But she clung on to the book, without shedding a tear, teeth clenched, until suddenly she dropped it and it fell to the floor.

Bella made a dive for the page Hélène had torn out, read the few sentences written in pencil, and looked in astonishment at the illustration. Blood rushed straight to her pale face, visible despite her thick make-up. ‘She’s gone mad,’ she exclaimed. ‘You miserable thing, you ungrateful little hussy. You’re a horrible liar! You’re nothing but a fool, do you hear me? Nothing but a wretched idiot. When someone thinks, dares to think such things, things that are so impertinent, so stupid, they at least shouldn’t write them down. They keep them to themselves. How dare you judge your parents. And we’re such good parents. We sacrifice everything for you, for your sake. We worry ourselves sick over your health, your happiness. How ungrateful of you! Do you even understand what it is like to be a parent? You should cherish us! You should think there is nothing dearer to you in the world!’

‘To top it all off,’ Hélène thought bitterly, ‘they want to be loved.’

Her mother’s face was convulsed with fury; she leaned in towards Hélène, her hated eyes burning, dilated with anger and fear. ‘Is there anything you don’t have, you ungrateful thing? Look at you! You have books, dresses, jewellery. What about this?’ she shouted, tearing the little blue enamel locket from its chain and sending it rolling on to the floor; she crushed it with her heel, stamped on it in a rage.

‘Look at her, look at that face! Not a word of regret! Not a single tear! Just you wait. I know how to bring you to heel. All this is your governess’s fault. She’s turning you against your parents. She’s teaching you to hate us. Well, she can just pack her bags, do you hear me? You can say goodbye to your Mademoiselle Rose. You’ll never see her again! Ah, so that makes you cry, does it? Look at her, Boris! Look at your wonderful daughter. Not a tear for me, for her mother, or for you. But as soon as it concerns Mademoiselle Rose she’s all contrite. Ah, so you deign to speak now. And what have you got to say for yourself, let’s hear it!’

‘It wasn’t her, Mama! Mama, it’s all my fault!’

‘Shut up!’

‘Forgive me, Mama,’ cried Hélène; she sensed that only her humbleness was a precious enough offering to appease the wrath of the gods.

‘They can do whatever they want to me,’ she thought in despair. ‘She can beat me, she can kill me, but not that.’

‘Mama, please forgive me, it will never happen again,’ she cried, finding the words she found hardest to say because of her pride, the words of a chastised child. ‘I’m begging you to forgive me.’

But when she saw Hélène’s resistance collapse, Bella allowed herself to fly into a rage. Or perhaps she thought her tears and shouting would stun her husband, divert his attention from Max?

She ran to the door, opened it and shouted, ‘Mademoiselle! Come here at once!’

Mademoiselle Rose ran in; she was shaking. She hadn’t heard anything; she looked at Hélène in terror and asked what was wrong.

‘What’s wrong?’ cried Bella. ‘What’s wrong is that this child … this child is an ungrateful liar. And you’re the one who has brought the creature up.