Saturday March 1

I HAVE BEEN WATCHING HER SHOP. I REALIZE THAT I HAVE done so since her arrival, its comings and goings, its furtive gatherings. I watch it much as I used to watch wasps nests in my youth, with loathing and fascination. They began slyly at first, calling in the secret hours of dusk and early morning. They took the guise of genuine clients. A cup of coffee here, a packet of chocolate raisins for their children. But now they have abandoned the pretence. The gypsies call openly now, casting defiant looks at my shuttered window; the redhead with the insolent eyes, the skinny girl and the bleached-haired girl and the shaven headed Arab. She calls them by name; Roux and Zezette and Blanche and Ahmed. Yesterday at ten Clairmont's van came by with a load of building supplies; wood and paint and roofing pitch. The lad who was driving it set the goods down on her doorstep without a word. She wrote him a cheque. Then I had to watch while her grinning friends lifted the boxes and joists and cartons onto their shoulders and bore them down, laughing, into Les Marauds. A ruse, that was all. A lying ruse. For some reason she wants to abet them. Of course it is to spite me that she acts in this way. I can do nothing but maintain a dignified silence and pray for her downfall. But she makes my task so much harder! Already I have to deal with Armande Voizin, who puts their food on her own shopping bill. I have already dealt with this, but too late. The river-gypsies have enough supplies now to last them a fortnight. They bring their daily supplies – bread, milk from Agen upriver. The thought that they might stay any longer fills me with bile. But what can be done, whilst such people befriend them? You would know what to do, pere, if only you could tell me. And I know you would not flinch from your duty, however unpleasant. If only you could tell me what to do. The slightest pressure of the fingers would be enough. A flicker of an eyelash. Anything. Anything to show that I am forgiven. No? You do not move. Only the ponderous noise – hissh-thump! of the machine as it breathes for you, sending the air through your atrophied lungs. I know that one day soon you will awake, healed and purified, and that mine will be the first name you speak. You see, I do believe in miracles. I, who have passed through fire. I do believe.

I decided to talk to her today. Rationally, without recrimination, as father to daughter. Surely she would understand. We began on the wrong footing, she and I. Perhaps we could-begin again. You see, pere, I was ready to be generous. Ready to understand. But as I approached the shop I saw through the window that the man Roux was in there with her, his hard, light eyes fixed on me with that mocking look of disdain which all his kind affects. There was a drink of some sort in his hand. He looked dangerous, violent in his filthy overalls and long, loose, hair, and for a second I felt a thin stab of anxiety for the woman. Doesn't she realize what dangers she is courting, just by being with these people? Does she not care for herself, for her child? I was about to turn away when a poster in the shop window caught my eye. I pretended to study it for a minute whilst secretly watching her watching them – from outside. She was wearing a dress of some rich wine-coloured material, and her hair was loose. From inside the shop I heard her laughter.

My eyes skimmed over the poster again. The writing was childish, unformed.

GRAND FESTIVAL CHOCOLAT A LA CELESTE PRALINE BEGINS EASTER SUNDAY EVERYONE WELCOME

!!! BUY NOW WHILE STOCKS LAST!!!

I read it again, slow indignation dawning. Inside the shop I could still hear the sound of her voice above the clinking of glasses. Too absorbed in her conversation, she had still not noticed me, but stood with her back to the door, one foot turned out like a dancer. She wore flat pumps with little bows on them, and no stockings.

I see it all now. Her malice, her damnable malice. She must have planned this from the start, this chocolate festival, planned it to coincide with the most holy of the Church's ceremonies. From her arrival on carnival day she must have had this in mind, to undermine my authority, to make a mockery of my teachings. She and her friends from the river.

Too angry now to withdraw, as I should have, I pushed the door and went into the shop. A brightly mocking carillon heralded my entrance, and she turned to look at me, smiling. If I had not that moment received irrefutable proof of her vindictiveness, I could have sworn that smile was genuine.

`Monsieur Reynaud.’

The air is hot and rich with the scent of chocolate. Quite unlike the light powdery chocolate I knew as a boy, this has a throaty richness like the perfumed beans from the coffee-stall on the market, a redolence of amaretto and tiramisu, a smoky, burnt flavour which enters my mouth somehow and makes it water. There is a silver jug of the stuff on the counter, from which a vapour rises. I recall that I have not breakfasted this morning.

`Mademoiselle.’

I wish my voice were more commanding. Rage has tightened my throat and instead of the righteous bellow which I intended I release nothing but a croak of indignation, like a polite frog. `Mademoiselle Rocher.’

She looks at me enquiringly. `I have seen your poster!' 'Thank you,' she says. `Would you join us in a drink?’

'No.’

Coaxingly: 'My chococcino is wonderful if you have a delicate throat.’

`I do not have a delicate throat!'

`Don't you?’

Her voice is falsely solicitous. `I thought you sounded rather hoarse. A grand creme, then? Or a mocha?’

With an effort I regained my composure. `I won't trouble you, thank you.’

At her side the red haired man gives a low laugh and says something in his gutter patois. I notice his hands are streaked with paint, a pale tint which fills the creases in his palms and his knuckles. Has he been working? I ask myself uneasily. And if so, for whom? If this were Marseille the police would arrest him for working illegally. A search of his boat might reveal enough evidence – drugs, stolen property, pornography, weapons to put him away for good. But this is Lansquenet. Nothing short of serious violence would bring the police here.

`I saw your poster.’ I begin again, with all the dignity I can muster. She watches me with that look of polite concern, her eyes dancing. `I have to say' – at this point I clear my throat, which has filled again with bile – `I have to say that I find your timing – the timing of your – event deplorable.’

`My timing?’ She looks innocent. `You mean the Easter festival?’ She gives a small, mischievous smile. `I rather thought your people were responsible for that. You ought to take it up with the Pope.’

I fix her with a cold stare., `I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.’

Again, that look of polite enquiry.

`Chocolate festival. All welcome.’

My anger is rising like boiling milk, uncontrollable. For the instant I feel empowered, energized by its heat. I stab an accusing finger at her. `Don't think I haven't guessed what this is all about.’

`Let me guess.’

Her voice is mild, interested. `It's a personal attack on you. A deliberate attempt to undermine the foundations of the Catholic Church.’

She gives a laugh which betrays itself in sudden shrillness. `God forbid that a chocolate shop should sell Easter eggs at Easter.’

Her voice is unsteady, almost afraid, though of what I am unsure. The redhaired man glares at me. With an effort she recovers, and the glimpse of fear I thought I saw in her is swallowed by her composure.

`I'm sure there's room here for both of us,' she says evenly. `Are you sure you don't want a drink of chocolate? I could explain what I-'