`Bavaroise, with caramel icing.’

`Perhaps a little slice.’

Josephine was looking out of the window into the empty square. `That man's hanging about again,' she observed. `The one from Les Marauds. He's going into the church.’

I looked out of the door. Roux was standing just in the side doorway of St Jerome's. He looked agitated, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, his arms clasped tightly around his body as if he were cold.

Something was wrong. I felt a sudden, panicky certainty. Something was very wrong. As I watched Roux turned abruptly towards La Praline. He half-ran into the doorway and remained there, head lowered, rigid with guilt and misery.

`It's Armande,' he said. `I think I've killed her.’

For a moment we stared at him. He made a helpless awkward little gesture with his hands, as if to ward off bad thoughts.

`I was going to get the priest. She doesn't have a phone, and I thought perhaps he-' He broke off. Distress had thickened his accent so that his words were exotic and incomprehensible, a language of strange gutturals and ululations which might have been Arabic, Spanish or verlan, or an arcane melding of all three.

`I could see she – she told me to go to the fridge and there was medicine in there-' He broke off again in increasing agitation. `I didn't touch her. I never touched her. I wouldn't -‘ He spat the words out with an effort, like broken teeth. `They'll say I attacked her. I wanted to take her money. It isn't true. I gave her some brandy and she just-' He stopped. I could see him struggling to maintain control.

`It's all right,' I told him calmly. `You can tell me on the way down. Josephine can stay with the shop. Narcisse can phone the doctor from the florist's.’

Stubbornly: `I'm not going back there. I've done what I could. I don't want-' I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him after me. `We haven't got time for this. I need you with me.’

`They'll say it was my fault. The police-'

'Armande needs you. Now come on!' On the way to Les Marauds I heard the rest of the disjointed tale..oux, feeling ashamed of his outburst in La Praline the previous day, and seeing Armande's door open, decided to call on her and found her sitting half-conscious in her rocking-chair. He managed to rouse her enough for her to speak a few words. Medicine… fridge… On top of the refrigerator was a bottle of brandy. He poured a glassful, forced some of the liquid between her lips.

`She just – slumped. I couldn't get her to come round.’

Distress ebbed from him. `Then I remembered she was a diabetic. I probably killed her trying to help.’

`You didn't kill her.’

I was out of breath with running, a stitch cramping my left side. `She'll be all right. You got help in time.’

`What if she dies? Who do you think'll believe me?’

His voice was harsh.

`Save your breath. The doctor will be here soon.’

Armande's door is still open, a cat wound halfway around the frame. Beyond it the house is still. A piece of loosened guttering spouts rainwater from the roof. I see Roux's eyes flick to it in sudden, professional appraisal: I'll have to fix that. He pauses at the door as if waiting to be invited in.

Armande is lying on the hearthrug, her face a dull mushroom colour, her lips bluish. At least he has put her in the recovery position, and one arm pillows the head, neck at an angle to free the airways. She is motionless, but a tremor of stale air between her lips tells me she is breathing. Her discarded tapestry lies beside her, a cup of spilled coffee forming a comma-shaped stain on the rug. The scene is strangely flat, like a still from a silent film. Her skin beneath my fingers is cold and fishy, her dark irises clearly visible beneath eyelids as thin as wet crepe. Her black skirt has ridden up a little over her knees, revealing a crimson ruffle. I feel a sudden flare of sorrow for her arthritic old knees in their black stockings and the bright silk petticoats beneath the drab housedress. `Well?’

Anxiety makes Roux snarl.

`I think she'll be all right.’

His eyes are dark with disbelief and suspicion.

`She must have some insulin in the fridge,' I tell him. `That must have been what she meant. Get it quickly.’

She keeps it with the eggs. A tupperware box contains six ampoules of insulin and some disposable needles. On the other side a box of truffles with La Celeste Praline lettered on the lid. Otherwise there is hardly-anything to eat in the house; an open tin of sardines, a piece of paper with a smear of rillettes, some tomatoes. I inject her in the crook of her elbow. It is a technique I know well. During the final stages of the disease for which my mother tried so many alternative therapies – acupuncture, homoeopathy, creative visualization – we eventually fell back on good old morphine, black-market morphine when we couldn't get it on prescription, and though my mother loathed drugs she was happy to get it, with her body sweltering and the towers of New York swimming before her eyes like a mirage. Armande weighs almost nothing in my arms, her head rolling loosely. A trace of rouge on one cheek gives her a desperate, clownish look. I press her cold, rigid hands between my own, loosening the joints, working at the fingers.

'Armande. Wake up. Armande.’

Roux stands watching, uncertain, his expression a blur of confusion and hope. Her fingers feel like a bunch of keys in my hands.

'Armande.’ I make my voice sharp, commanding. `You can't sleep now. You have to wake up.’

There it is. The smallest of tremors, a leaf fluttering against another.

'Vianne.’

In a second, Roux was on his knees beside us. He looked ashen, but his eyes were very bright.

`Oh, say it again, you stubborn old woman!' His relief was so intense it hurt. `I know you're in there, Armande, I know you can hear me!' He looked at me, eager, almost laughing. `She spoke, didn't she? I didn't imagine it?’

I shook my head. `She's strong,' I said. `And you found her in time, before she lapsed into coma. Give the injection time to act. Keep talking to her.’

`OK.’

He began to talk, a little wildly, breathlessly, looking into her face for signs of consciousness. I continued to rub her hands, feeling the warmth returning little by little.

`You're not fooling anyone, Armande, you old witch. You're as strong as a horse. You could live for ever. Besides, I've just fixed your roof. You don't think I. did all that work just so that daughter of yours could inherit the lot, do you? I know you're listening, Armande. I know you can hear me. What are you waiting for? D'you want me to apologize? OK, I apologize.’

Tears marbled his face. D'you hear that? I've apologized. I'm an ungrateful bastard and I'm sorry. Now wake up and-'

`… loud bastard…’

He stopped mid-sentence. Armande gave a tiny chuckle. Her lips moved soundlessly. Her eyes were bright and aware. Roux cupped her face gently in his hands.

`Scared you, did. I?’ Her voice was lace-thin.

`No.’

`I did, though.’ With a trace of satisfaction and mischief.

Roux wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. `You still owe me money for the work I did,' he said in a shaky voice. `I was only scared you'd never get round to paying me.’

Armande chuckled again. She was gaining strength now, and between us we managed to lift her into her chair. She was still very pale, her face half-collapsed into itself like a rotten apple, but her eyes were clear and lucid. Roux turned towards me, his expression unguarded for the first time since the fire. Our hands touched. For a second, I caught a glimpse of his face in moonlight, the rounded curve of a bare shoulder against grass, a lingering ghost scent of lilac… I felt my eyes widen in stupid surprise. Roux must have felt something too, because he stepped back, abashed. Behind us I heard a soft chuckle from Armande.