a swarthy complexion and red lips. When he bent down so she could kiss him, and she felt his rough cheek against her mouth, the feeling of love she suddenly felt for him filled her heart with a kind of joy that was so piercing it almost hurt. She walked away from Mademoiselle Rose and took her father’s hand. He smiled down at her. When he laughed, his face lit up with fiery intelligence and a sort of mischievous cheerfulness. She affectionately kissed his beautiful tanned hand with its hard nails, just like hers. At that moment she heard a sad, shrill whistle from a train that was leaving, the leitmotif that, from then on, would always accompany the brief appearances her father made in her life. At the same time a conversation began that went over her head, a conversation that no longer sounded like human speech – for words were replaced by numbers – and one which would never cease to echo around her, above her, from now until death closed her father’s lips.

‘Millions, millions, stocks … shares in the Shell Bank … shares in De Beers, bought at 25 and sold at 90 …’

A young girl walked slowly by, swaying her hips, a basket full of silvery fish balanced on her head: ‘Sardini! Belli sardini!’ Her shrill voice made the ‘i’ sound as piercing as a seagull’s cry.

‘… I speculated … He speculated …’

The little bells on the carriage they’d hired jingled sweetly; the horse shook his long ears in the bag of straw; the coachman chewed on a flower.

‘… I won … I lost … I won it back … Money, shares … Copper, silver mines, gold mines … phosphates … millions, millions, millions …’

Later on, after Karol had eaten lunch and changed his clothes, Hélène was allowed to go with him when he went out. They walked along the Promenade des Anglais. They said nothing. What could they have talked about? The only things that interested Karol were money, business, material things, and Hélène was an innocent child. She looked at him adoringly.

He smiled at her and pinched her cheek. ‘Tell me, how would you like to go and have dinner in Monte Carlo?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Hélène said sweetly, half closing her eyes; she knew no better way to express her pleasure.

In Monte Carlo, after they’d had dinner, Karol seemed anxious. He tapped on the table for a moment, seemed to hesitate, then he suddenly got up and led her out.

They went into the casino. ‘Wait for me here,’ he said, pointing to the lobby; then he disappeared.

She sat down, being very careful to sit up straight and not to get her coat or gloves dirty. A haggard, tired woman stood in front of the mirror, smearing lipstick over her mouth; behind her, Hélène could see her own reflection: a small, thin little girl with curls all round her face, wearing her first real fur round her neck, a small ermine stole her father had brought back for her from Siberia. She waited for a long time. The hours passed. Men went inside, others came out.