`Monsieur le Cure.’

I saw her face change even before I saw him, becoming hostile and stupid, her hands r eturn ing to their accustomed position at the pit of her stomach.

Reynaud nodded gravely. `Madame Muscat.’

He placed special emphasis on the first word. `I was sorry not to see you in church this morning.’

Josephine muttered something graceless and inaudible. Reynaud took a step towards the counter and she half-turned as if to bolt into the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to face him.

`That's right, girl,' said Armande approvingly. `Don't let him give you any of his jabber.’

She faced Reynaud and gestured sternly with a piece of cake. `You let that girl alone, Francis. If anything, you should be giving her your blessing.’

Reynaud ignored her. `Listen to me, ma fille,' he said earnestly. `We need to talk.’

His eyes went with some distaste to the red good-luck sachet hanging by the door. `Not in here.’

Josephine shook her head. `I'm sorry. There's work to do. And I don't want to listen to anything you have to say.’

Reynaud's mouth set stubbornly. `You have never needed the Church as much as you need it now.’

A cold, rapid glance in my direction… `You have weakened. You have allowed others to lead you astray. The sanctity of the marriage vow-' Armande interrupted him again with a crow of derision.

`The sanctity of the marriage vow? Where did you dig that one up? I would have thought that you of all people-' `Please, Madame Voizin.’

At last a trace of expression in his flat voice. His eyes are wintry. `I would be most appreciative if you would-' `Speak as you were raised to,' snapped Armande. `That mother of yours never taught you to talk with a potato in your mouth, did she?’

She gave a chuckle. `Pretending we're better than the rest of us, are we? Forgot all about us at that fancy school?’

Reynaud stiffened. I could feel the tension coming from him. He has definitely lost weight in the past few weeks, his skin stretched like a tambourine's across the dark hollows of his temples, the articulation of his jaw 'clearly visible beneath the meagre flesh. A lank diagonal of hair across his forehead gives him a slyly artless look; the rest is crisp creased efficiency.

`Josephine.’ His voice was gentle, compelling, excluding the rest of us as effectively as if they had been alone. 'I know you want me to help you. I've talked to Paul-Marie. He says you've been under a lot of strain. He says-'

Josephine shook her head. 'Mon pere.’

The blank expression had left her face and she was serene. `I know you mean well. But I'm not going to change my mind.’

`But the sacrament of marriage…’ he looked agitated now, leaning forward against the counter with his face twisted in distress. His hands clutched at the padded surface as if for support. Another surreptitious glance at the bright sachet at the door. `I know you have been confused. Others have influenced you.’

Meaningfully: `If only we could speak in private-'

`No.’ Her voice was firm. `I'm staying here with Vianne.’

`For how long?’ His voice registered dismay whilst trying for incredulity. `Madame Rocher may be your friend, Josephine, but she's a businesswoman, she has a shop to run, a child to care for. How long will she tolerate a stranger in the house?’

This shot was more successful. I saw Josephine hesitate, the look of uncertainty back in her eyes. I'd seen it too often in my mother's face to mistake it; that look of disbelief, of fear.

We don't need anyone but each other. A fierce, remembered whisper in the hot dark of some anonymous hotel room. What the hell would we want anyone else for? Brave words, and if there were tears the darkness hid them. But I felt her shaking, almost imperceptibly, as she held me beneath the covers, like a woman in the throes of a hidden fever. Perhaps that was why she fled them, those kind men, kind women who wanted to befriend, to love, to understand her. We were contagious, fevered with mistrust, the pride we carried with us the last refuge of the unwanted.

`I'm offering Josephine a job here with me.’ I made my voice sweet and brittle. `I'm going to need, a lot of extra help if. I'm to have time to prepare the chocolate festival for Easter.’

His look, finally unveiled, was stark with hatred.

`I'll train her in the basics. of chocolate-making,' I continued. `She can cover for me in the shop while I work in the back.’

Josephine was looking at me with an expression of hazy astonishment. I winked at her.

`She'll be doing me a favour, and I'm sure the money will come in useful for her too,' I said smoothly. `And as for staying' – I spoke to her directly, fixing her eyes with mine – Josephine you're welcome to stay for as long as you like. It's a pleasure to have you here.’

Armande cackled. `So you see, mon pere,' she said gleefully. `You needn't waste any more of your time. Everything seems to be going just fine without you.’

She sipped chocolate with an air of concentrated naughtiness. `A drink of this might do you good,' she suggested. `You're looking peaky, Francis. Been hitting the communion wine again, have you?’

He gave her a smile like a clenched fist. `Very droll, Madame. It's good that you haven't lost your sense of humour.’

Then he turned smartly on his heels, and with' a nod and a curt `Messieurs-Dames' to the customers he was gone, like the polite Nazi in a bad war film.

25

Monday March 10

THEIR LAUGHTER FOLLOWED ME OUT OF THE SHOP AND into the street like a volley of birds. The scent of chocolate, like that of my anger, made me light-headed, almost euphoric with rage. We were right, pere. This vindicates us completely. By striking at the three areas closest to us the community, the Church's festivals and now one of its holiest sacraments – she reveals herself at last. Her influence is pernicious and fast-growing, seeding already into a dozen, two dozen fertile minds. I saw the season's first dandelion in the churchyard this morning, wedged in the space behind a gravestone. It has already grown far deeper than I can reach, thick as a finger, searching out the darkness beneath the stone. In a week's time the whole plant will have grown again, stronger than before.

I saw Muscat for communion this morning, though he was not present for confession. He looks drawn and angry, uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes. He has taken his wife's departure badly.

When I left the chocolaterie he was waiting for me, smoking, leaning against the small arch beside the main entrance.

`Well, pere?’

`I have spoken to your wife.’

`When is she coming home?’

I shook my head. `I would not like to give you false hope,' I said gently.

`She's a stubborn cow,' he said, dropping his cigarette and crunching it with his heel. `Pardon my language, pere, but that's how it is. When I think of the things I gave up for that crazy bitch – the money she's cost me-'

`She too has had much to bear,' I told him meaningfully, thinking of our many sessions in the confessional.

Muscat shrugged. `Oh, I'm not an angel,' he said. `I know my weaknesses. But tell me, pere' – he spread his hands appealingly – `didn't I have some reason? Waking, up to her stupid face every morning? Catching her time and again with her pockets full of stolen stuff from the market, lipsticks and bottles of perfume and jewellery? Having everyone looking at me in church and laughing? He?’

He looked at me winningly. `He, pere? Haven't I had my own cross to bear?’

I'd heard much of this before. Her sluttishness, her stupidity, her thieving, her laziness about the house. I am not required to have an opinion on such things. My role is to offer advice and comfort. Still, he disgusts me with his excuses, his conviction that had it not been for her he might have achieved great, brave things.