He is more sure of himself now he thinks he knows us. His small, tight smile is like an oyster, milky-white at the edges and sharp as a razor.

“On a Sunday, you mean?”

I was at my most innocent.

“I thought I might catch the rush at the end of Mass:”

The tiny gibe failed to sting him.

“On the first Sunday of Lent?”

He sounded amused, but beneath the amusement, there was disdain. “I shouldn’t think so. Lansquenet folk are simple folk, Madame Rocher,” he told me. “Devout folk.” He stressed the word gently, politely.

“It’s Mademoiselle Rocher.”

Small victory, but enough to break his stride. His eyes flicked towards Anouk who was still sitting at the counter with the tall chocolate-glass in one hand. Her mouth was smeared with frothy chocolate, and I felt it again like the sudden sting of a concealed nettle – the panic, the irrational terror of losing her. But to whom? I shook the thought with growing anger. To him? Let him try.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Mademoiselle Rocher. I do apologize.”

I smiled sweetly at his disapproval. Something in me continued to court it, perversely; my voice, a shade too loud, took on a ring of vulgar self-confidence to hide my fear.

“It’s so nice to meet someone in these rural parts who understands.”

I flashed him my hardest, brightest smile.

“I mean, in the city, where we used to live, no-one gave us a thought. But here…”

I managed to look contrite and unrepentant at the same time.

“I mean, it’s absolutely lovely here, and the people have been so helpful… so quaint… But it isn’t Paris, is it?”

Reynaud agreed – with the tiniest of sneers – that it wasn’t.

“It’s quite true what they say about village communities,” I went on. “Everyone wants to know your business! I expect it comes of having so little entertainment,” I explained kindly. “Three shops and a church. I mean-” I broke off with a giggle. “But of course you know all that.”

Reynaud nodded gravely.

“Perhaps you could explain to me, Mademoiselle…”

“Oh, do call me Vianne,” I interrupted.

“… why you decided to move to Lansquenet?” His tone was silken with dislike, his thin mouth more like a closed oyster than ever. “As you say, it’s a little different to Paris: His eyes made it clear that it was a difference entirely in Lansquenet’s favour. ‘A boutique like this’– an elegant hand indicated the shop and its contents with languid indifference – “surely such a specialist shop would be more successful – more appropriate – in a city? I’m sure that in Toulouse or even Agen…”

I knew now why no customers had dared to come this morning. That word – appropriate held all the glacial condemnation of a prophet’s curse.

I forked at him again, savagely, under the counter. Reynaud slapped at the back of his neck, as if an insect had stung him there.

“I don’t think the cities have the franchise on enjoyment,” I snapped. “Everyone needs a little luxury, a little self indulgence from time to time.”

Reynaud did not reply. I suppose he disagreed. I said as much.

“I expect you preached exactly the opposite doctrine in your sermon this morning?” I ventured boldly. Then, as he still did not answer, “Still, I’m sure there’s room enough in this town for both of us. Free enterprise, isn’t that right?”

Looking at his expression I could see he understood the challenge. For a moment I held his gaze, making myself brazen, hateful. Reynaud flinched back from my smile as if I had spat in his face.

Softly,

“Of course.”

Oh, I know his type. We saw them enough, Mother and I, on our chase around Europe. The same polite smiles, the disdain, the indifference. A small coin dropped from the plump hand of a woman outside Rheims’ crowded cathedral; admonishing looks from a group of nuns as a young Vianne leaps to grab it, bare knees scuffing the dusty floor. A black-frocked man in angry, earnest conversation with my mother; she running white-faced from the shadow of the church; squeezing my hand until it hurt… Later I learned she had tried to confess to him. What prompted her to do it? Loneliness, perhaps; the need to talk, to confide in someone who was not a lover. Someone with an understanding face. But didn’t she see? His face, now not so understanding, contorted in angry frustration. It was sin, mortal sin… She should leave the child in the care of good people. If she loved little – what was her name? Anne? If she loved her she must – must make this sacrifice. He knew a convent where she could be cared for. He took her hand, crushing her fingers. Didn’t she love her child? Didn’t she want to be saved? Didn’t she? Didn’t she?

That night my mother wept, rocking me to and fro in her arms. We left Rheims in the morning, more like thieves than ever, she carrying me close like stolen treasure, her eyes hot and furtive.

I understood he had almost convinced her to leave me behind. After that she often asked me if I was happy with her, whether I missed having friends, a home… But however often I told her yes, no, no, however often I kissed her and said I regretted nothing, nothing, a little of the poison remained. For years we ran from the priest, the Black Man, and when his face returned time and again in the cards it would be time to run once more, time to hide from the darkness he had opened in her heart.

And here he is again, just as I thought we had found our place at last, Anouk and I. Standing at the door like the angel at the gate.

Well, this time, I swear I will not run. Whatever he does. However he turns the people of this place against me. His face is as smooth and certain as the turn of an evil card. And he has declared himself my enemy – and I his as clearly as if we had both spoken aloud.

“I’m so glad we understand each other.” My voice is bright and cold.

“And I.”

Something in his eyes, some light where there was none before, alerts me. Amazingly, he is enjoying this, this closing of two enemies for battle; nowhere in his armoured certainty is there room for the thought that he might not win.

He turns to go, very correct, with just the right inclination of the head. Just so. Polite contempt. The barbed and poisonous weapon of the righteous.

“M’sieur le Cure!” For a second he turns back, and I press a small beribboned packet into his hands. “For you. On the house.”

My smile brooks no refusal, and he takes the packet with bemused embarrassment.

“My pleasure.”

He frowns slightly, as if the thought of my pleasure pains him.

“But I don’t really like – ”

“Nonsense.” The tone is brisk, unaswerable. “I’m sure you’ll like these. They just remind me so much of you.”

Behind his calm exterior I think he looks startled. Then he is gone, the little packet white in his hand, into the grey rain. I notice that he does not run for shelter but walks with the same measured tread, not indifferent but with the look of one who relishes even that small discomfort.

I like to think he will eat the chocolates. More probably he will give them away, but I like to think he will at least open them and look… Surely he can spare one glance for the sake of curiosity.

They remind me so much of you.

A dozen of my best huitres de Saint-Malo, those small flat pralines shaped to look like tightly closed oysters.

Fifteen customers yesterday. today, thirty-four. Guillaume was among them; he bought a cornet of florentines and a cup of chocolate. Charly was with him, curling obediently beneath a stool while, from time to time, Guillaume dropped a piece of brown sugar into his expectant, insatiable jaws.