Page 60 of Vianne

The second way of tempering chocolate is the seeding method, which involves melting some of the chocolate in a double boiler, then seeding the rest into the already heated mixture, moving it constantly to achieve the correct temperature and crystalline structure.

It is a less time-consuming method than the first, on the marble slab, although the results were less pleasing, and I overheated the process so that the chocolate was scorched.

Guy watched me and shook his head, and told me I had to start again.

‘Chocolate is moody,’ he tells me. ‘It loses its temper. It seizes. You need to get the heat just right. That’s why we use the thermometer: even a degree makes the difference between chocolate with a good shine, a clean snap, and murky chocolate that blooms like the plague.’

The different grades of chocolate all work at different temperatures, too: fifty degrees for dark chocolate, forty-five degrees for the milk.

The vapour that rises is volatile; subject to sudden changes in mood.

It’s funny, to think of angry chocolate; and yet, it speaks to me: to my uncertainty; to the life growing fiercely inside me.

I have started feeling nauseous in the mornings.

I take a spoonful of cacao nibs to combat this morning sickness, and it works.

It gives me energy and focus for the day’s work.

I have even begun to get used to the bitterness, to appreciate the complexities of the different cacao beans.

The Forastero is lighter in taste; the Trinitario warmer, but more likely to be bitter; the Criollo deeper and more complex.

The rarer varietals – the Porcelana and the Nacional – are even more subtle, with floral, woody, citrus notes suspended in the bitter water.

‘You have a good nose,’ Guy tells me. ‘That’s good in a chocolatier.’

I wonder, though. My handmade chocolates have not had all the success I hoped for.

I wonder if I am lacking something. If there’s some part of the recipe that somehow doesn’t reach them.

Perhaps it’s the tempering method; or maybe the beans I am using.

Or maybe it’s the recipe itself; the combination of flavour and form that speaks directly to the heart.

Everyone has a favourite. Just like Margot’s recipes.

Emile likes pissaladière. Tonton loves grilled mackerel.

Marinette loves anything sweet. If only I could apply what I see in people to making chocolates.

But only Emile comments, though never in a positive way.

So far I have tried: mendiants (too bitter); milk chocolate truffles (too powdery); mint cracknel (an old woman’s chocolate, apparently).

Today I have been making rose creams; unlikely to be his favourite, although he has taken to hanging around Allée du Pieu when he knows I am making a batch.

‘No need for Louis to know,’ he says, cramming a chocolate into his mouth. ‘You’ve already upset him enough. What is this?’ He stops mid-mouthful.

Rose fondants, made with Turkish rosewater; coated in 70 per cent couverture chocolate from hand-sorted Porcelana beans.

I remove the embryo myself in order to limit the bitterness.

Eighty-five hours conching; then tempered on marble, my favourite way, then dip the fondant, leave to set and add a crystallized rose petal on top.

The result smells like roses; chocolate-red; full-throated; the petals like the bloom on a grape.

I see the surprise in Emile’s face, surprise now tempered with softness.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of—’

Show me. What do you see?

A night at the theatre in ’59. Ice cream in the interval, champagne in the bar afterwards. She was wearing a rose-coloured dress. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

I heard his answer as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud. I saw it in his colours, like a display of Northern lights. I saw her .

Margot?

You were in love with Margot?

Of course I couldn’t ask him: all I could do was watch him.

The narrow face; suspicious eyes; the dark, insatiable hunger.

And beneath it, a bitterness so intense that I could almost taste it.

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

Did you ever tell her, Emile? Or was it enough to be near her?

He finished his chocolate, savouring the last of it like a lingering glimpse of home. I thought his voice was slightly altered as he said:

‘Yes. This is good. Keep the recipe.’ Then, he turned and strode away, pausing only to doff his cap as he rounded the corner.