Шоколад / Chocolat

I tried to catch her thoughts, to see if she was making fun of me, but ail I felt was humour and kindness.

“It’s only a chocolate shop,” I said with a smile.

Armande Voizin chuckled.

“You really must think I was born yesterday,” she observed.

“Really, Madame Voizin-”

“Call me Armande.” The black eyes snapped with amusement. “It makes me feel young.”

“All right. But I really don’t see why-”

“I know what wind you blew in on,” said Armande keenly. “I felt it. Mardi Gras, carnival day. Les Marauds was full of carnival people; gypsies, Spaniards, tinkers, pieds-noirs and undesirables.

I knew you at once, you and your little girl what are you calling yourselves this time?”

“Vianne Rocher.” I smiled. “And this is Anouk.”

“Anouk,” repeated Armande softly. “And the little grey friend – my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be – what is it? A cat? A squirrel?”

Anouk shook her curly head. “He’s a rabbit,” she said with cheery scorn. “Called Pantoufle.”

“Oh, a rabbit.

Of course.” Armande gave me a sly wink. “You see, I know what wind you blew in on. I’ve felt it myself once or twice. I may be old, but no-one can pull the wool over my eyes. No-one at all.”

I nodded.

“Maybe that’s true,” I said. “Come over to La Praline one day; I know everyone’s favourite. I’ll treat you to a big box of yours.”

Armande laughed.

“Oh, I’m not allowed chocolate. Caro and that idiot doctor won’t allow it. Or anything else I might enjoy,” she added wryly. “First smoking, then alcohol, now this… God knows, if I gave up breathing perhaps I might live for ever.

” She gave a snort of laughter, but it had a tired sound, and I saw her raise a hand to her chest in a clutching gesture eerily reminiscent of Josephine Muscat. “I’m not blaming them, exactly,” she said. “It’s just their way. Protection – from everything. From life. From death.” She gave a grin which was suddenly very gamine in spite of the wrinkles. “I might call in to see you anyway,” she said. “If only to annoy the cure. ”

I pondered her last remark for some time after she disappeared behind the angle of the whitewashed house. Some distance away Anouk was throwing stones onto the mud flats at the riverbank.

The cure. It seemed his name was never far from the lip’s. For a moment I considered Francis Reynaud.

In a place like Lansquenet it sometimes happens that one person – schoolteacher, cafe proprietor, or priest forms the lynchpin of the community.