I paused on the threshold of the shop to stamp the frost from my boots. It settled on the sills and cobblestones at night now, a fine white fur, as if winter were a great beast who skulked through the city while we slept, leaving bits of pelt behind. At least the snows hadn’t arrived yet, which was some relief.

I removed my gloves, surreptitiously checking my sleeves for cat hair. The landlord, an older, narrow man, watched me with an expression of gravity disproportionate to the situation.

“It’s a good size,” I said, finally giving up the attempt at honesty. The shop was not as bad as some of the others, but even if it were, I was desperate to find something to compliment. I noticed only a little mould in the corners, and no evidence of mice, though it was perhaps half the square footage claimed by the newspaper advertisement.

M. Levasseur smiled, not quite hiding his relief. “It is that,” he said. “You will not find anything larger in this neighbourhood, mademoiselle, where folks work hard and learn to make do.”

He gave me a pugnacious look, as if readying himself for an argument. I only smiled, feeling a stab of relief—this suggested that I was not the first to enquire about the place. And now that I had seen it, I could guess which side—landlord or tenant—had been rejected.

“Good location for a charity,” he went on. “The Sisters of Salvation have their shop across the square. And Saint-­Jean gives free meals almost every day.”

“Oh?” I said nervously, pretending to be surprised. On my walk there, I had passed Saint-Jean, a pretty but worn-looking stone church at least a century old, and the Sisters of Salvation, which provided free clothing to those who could not afford any. I had, in fact, made use of both during especially lean years.