‘Goodness me, my little chéri. If nothing else, these sojourns will only serve to increase your gratitude to Monsieur and Madame Landowski.’

Evelyn was not wrong in her summation of the Apprentis d’Auteuil orphanage. It was truly gothic in its appearance, with rotting windows and dilapidated brickwork. We were met at the large iron gates by a tall, spindly woman called Madame Gagnon, who let us in and led us across the concrete forecourt.

‘This is only a favour because of the contribution young Monsieur Baudin makes with his violin. Really, we do not have the time to supervise an extra child. Madame, are you aware of how full we are after the Great War? I hardly have an inch to spare.’

‘Madame Gagnon, I know that Monsieur Landowski and Monsieur Ivan are incredibly grateful to you for allowing Bo to spend some time with other children.’

‘Well, I do not know what good it will do the boy. He cannot speak, so I am unable to see what he will gain from cluttering up my playground.’

‘Madame Gagnon, Monsieur Landowski has indicated to me that he would like to contribute towards the upkeep of the orphanage.’

‘If that cleanses his soul, so be it, madame. We have many Parisians with guilty consciences whose donations just about allow us to keep the doors open and feed the children. If Monsieur Landowski really wished to make a difference, he might see fit to provide some of these children with a loving home.’ I saw Evelyn bristle, and gesture down towards me. Madame Gagnon raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, it is time for the children to come out into the fresh air. They will be here for one hour only, and I expect you to be prompt in your return, Madame Evelyn. After recreation, I will let the boy out of the gates, and he will no longer be my responsibility.’

‘I understand, Madame Gagnon,’ Evelyn replied.

The spindly woman turned on her heels and entered the orphanage. When the great wooden doors closed behind her, the thud echoed across the forecourt.

‘Goodness me! I shall not be too swift to judge, little Bo, for she has a difficult job, but I sense lava runs through that woman’s veins. Still, I’m sure the children she cares for will prove a different story. Remember, I shall only be gone one hour. Try and have fun, chéri. Would you like me to take this?’ Evelyn grabbed my violin case, which I was still holding after my earlier lesson with Monsieur Ivan. Instinctively, I clutched on to it. It was my most prized possession, and I struggled with the concept of even Evelyn taking it from me. ‘Very well, Bo. You may keep it with you if you wish.’

The doors of the Apprentis d’Auteuil opened once again, and children began to flood out into the forecourt.

‘Goodness. Some of those winter coats have more holes in than Swiss cheese,’ Evelyn said under her breath. ‘Good luck, little Bo. I will see you shortly.’ With that, she left through the iron gates. I had often wondered what the ancient slaves might have felt as they waited to walk out into a seething Colosseum of Romans to face the lions. Suddenly, I felt I knew.

The variety of ages shocked me. It appeared to me that some of the residents could hardly be described as children at all, whilst others weren’t older than two or three years old, their little hands clasped by older inhabitants. The forecourt filled quickly, and I was eyed suspiciously by those who passed me. Some children took out chalk from their pockets and began to draw squares on the ground. Others had old rubber balls which they threw to one another. As this frenzy of activity ensued, I simply remained still and looked around, unsure of what to do.

In truth, having never attended school, I was not used to socialising with other children. Apart from one individual, of course: the boy who had been my best friend, the boy who I had loved as a brother and . . . the boy from whom I had run. He was the reason I had fled into the snow on the worst day of my life. A shiver travelled down my spine as I contemplated the consequences of ever seeing him again. He had vowed to kill me, and from the murderous look in his eye on that terrible morning, I had no reason to doubt him.

‘Who are you?’ A boy with an angular face and worn woollen hat stood before me.

I reached for the paper in my pocket and began writing.

‘What are you doing? He asked you a question,’ said another boy, who had thick, dark eyebrows.

My name is Bo, I cannot speak. Hello. I held the paper in front of me.

Both boys squinted at it. It suddenly occurred to me that I was arrogant in my assumption that everyone I met here would have the ability to read.

‘What does it say, Maurice?’ the boy with the hat asked.

‘It says he can’t talk.’

‘Well, what’s the point of him then? What’s the point of you?’ I somehow sensed that the young man’s question wasn’t related to the philosophy of my compatriot Dostoyevsky. ‘What did your parents die of?’

I am only a visitor here, I scribbled.

‘I don’t get it. Why do you want to visit this dump?’

I would like to make friends, I penned hopefully.

Both boys broke out into laughter.

‘Friends? You belong in the circus. And what is this, circus boy?’

The one known as Maurice grabbed my violin case. A surge of panic rushed through me. I shook my head with as much energy as I could muster, and brought my hands together in prayer, silently pleading with him to return it to me.

‘A fiddle, is it? Why would you bring this here? Who do you think you are, that ponce Baudin?’

‘Yeah, he does, Jondrette. Just look at his clothes. He reckons he’s a fancy little monsieur, doesn’t he?’

‘You think it’s funny, do you? Coming in here to have a laugh at us, who’ve got nothing?’ I continued to shake my head, and dropped to my knees, in the hope that they’d see my desperation. ‘Praying won’t help you in here. Let’s have a little look at what we’ve got inside this then.’

Jondrette began unclipping the case. Every fibre of my being wished to cry out, to verbally attack him, or to use my reason to win my violin back. But I knew I could not draw attention to myself.

‘Give it here, you weakling.’ Maurice ripped it from Jondrette, and began pulling at the clips, attempting to force them from the casing. The brute was successful, and he threw the metal buckles to the floor. Then Jondrette hungrily flipped the lid up and, with his grubby hands, lifted my precious cargo from within.

‘Well, would you look at that. I’d say it’s even nicer than Baudin’s. What do you reckon, Jondrette? Shall we try and sell it?’

‘Who do you know that’ll pay us for something like this, and not immediately report us to the gendarmerie for trying to flog stolen goods?’

‘Yeah. You’re right. Seems to me that this would be a good opportunity to teach Monsieur Fancy a bit of a lesson.’ Jondrette raised my violin above his head. I closed my eyes, and prepared myself for the crash of wood on concrete. To my surprise, the sound didn’t materialise.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, you horrible little toad?’ I opened my eyes to see a girl with blonde hair grabbing Jondrette’s arm.

‘Oi! Get off me!’ he cried. The girl appeared to tighten her grip. ‘Ow!’

‘You will give this instrument back, Jondrette, or I will tell Madame Gagnon that it is the pair of you who broke into the storeroom and stole the biscuits.’

‘You have no proof of that, you telltale!’

‘I have a feeling that the crumbs under your bed might suffice, Maurice.’ The girl pointed to the door, where Madame Gagnon was smoking a cigarette and observing the youngest of the children. ‘If I run over to her now and tell her, she’ll be up to check quicker than a flash, and you know it.’

Maurice and Jondrette looked at each other.

‘Why are you sticking up for this little worm? Have you not seen the clothes he’s wearing? He’s got money. He’s come here to mock us.’

‘Not everyone in this world is out to get you, Maurice. Now, Jondrette, hand back the violin.’

Jondrette hesitated, and the girl rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, have it your way. She turned her head towards the building, and raised her voice. ‘Madame . . .’

‘All right, all right.’ Jondrette shushed her. ‘Here.’ He ripped his arm from the girl’s grip, and handed me the violin. ‘Do you always need girls to stand up for you?’ he hissed.

‘That’s enough. Run along, you silly little boys,’ said my saviour.

Maurice and Jondrette reluctantly began to shuffle off, but not before the latter had given my broken case a good kick, and it skidded across the forecourt. The girl walked over to retrieve it, and brought it back to me. I was sitting on the ground, cradling my violin like a sick puppy.

‘Sorry about them. I wouldn’t take it personally, they’re horrible to everyone. Here, let me help.’ She began to gather the pieces of paper that had fallen to the ground as I had pleaded with the boys. She glanced at the top sheet. ‘You can’t speak?’ I shook my head. ‘Goodness. I was wondering why you didn’t cry out. What’s your name?’ I quickly shuffled through the papers and found the appropriate page. ‘Bo?’ I nodded. The girl giggled. The sound was so pleasing to me that I thought my heart might simply stop there and then. ‘I like your name, Bo. Is that why you carry a violin?’ I shrugged, and without realising it, a smile had made its way onto my lips. I removed my pencil from my pocket and began to write.

What is your name?

‘Oh, yes, sorry. My name is Elle. It’s good to meet you, Bo.’

20th March 1929

Monsieur Ivan has insisted I attend recreational activities at the Apprentis d’Auteuil orphanage so that I might enjoy some positive experiences with other children. He believes that if I can make friends, then the weight of the world will be lifted from my shoulders and I will become a better violinist. I respect Monsieur Ivan’s wishes, and for the past few weeks I have attended lunchtime breaks on Tuesdays, and evening recreation on Fridays. I am grateful for the experience, and have learnt how lucky I am to have been taken in by the generous Landowski family. Many of the children in the orphanage lost their parents in the Great War. In truth, it is somewhat difficult for me to acquaint myself with others, due to my condition. I am unable to call for balls, or sing during the game which is called ‘hopscotch’. Nonetheless, I am determined in my quest to become a virtuoso violinist, and I will persist. There is one person I have met at the Apprentis d’Auteuil who I do enjoy spending time with. Her name is Elle, and she does not mind that I do not speak. She is a great deal more interested in my music, and has asked me on several occasions if I will play my violin for her. I confess that I have not yet gathered enough courage to do so, not out of fear of what the other children might do (although based on experience, that is a legitimate concern). In truth, I would be so afraid of disappointing her in any way that I am crippled by anxiety. Her golden hair and blue eyes make me think of an angel, and the thought of dispiriting an angel is too upsetting to imagine.

I pulled my pen from the page. I didn’t think recording my feelings in my official diary would be appropriate, just in case the Landowski family ever did try to read its contents. I will switch over to my secret pages, of which these are a part. If it is not already obvious, the horrors of the Apprentis d’Auteuil orphanage are worth enduring to spend two hours per week with Elle Leopine.

In the brief time that I have known her, I have discovered that she plays both the viola and the flute, and is self-taught. The instruments belonged to Elle’s parents, and serve as the only connection she has to them. Both were lost in the war. Elle’s father died in the trenches, and her mother perished during the influenza outbreak of 1918. She is thirteen years old, and as such, has no memory of either. Perhaps the saddest thing that I have come to learn about Elle is that she had a baby brother, only a few weeks old when her mother died. The orphanage had been able to arrange for his immediate adoption, as there was a high demand for newborns from families who had lost so much in the conflict. But Elle was not so fortunate. She had been a resident of Apprentis d’Auteuil for eleven years.

When I am with her, I find that I do not think of anything else. In those moments, I am not contemplating my past, or the pain and tragedy which I have experienced. She is like music in that way, able to transport me to a place beyond the physical ground beneath my feet. Goodness! Who do I think I am, Lord Byron?

In truth, I have always found his poetry a little difficult to stomach. But now, I find his verses resonate with me wholeheartedly. Since meeting Elle, I am ashamed to say that I now care about little else. My nightly visits to Evelyn are secondary, as are the books I borrow from Monsieur Landowski. Even my violin lessons with Monsieur Ivan now take an incidental position in my mind. My bi-weekly trips to Paris are no longer fuelled by the excitement of playing at the conservatoire, but the thought of spending time with my new friend.

I am aware of the effects of ‘love’ and what it can do to a mind. From literature I have read, I understand that even the sturdiest of brains can lose all sense of reason and logic. And yet, even though I know this, I do not find myself caring.

Elle has told me that she has read every book in the library at the orphanage twice over, and so I have taken it upon myself to bring her novels from Monsieur Landowski’s collection. If this is not proof that I am taking leave of my senses, I am unsure what is. The books are not mine to lend out, and I hate to think of how Monsieur Landowski might feel if he discovers what I am up to. But I cannot stop myself; my urge to please Elle supersedes any repercussions my actions might have. When she has finished with a book, we discuss it together (I use the term ‘discuss’ liberally – she talks, and I write). Although, remarkably, she often knows what I wish to say without my pen ever having to touch the paper.

Tomorrow is a Tuesday, and I am hoping that Elle will have finished The Phantom of the Opera. I am blushing as I think about it, for it is the tale of a gifted musician who tries to win over an unattainably beautiful woman with his talent. I would like to think that I have a significant advantage, too, for my face is not disfigured, like the phantom. Although, I must concede, if I am to impress Elle with my musical skill, it would necessitate actually playing for her first.

I packed away my diary and climbed into bed. I’d played a particularly challenging set of arpeggios for Evelyn that evening, and soon enough I found my eyes closing, aided by thoughts of Elle’s sweet face. I turned onto my front, and once again I felt a stabbing in my chest. Forgetting to remove the pouch from around my neck was becoming a more frequent occurrence. As the days passed, it was simply getting easier and easier to forget who I was and why I was here.

On Friday evenings, I was permitted to enter the Apprentis d’Auteuil and go to the common room on the first floor with the other children. Elle and I would perch ourselves in the window seat, and look down onto the Rue Jean-de-La-Fontaine.

‘I just can’t believe that Christine would ever be truly happy with Raoul!’ Elle said of Gaston Leroux’s novel. ‘Music is her passion, and only the Phantom truly understands that. Raoul is boring. He’s just . . . good-looking and rich . . .’

The Phantom is a murderer! I wrote in response.

Elle laughed. ‘True enough, Bo!’

Who would you choose?

She looked at me, her blue eyes somehow gazing beyond my own and into my soul.

‘Hmm. The rich, boring man, or the interesting murderer,’ she pondered. ‘Maybe it sounds insane, but I think I’d have to take my chance with the Phantom. I suppose, if he did turn on me, that it’s better to lead a short, passionate life than a long, boring one.’

You are very wise.

‘No, I think you have us confused, Bo. You are the wise one. You don’t speak, but you are able to convey in one written sentence what it would take me hours to say.’

It is a necessity.

‘Is it?’ She smiled and looked out of the window. ‘Sometimes it looks like you wish to talk.’ My stomach tightened. So many words hung on my lips. ‘Anyway, why won’t you play for me, Bo? I promise, Maurice and Jondrette won’t dare bother you now.’

You have not yet played for me . . .

‘I am merely an amateur who has taught herself to play through books and practice. In truth, I do not even know if I possess any ability whatsoever! I would be embarrassed to play for you. You, on the other hand, are a student of Monsieur Ivan!’

I am not yet perfect, I wrote.

‘Well, no one can ever be perfect. But you’re receiving lessons at the Conservatoire de Paris. I don’t know anyone else our age who has ever been admitted. It’s my dream to go there one day, but . . .’ – she gestured around her – ‘how could I ever afford the fees?’ Elle cast her eyes downward, and in that moment, I thought my heart would break in two.

You will go, one day.

‘Thank you. But I doubt that’s true. I can’t imagine the day when I’ll ever be allowed out of here, let alone through the doors of the conservatory.’ Elle’s eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

Every fibre of my being wanted to open my mouth and give her platitudes, to assure her that I was living proof that anything is possible. I knew, however, that it was imperative I resist.

I had a thought.

I quickly untied the strings which secured my violin in its broken case and lifted the instrument to my chin. I grabbed my bow, closed my eyes, and began Beethoven’s Sonata No. 9. As I played for Elle, I felt my performance elevate, the importance of each note heightened. I flicked the bow away from the violin to conclude the piece and dared to open my eyes to gauge her reaction.

She was staring at me, her own eyes wide and no longer weepy.

‘Bo . . . That was incredible. I knew you must have been talented for Monsieur Ivan to take you on, but even so . . .’

I bowed my head. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins, and knowing that my performance had the desired effect made my heart soar. Suddenly, it dawned on me that my audience had been considerably bigger than just Elle. I slowly turned inwards to face the common room, and saw a sea of stunned faces looking my way. At the back of the room, Madame Gagnon’s eyebrows were raised so high that I thought they might lift her off the ground. To my total surprise, she slowly raised her hands and began to clap. The rest of the room began to follow suit, and shortly, I was the recipient of rapturous applause. Even Maurice and Jondrette, though not clapping, had a look of surprise on their faces. Elle must have sensed I was becoming overwhelmed, so she grabbed my hand, and it was about the most perfect moment of my life.

The applause died down, and Madame Gagnon decided to pay me a compliment. ‘Bravo. Despite your age, I sense that you could give Monsieur Baudin a run for his money.’

‘See,’ Elle whispered, ‘you must have been good.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Bo.’

Blood rushed immediately to my face and I tried to limit the embarrassment by packing away my violin. When can I hear you play? I wrote, once I had secured the string on my case.

‘You think I wish to play for you now, after that?! It would be like a newborn infant attempting to recite verse to Shakespeare.’

It would make me happy.

Elle put her smiling face in her hands. ‘Ah! All right. I will practise over the weekend and be ready for when you come next Tuesday. At the very least you might be able to give me some tips on how I might improve.’

When Evelyn arrived to take me back to Boulogne-Billancourt, Madame Gagnon deposited me at the gates, and relayed what had happened.

‘He is a great talent, and welcome here.’

On the bus home, Evelyn picked up on my joyous mood.

‘I cannot believe you played for the children! This is fantastic news, Bo. I know how happy Monsieur Landowski will be to hear that you are growing in confidence.’

What Evelyn did not know, of course, was that I had not played for the children. Just one single girl, who seemed to be rapidly changing the direction of my life.

When I returned to the Apprentis d’Auteuil on Tuesday, Elle grabbed me and told me to follow her. We crossed the forecourt, and to my surprise, Madame Gagnon opened the door and permitted us to pass.

‘She has given permission for me to perform alone in the common room. I am too shy to deliver a show for the masses as you did the other day.’

We sped through the corridors, Elle dragging me with such force that I had to jog to keep up with her. When we arrived, I sat on one of the old chairs where the leather seat pad had worn down to the metal beneath. Elle unpacked and rapidly assembled her flute.

‘I have decided I will play Debussy – ‘Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune’. Please do not criticise my ability too harshly. Remember, I have never had any professional tuition.’ I could hardly believe that the most beautiful human in the world was about to treat me to a private concert. ‘Now I will begin.’ She lifted the flute to her mouth, and inhaled deeply.

It was clear how musically proficient she was. What was magical, though, was that Elle had taught herself to play from books alone. I do not believe that I would have had the capacity to do such a thing. Her reason for picking up an instrument in the first place was far more noble than my own. She played because it was a tribute to her lost parents, a way to connect with them even though they were no longer here.

I closed my eyes. The resonance of this once-grand old building ensured that the notes hummed pleasantly in the air. Nonetheless, I forced the musician in me to assess the technicalities of Elle’s playing, as requested. I noted her breathing was erratic, and she was rushing through Debussy’s work. I took out my pen.

Relax. I held up my note.

She lifted her eyes and read my message, then removed the flute from her mouth.

I scribbled once more. Remember, I am only an eleven-year-old boy!

To my delight, she laughed, and nodded at me. She inhaled again, and started the piece from the beginning. This time, the notes were without their staccato edge, and suddenly I understood the benefit of travelling to the ‘sacred space’ which Monsieur Ivan describes. When she finished, I stood up to applaud.

‘Stop it. That was better, but you’re right, the first time was terrible.’ I shook my head. ‘You don’t need to be kind. I was just so nervous to play for you, Bo. All I’ve been able to think about since you left last time is how much I wanted to impress you.’

You did! I was secretly thrilled that my opinion meant so much to Elle.

‘Now, I’ll play my viola. I feel as if I’m less established on it than I am on the flute.’

Elle raised the instrument to her chin and began to play Strauss’s Don Quixote. She was correct in her assessment – she was stronger on the flute, but showed clear promise on the viola, too. When she finished, I made sure my applause was as rapturous as before.

I cannot believe you are self-taught.

‘Thank you. Neither can I, sometimes. I suppose it is the result of hours of loneliness. But anyway, please, tell me what you think, Bo. How can I improve?’

Neither are my instrument, but I shall try to provide general tips! I proceeded to write a list of basic tricks that I had learnt during my study with Monsieur Ivan.

‘Gosh, thank you, Bo. I’ll make sure to put everything into practice.’ She examined the list. ‘You’ve written practise bow placement here. Can you show me what you mean?’ I walked towards Elle and picked up her bow. Then I stood behind her and took her right hand. I gently stretched it in front of her, turning her palm so that it faced us both. Next, I brought the bow in, and lined it up with the base of her fingers. ‘Like that?’ Elle asked. I nodded.

I took her thumb, and ensured it was pushing into the wood with a slight firmness. Then I placed her middle finger directly opposite, the joint just touching the bow. Of course, the viola itself was much larger than it should be for a child musician, on account of it belonging to Elle’s mother, so my adjustments would have felt doubly alien to her.

‘Gosh, I didn’t realise I’d been getting it so wrong.’ I returned to face Elle, and continued to manipulate her fingers into the position now drilled into me by Monsieur Ivan. As I was doing so, I caught Elle’s eye. She was looking at me in a funny sort of way, like she wanted me to do something, but wasn’t saying what it was. I must have returned her gaze in a quizzical way, because she giggled. Then she leant in, and kissed me. Her soft lips pressed against mine, and my world changed forever.

‘I see we are done with our music lesson.’

A chill passed down my spine as I spun around to see the figure of Madame Gagnon lurking in the open doorway. Elle immediately went to clip her viola into her case, and picked up her flute. She rushed towards the door.

‘I will put these away in the dormitory, Madame Gagnon.’

Madame Gagnon raised a single eyebrow in response, but allowed Elle to pass and scurry away. The two of us were left in the common room, and Madame Gagnon was giving me a stare that could fell a carthorse mid-gallop. I was suddenly overcome with immense shame. Special permission had been granted for Elle to play for me away from the eyes of the other children, and it must have seemed that I was abusing Madame Gagnon’s leniency. I hurriedly picked up my pen and began scribbling an apology.

‘Don’t write, just sit,’ Madame Gagnon said, pointing at a chair.

I was convinced that she was about to tell me I was no longer welcome at the orphanage, which would, of course, mean that I would no longer be able to see Elle. In seconds, I felt my world would unravel around me, and my hope turn to despair. I took a seat and, to my surprise, Madame Gagnon closed the door to the common room and sat opposite me. She must have seen the look of terror in my eyes, because, quite incredibly, she said something comforting.

‘She is quite taken with you, young monsieur. I hope you know how fragile young women’s hearts are. You are to be very delicate with it.’ I nodded. ‘Needless to say, if I ever see any of that . . . business again, I will not hesitate to whack you with my stick. Do you understand me clearly?’

Yes, Madame Gagnon.

‘Good. Now, I have something to discuss with you. I have worked here at the Apprentis d’Auteuil for the past twenty years, and seen hundreds of children pass through its doors. It has always been my priority to try and find my wards new homes as quickly as possible, but never at the expense of their own well-being.’ Madame Gagnon paused and took in a deep breath. ‘After the war, we faced a very difficult period, with no resources and many children. I was not sure that it would be possible to feed so many mouths, let alone provide everyone with medicines, bedding, clothing and all the other necessities for rearing a child. It was a very difficult situation. This meant that I was forced into making some hard decisions. Elle and her brother arrived shortly after their mother had succumbed to influenza. A month previously, a wealthy couple from abroad asked me to inform them if the orphanage received any newborns, for they could not conceive a child. I assured them that I would, and normally I would have been all too happy to arrange for a child to move straight into a loving home. But . . . this baby had an older sibling. Under normal circumstances I would not have permitted adoption unless the family agreed to take them both. As far as I am concerned, when children have already lost their parents, it is imperative that they stay together. However, as I mentioned, I feared for the future of the orphanage, and I am ashamed to say that I allowed practicality to overrule morality. In short, I should not have permitted Elle’s younger brother to be separated from her. Each year that she has been here at the orphanage, overlooked by families, my guilt has increased. As she has no doubt told you, she plays her instruments so that she feels a connection to her parents?’ I nodded. ‘Perhaps you can imagine just how upsetting that sound is to me, when I am solely responsible for taking away the true link to her past – her younger brother.’

Who took Elle’s brother?

Madame Gagnon cast her eyes down to the floor. ‘I’m sure you would not doubt that someone as officious as myself keeps impeccable records of every young person that passes through our doors. But on this occasion, the couple who took the baby wished to remain completely anonymous, so it could never be discovered that the son was not their own. As I said previously, I was under incredible pressure. In addition, the family agreed to make a substantial donation to the orphanage. As they say, one should not look a gift horse in the mouth. But, as a consequence, not only is Elle separated from her brother, she has no hope of ever finding him.’

What nationality were the wealthy couple? I wrote, in the hope that at least I’d have something to tell Elle if this conversation were ever to be mentioned.

‘I genuinely cannot recall. Anyway, now I have given you some context, I have a request. I have not known a gentler, wiser soul than young Elle Leopine in the many years I have been here.’

Why does nobody wish to adopt Elle?

‘Many have come close, but always decided against it. If I were to guess at why . . .’ – Madame Gagnon shook her head – ‘Elle’s family, the Leopines, fled the horrific pogroms of Eastern Europe and emigrated to Paris. Do you know what a pogrom is?’ I nodded sadly. My father had often talked of the insanity and depravity of racial injustice. ‘Hmm. I do not know if you are aware, young man, but there are whispers of a growing movement in Germany, which may well threaten the safety of the Jewish population. The French are aware of the power of the German state, after the horrors of the last decade. It is, I think, possible that potential parents do not wish to bring any trouble into their homes should there be any further conflict.’

Elle has not been adopted because she is Jewish?

‘It is speculation, but I think it is possible, yes.’

Brother?

‘As I said, the baby was taken to a new country and registered under a new name. Anyway, at that time the world’s mind was elsewhere. It was not a significant factor. In any case, whatever the reason, Elle is still here, and I feel an immense guilt. You have known her for a few short weeks, but clearly you have a kinship with one another. Anything that enlivens the young girl’s life eases the burden on mine, so I am grateful to you.’ I tried to give her a smile, but I think it came out slightly manic, as I was unnerved by the steely Madame Gagnon opening up to me in such a way. ‘So, to my request. From my conversations with Madame Evelyn, you are tutored at the Conservatoire de Paris by Monsieur Ivan. Elle’s dream is to attend the conservatory. Ever since she was able to physically lift her instruments, she has played them, teaching herself through books I was able to procure via library donations. I have no musical ability whatsoever, you understand, but across the years I have noted that Elle’s talent has begun to soar. I have often asked her to play for Monsieur Baudin on his visits, but she has always refused, citing fear of criticism. It is quite the achievement that you have managed to convince her to play for you.’

It was a pleasure to hear her.

‘Tell me, from one who understands, does she have promise?’

Infinite promise.

A faint hint of relief passed across Madame Gagnon’s face.

‘I am glad that my musical ear is not so out of tune that I am unable to detect good musicianship when I hear it. Do you believe that she is good enough for conservatory tuition?’

Without a doubt.

‘As I am sure you can surmise, Elle’s chances of attending the conservatoire as an undergraduate are slim, for no other reason than the high fees. She would require a full scholarship, and I understand those are harder to come by than blue diamonds.’ My stomach turned at Madame Gagnon’s choice of analogy. ‘Perhaps you know what I am about to ask of you, Bo. I wonder whether you might be able to convince Monsieur Ivan to take on Elle for lessons.’

I tensed up. How on earth was I supposed to do that? Who would pay? What if Elle knew that I had failed? Monsieur Ivan teaches only violin, I wrote.

‘I am sure that he would be familiar with the appropriate individuals to nurture Elle’s talents.’

Money?

‘Of course. I have a savings account with which I have been very frugal over the years. I have accrued a not insignificant amount for my retirement, but I can think of no better use of my savings than to help right a wrong for which I am responsible.’

Madame Gagnon was still, and continued to look me straight in the eye. Behind her upright posture and steely frame, I sensed that she was a little nervous about my reply. Clearly her remorse at what she had told me was genuine, and after many years, she believed I was some sort of answer to her guilt.

I can try, Madame Gagnon.

‘Good! I am very pleased. Needless to say, I will not be informing Elle of the secret task I have given you. It shall remain between you and me, until we have a positive outcome.’

Thank you.

Her relief was palpable. ‘I will ensure you are recompensed for your efforts, young monsieur. Perhaps when you visit from now on, you may be given permission to be alone with Elle in here, or in one of the studies, rather than be surrounded by the noisy masses.’ My eyes lit up. ‘For the purposes of improving her musicianship only, you understand. I will continue to watch you like a hawk.’ To my surprise, Madame Gagnon smiled. ‘Thank you, Bo. You are a good person.’