Page 57 of Vianne

I caught sight of Louis again today. Just for a moment, as I came out of the bakery with a bag of croissants.

He pretended not to see me: I saw it in his colours.

It makes me unhappy to see him like this.

I liked him – still like him, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary.

But he did not acknowledge me, and from the looks I’ve been getting from people in the neighbourhood, he – or more likely, Emile – has been spreading rumours.

Rumour is our currency here; and I can sense the hostility in faces that until now were friendly.

What whisperings have they heard? That I tried to seduce him?

That I made a fool of him, and then disappeared without a word?

That, having failed to persuade him to give me what I wanted, I simply found someone else?

Some men are afraid to be loved; even more afraid to love.

And yet such people are surely the ones who are most in need of it.

It’s there in Margot’s cookbook. Spice to calm a restless heart .

I can’t help thinking that this is the heart of the chocolate spice Guy calls xocolatl: just add it to ground cacao, and let the flavours rise like smoke.

In any case, it had an effect on my regulars at the bistrot: perhaps I can introduce it somehow to prospective customers.

I took my croissants back to the chocolaterie, thinking hard to myself all the way.

Then, after breakfast, I headed for Rue du Panier and La Bonne Mère, taking with me a box of mendiants, tied with a scarlet ribbon.

Mendiants. It seems appropriate. I come here as a supplicant, with offerings of sweetness.

But arriving at La Bonne Mère, I found the bistrot deserted, except for Emile, who was eating a tartine dipped in coffee, with his usual cognac on the side.

He gave me a look of sour triumph, reflected in his colours like the brightening of a gas flame.

‘If you’re looking for Louis, you’re wasting your time. He left me in charge while he went out to buy something for lunch.’

I looked around at the empty bar. No crumbs on the tables, used crockery, or any other sign of life. I said: ‘How’s business?’

‘Like you care.’ The cape of rage that surrounded him seemed to tighten a little more.

‘You made him dependent on you. Made him think you were going to stay. And then like that—’ He made a dismissive gesture, and I wondered briefly how many of those shots of cognac he had drunk, under cover of his café-crème.

‘Like that – pff! – you were with someone else, without even a word of thanks for everything he’d done for you. ’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him,’ I said. ‘I told him that already.’

He gave a dry little hacking laugh. ‘That makes it all better, then, doesn’t it?

Well, never mind. He’s found someone else.

A new man to help around the place. Someone who won’t let him down.

’ I supposed he meant himself. Emile is a painter-decorator by trade, but seems to be mostly retired, preferring to sit in La Bonne Mère rather than seek work elsewhere.

He glanced at the box of mendiants. ‘What’s that?’

‘Chocolate,’ I said.

‘For Louis?’

‘For you.’

At last, I thought he looked surprised. ‘For me ?’ His colours flared suspiciously, as if he expected trickery.

‘I’m learning to make chocolates,’ I said.

‘I need someone to test my work. You were the first to try my pralines. You always enjoyed my hot chocolate. I thought perhaps you could sample these. Market research. On the house.’ And with my hand, behind my back, I made a little coaxing sign; like sunlight on the counter. A pretty .

Emile looked suspicious. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ I said. ‘Chocolate is Guy’s passion, but he doesn’t know what the public wants. And so I thought – a volunteer. Just to provide some feedback.’

Emile made the sound again. ‘I don’t know shit about chocolate.’

‘But that’s what makes you so perfect,’ I said. ‘There’s no point making chocolates for a handful of experts. We need a layman’s opinion. An educated layman, of course.’

Emile opened the little box. The scent was strong and earthy. I saw a slight surprise on his face. Try me. Taste me. Test me.

‘Dark chocolate,’ he said. ‘I prefer the other kind.’

‘Try it anyway,’ I said. ‘Leave it to melt on your tongue.’

Emile ignored me, but slipped the whole chocolate into his mouth. I heard it crunch between his teeth and thought about the sound a dog makes when it crunches a bone.

‘We use the finest beans,’ I said. ‘We buy them from all over the world. We make the chocolate from scratch, to control the whole of the process. That way we—’

Emile pulled a face.

‘Well?’

He shrugged. ‘Too bitter. I have a sweet tooth, to go with my sweet nature.’ He gave a mirthless grin, which showed the nicotine stubs of his teeth.

‘I see. Well, thank you for your time.’ I reached out to take back the box, but Emile pulled it back. ‘I’ll keep hold of these. Who knows? The taste might grow on me.’

I smiled at him. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Next time, I’ll bring something else.’