`Madame.’ In spite of her insolence I gave her a polite nod. `I trust you are in good health.’

`Oh do you?’

Her black eyes fizzed with laughter. `I was under the impression that you couldn't wait to give me the last rites.’

`Not at all, Madame.’ I was coldly dignified.

`Good. Because this old lamb's never going back into the fold,' she declared. `Too tough for you, anyway. I remember your mother saying-'

I bit her off more sharply than I intended. `I'm afraid I have no time for chit-chat today, Madame. These people' – a gesture in the direction of the river-gypsies – `these people must be dealt with before the situation gets out of hand. I have the interests of my flock to protect.’

`What a windbag you are nowadays,' remarked Armande lazily. `The interests of your flock. I remember when you were just a little boy, playing Indians in Les Marauds. What did they teach you in the city, apart from pompousness and self-importance?’

I glared at her. Alone in all Lansquenet, she delights in reminding me of things best forgotten. It occurs to me that when she dies, that memory will die with her, and I am almost glad of it.

`You may relish the thought of vagrants taking over Les Marauds,' I told her sharply. `But other people. – your daughter among them – understand that if you allow them to get a foot in the door-'

Armande gave a snort of laughter. `She even talks like you,' she said. `Strings of pulpit cliches and nationalist platitudes. Seems to me these people are doing no harm. Why make a crusade of expelling them when they'll be leaving soon anyway?’

I shrugged. `Clearly you don't want to understand the issue,' I said shortly.

`Well, I already told Roux over there' – a sly wave to the man on the black houseboat – `I told him he and his friends would be welcome for as long as it takes to fix his engine and stock up on food.’

She gave me a sly, triumphant look. `So you can't say they're trespassing. They're here, in front of my house, with my blessing.’

She gave the last word special emphasis, as if to taunt me.

`As are their friends, when they arrive.’

She shot me another of her insolent glances. `All their friends.’

Well, I should have expected it. She would have done it only to spite me. She enjoys the notoriety it affords her, knowing that as the village's oldest resident a certain license is allowed her. There is no point in arguing with her, mon pere. We know that already. She would enjoy the argument as much as she relishes contact with these people, their stories, their lives. Not surprising that she has already learned their names. I will not allow her the satisfaction of seeing me plead. No, I must go about the business in other ways.

I have learned one thing from Armande, at least. There will be others. How many, we must wait and see. But it is as I feared. Three of them today. Tomorrow, how many more? I called on Clairmont on the way here. He will spread the word. I expect some resistance – Armande still has friends – Narcisse may need some persuasion. But on the whole I expect co-operation. I am still someone in this village. My good opinion counts for something. I saw Muscat too. He sees most people in his cafe. Head of the Residents' Committee. A right-thinking man in spite of his faults, a good churchgoer. And if a strong hand were needed – of course we all deplore violence, but with these people. we cannot rule out the possibility – well, I am certain that Muscat would oblige.

Armande called it a crusade. She meant it as an insult, I know, but even so… I feel a surge of excitement at the thought of this conflict. Could this be the task for which God has chosen me? This is why I came to Lansquenet, mon pen. To fight for my people. To save them from temptation. And when Vianne Rocher sees the power of the Church – my influence over every single soul in the community – then she will know she has lost. Whatever her hopes, her ambitions. She will understand that she cannot stay. Cannot fight and hope to win.

I will stand triumphant.

Monday February 24

CAROLINE CLAIRMONT CALLED JUST AFTER MASS. HER SON was with her satchel slung across his shoulders, a tall boy with a pale, impassive face. She was carrying a bundle of yellow hand-lettered cards.

I smiled at, them both. The shop was almost empty – I expect the first of my regulars at about nine, and it was eight-thirty. Only Anouk was sitting at the counter, a half-finished bowl of milk and a pain au chocolat in front of her. She shot a bright glance at the boy, waved the pastry in a vague gesture of greeting, and returned to her breakfast.

`Can I help you?’

Caroline looked around her with an expression of envy and disapproval. The boy stared straight in front of him, but I saw his eyes wanting to slide towards Anouk. He looked polite and sullen, his eyes bright and unreadable beneath an overlong fringe.

`Yes.’

Her voice is light and falsely cheery, her smile as sharp and sweet as icing, setting the teeth on edge. `I'm distributing these' – she held up the stack of cards – `and I wonder if you'd mind displaying one in your window.’

She held it out. `Everyone else is putting them up,' she added, as if that might sway my decision.

I took the card. Black on yellow, in neat, bold capitals: NO HAWKERS, VAGRANTS OR PEDLARS. THE MANAGEMENT RETAINS THE RIGHT TO REFUSE TO SERVE AT ANY GIVEN TIME.

`Why do I need this?’

I frowned, puzzled. `Why should I want to refuse to serve anyone?’

Caroline sent me a look of pity and contempt. `Of course, you are new here,' she said with a sugared smile. `But we have had problems in 'the past. It's just a precaution, anyway. I very much doubt you'll get- a visit from Those People: But you may as well be safe as sorry, don't you think?’

I still didn't understand. `Sorry about what?’

`Well, the gypsies. The river people.’

There was a note of impatience in her voice. `They're back, and they'll be wanting to' – she made a small, elegant moue of disgust `do whatever it is they do.’

`And?’ I prompted gently.

`Well, we'll have to show them we won't stand for it!' Caroline was becoming flustered. `We're going to have an agreement not to serve these people. Make them go back to wherever it is they came from., 'Oh.’

I considered what she was saying. `Can we refuse to serve them?’

I enquired curiously. `If they have the money to spend, can we refuse?’

Impatiently: `Of course we can. Who's to stop us?’

I thought for a moment, then handed back the yellow card. Caroline stared at me. `You're not going to do it?’

Her voice rose half an octave, losing much of its well-bred intonation in the process. I shrugged. `It seems to me that if someone wants to spend their money here, it isn't up to me to stop them,' I told her.

`But the community…’ insisted Caroline. `Surely you don't want people of that type – itinerants, thieves, Arabs for heaven's sake'

Flutter-click snapshot of memory, scowling New York doormen, Paris ladies, Sacre-Coeur tourists, camera in hand, face averted to avoid seeing the beggar-girl with her too-short dress and too-long legs… Caroline Clairmont, for all her rural upbringing, knows the value of finding the right modiste. The discreet scarf she wears at her throat bears an Herms label, and her perfume is Coco de Chanel. My reply was sharper than I intended.

`It strikes me that the community should mind its own business,' I said tartly. `It isn't up to me – or anybody – to decide how these people should live their lives.’

Caroline gave me a venomous look. `Oh, well, if that's how you feel' – turning superciliously towards the door `then I won't keep you from your business.’

A slight emphasis upon the last word, a disdainful glance at the empty seats. `I just hope you don't regret your decision, that's all.’