Based off this picture, postwar, maybe post losing Bill:
The streetlights flickered softly, the ornate wrought iron lamps that had first held lanterns, and then gas torches, finally modernized to run off of electricity. There were few walking the streets they illuminated, and on this road only one.
She shivered, the biting wind scything through her coat like it was made of sheer fabric rather than rich wool. She did not draw her wand to warm herself, nor did she extend a hand to conjure a flame. Others would have said she was merely refraining from performing magic on the streets of Paris, that she refused to risk so flagrant a break of the statute of secrecy in public. The truth was that the cold simply didn't matter, that it couldn't be any further from her mind and thoughts.
She came to a halt on the bank of the river Seine. Leaning against the old stone railing guarding passersby from falling in, she pulled a box of muggle cigarettes from her pocket. The aim of her late night wandering, Harry had often warned her against them. Her friend had not abandoned her after she lost everything, but Harry was not here. She pulled one from its case and, with touch of a raised finger, ignited it. As she took a long drag, the acrid smoke pouring into her lungs, Fleur Delacour leaned heavily against the railing, and dared not think of better days.