Since then things have been quiet. I attribute my outburst in the confessional to a slight fever which passed during the night. Certainly there has been no repetition of the incident. As a precaution I have reduced my evening meal still further, to prevent the digestive troubles which may be responsible for this. Still, I feel a sense of uncertainty – almost of expectation – around me. The wind has made the children giddy, sailing about the square with outstretched arms, calling to each other in birdlike voices. The adults too seem volatile, shifting uneasily from one extreme to the next. Women speak too loudly, self-consciously falling silent when I pass; some are close to tears; some aggressive. I spoke to Josephine Muscat this morning as she sat outside the Cafe de la Republique and that dull, monosyllabic woman spat abuse in return, her eyes flaring and her voice trembling with fury.

`Don't talk to me,' she hissed. `Haven't you already done enough?’

I kept my dignity and did not deign to answer, for fear of being caught in a shouting match. But she has changed; harder somehow, the slackness in her face gone, to be replaced by a kind of hateful focus. Another convert for the enemy camp.

Why can't they see, mon pere? Why can't they see what the woman is doing to us? Breaking down our community spirit, our sense of purpose. Playing on what is worst any weakest in the secret heart. Earning fort herself a kind of affection, of loyalty which – God help me! – I am weak enough to covet. Preaching a travesty of goodwill, of tolerance, of pity for the poor homeless outcasts on the river while all the time the corruption grows deeper entrenched. The devil works not through evil but through weakness, pere. You of all people know that. Without the strength and purity of our convictions, where are we? How secure are we? How soon will it be before the disease spreads even to the Church itself? We have seen how quickly the rot has spread. Soon they will be campaigning for non-denominational services to include alternative belief systems, abolishing the confessional as unnecessarily punitive, celebrating the inner self, and before they know it all their seemingly forward-thinking, harmless liberal attitudes will have set their feet securely and irrevocably on the well intentioned road to hell.

Ironic, isn't it? A week ago I was still questioning my own faith. Too self-absorbed to see the signs. Too feeble to play my part. And yet the Bible tells us quite clearly what we must do. Weeds and wheat cannot grow peacefully together. Any gardener could tell you the same thing.

Wednesday March 5

LUC CAME AGAIN TODAY TO TALK WITH ARMANDE. HE seems more assured now, though he still stutters quite badly, relaxing enough to make the occasional discreet joke; at which he smirks with an air of faint surprise, as if the role of humorist is an unfamiliar one. Armande was in excellent form, having exchanged her black straw hat for a watered-silk headscarf. Her cheeks were rosy-apple red -.though I suspected that this, like the unusual brightness of her lips, was due to artifice rather than mere high spirits. In such a short time she and her grandson have discovered that they have more in common than either had previously imagined; free of Caro's inhibiting presence, both seem remarkably at ease with each other. It is difficult to remember that until last week they were barely nodding acquaintances. There is a kind of intensity with them now, a lowered tone, a suggestion of intimacy. Politics, music, chess, religion, rugby, poetry – they swoop and segue from one topic to another, like gourmets at a buffet who cannot bear to leave any dish untasted.

Armande directs the full laser intensity of her charm upon him – vulgar by turns, then erudite, winsome, gamine, solemn, wise.

No doubt about it; this is seduction.

This time it was Armande who noticed the hour. `It's getting late, boy,' she said brusquely. `Time for you to be getting back.’

Luc stopped in mid-sentence, looking absurdly chagrined. `I – didn't realize it was g-getting so late.’

He paused aimlessly, as if reluctant to leave. `I suppose I ought,' he said without enthusiasm. `If I'm late, M-mother'll have kittens. Or s-something. You know what she's l-like.’

Wisely, Armande has refrained from testing the boy's loyalty to Caro, keeping any disparaging comments about her to a minimum. At this implicit criticism she gave one of her malicious smiles. `Don't I just,' she said. 'Tell me, Luc, don't you ever feel like rebelling – just a little?’

Her eyes were summery with laughter. `At your age you ought to be rebelling – growing your hair long and listening to rock music, seducing girls, or something. Otherwise there'll be hell to pay when you're eighty.’

Luc shook his head. `Too risky,' he said shortly. `I'd rather l-live.’

Armande laughed delightedly.

`Next week, then?’

This time he kissed her lightly on the cheek. `Same day?’

`I think I can manage it.’

She smiled. `I'm having a housewarming tomorrow night,' she told him abruptly. `To thank everyone for the work they did on my roof. You can come too, if you like.’

For a moment Luc looked doubtful.

`Of course, if Caro would object…’

She let the sentence trail ironically, fixing him with her bright, challenging stare.

`I'm sure I c-could think of some excuse;' said Luc, rallying beneath her look of amusement. `It might be good f-fun.’

'Of course it will,' said Armande briskly. `Everyone will be there. Except of course Reynaud and his bible groupies.’

She gave him a sly little smile. `Which in my book is a big bonus, in any case.’

A look of guilty amusement crosses his face and `'he smirks. `B-bible groupies,' he repeats. `Me, that's actually ppretty c-cool.’

`I'm always cool,' replies Armande with dignity.

`I'll see what I c-can do.’

Armande was finishing her drink, and I was about to close the shop when Guillaume came in. I've hardly seen him this week, and he looks rumpled somehow, colourless and sad-eyed beneath the rim of his felt hat. Always punctilious, he greeted us with his usual grave courtesy, but I could see he was troubled. His clothes seemed to hang vertically from his stooping shoulders, as if there were no body beneath. His small features were wide-eyed and anguished, like a capuchin's. No Charly accompanied him, though I noticed once more that he carried the dog's lead wrapped around his wrist. Anouk peeped at him curiously from the kitchen.

`I know you're closing.’

His voice was clipped and precise, like that of a brave war bride in one of his beloved British movies. `I shan't keep you long.’

I pouted him a demitasse of my blackest choc espresso, and added a couple of his favourite florentines on the side. Anouk perched on a stool and eyed them enviously ‘I'm in no hurry,' I told him.

`Neither am I,' declared Armande in her blunt fashion, `but I can be on my way if you'd rather.’

Guillaume shook his head. `No, of course not.’

He gave a smile of little conviction. `It isn't a great matter.’

I waited for him to explain, already half-knowing. Guillaume took a florentine and bit into it automatically, cupping one hand beneath to avoid dropping crumbs.

`I've just buried old Charly,' he said in that brittle voice. `Under a rosebush in my bit of garden. He'd have liked that.’

I nodded. `I'm sure he would.’

Now I could smell the grief on him, a sour tang like earth and mildew. There was soil beneath his fingernails as he held the florentine.

Anouk watched him solemnly. `Poor Charly,' she said.

Guillaume seemed hardly to hear her. `I had to take him in the end,' he continued. `He couldn't walk, and he whined when I carried him. Last night he wouldn't stop whining. I sat with him all night, but I knew.’