Paris, mid-October: a morning of bountiful autumn sunshine that makes one happy to be alive. But we are among the dead, searching in a sector of the Père Lachaise cemetery for the grave of Poulenc. Though we aren’t going to find him here: the names, and the stars where elsewhere there are crosses, denote that this quiet corner, ”amants légendaires”, is the seventh division, the Jewish quarter, and we need to push on up the Chemin Serré.