`I told Narcisse to phone the doctor,' I told her with a pretence at lightness. `He'll be here any minute.’

Armande looked at me. Knowledge passed between us, and not for the first time, I wondered just how clearly she saw things.

`I'm not having that death's-head in my house,' she said. `You can send him right back where he came from. I don't need him telling me what to do.’

`But you're ill,' I protested. `If Roux hadn't come along you might have died.’

She gave me one of her mocking looks. 'Vianne,' she said patiently. `That's what old people do. They die. It's a fact of life. Happens all the time.’

`Yes, but-‘

'And I'm not going to Le Mortoir,' she continued. `You can tell them that from me. They can't force me to go. I've lived in this house for sixty years and when I die, it's going to be here.’

`No-one's going to force you to go anywhere,' said Roux sharply. `You were careless with your medication, that's all. You'll know better next time.’

Armande smiled. `It isn't quite that simple,' she said.

Stubbornly: `Why not?’

She shrugged. 'Guillaume knows,' she told him. `I've been talking to him quite a lot. He understands.’

She sounded almost normal now, though she was still weak. `I don't want to take this medicine every day,' she said calmly. `I don't want to follow endless diet-sheets. I don't want to be waited on by kind nurses who talk to me as if I were in kindergarten. I'm eighty years old, for crying out loud, and if I can't be trusted to know what I want at my age-' She broke off abruptly. `Who's that?’

There is nothing wrong with her hearing. I heard it too, the faint sound of a car drawing up on the uneven pathway outside. The doctor.

`If it's that sanctimonious quack, tell him he's wasting his time,' snapped Armande. `Tell him I'm fine. Tell him to go find someone else to diagnose. I don't want him.’

I glanced outside. `He seems to have brought half of Lansquenet with him,' I remarked mildly. The car, a blue Citroen, was packed with people. As well as the doctor, a pallid man in a charcoal suit, I could see Caroline Clairmont, her friend Joline and Reynaud crammed together on the back seat. The front was occupied by Georges, Clairmont, looking sheepish and uncomfortable, silently remonstrating. I heard the car door slam, and the peewit-shrill of Caroline's voice soaring above the sudden clamour.

`I told her! Didn't I tell her, Georges? No-one can accuse me of neglecting my filial duty, I gave my all for that woman, and look how she-' A quick crunch-criss of steps across the stones, then the voices flared into cacophony as the unwanted visitors opened the front door.

`Maman? Maman? Hold on, darling, it's me! I'm coming! This way, Monsieur Cussonnet, this way into the – oh yes, you know your way around, don't you? Oh dear, the times I've told her – positively knew something like this would happen-' Georges, feebly protesting: `Do you really think we ought to interfere, Caro darling? I mean, let the doctor get on with it, you know?’

Joline in her cool, supercilious tone: `One does wonder what he was doing in her house in any case.’

Reynaud, barely audible: `Should have come to me…’

I felt Roux stiffen even before they came into the-room, looking quickly round for a way out. Even as he did it was too late. First Caroline and Joline with their immaculate chignons, their twin-sets and Hermes scarves, closely followed by Clairmont – dark suit and tie, unusual for a day at the lumber yard, or did she make him change for the occasion? the doctor, the priest, like a scene from melodrama, all frozen in the doorway, faces shocked, bland, guilty, aggrieved, furious. Roux staring them out with that look of insolence, one hand bandaged, damp hair in his eyes, myself by the door, orange skirt mudsplashed from my run down to Les Marauds, and Armande, white but composed, rocking cheerily in her old chair with her black eyes snapping with malice and one finger crooked, witchlike.

`So the vultures are here.’

She sounded affable, dangerous. `Didn't take you long to get here, did it?’

A sharp glance at Reynaud, standing at the rear of the group.

`Thought you'd got your chance at last, did you?’ she said acidly. `Thought you'd slip in a quick blessing or two while I wasn't compos mentis?’

She gave her vulgar chuckle. `Too bad, Francis. I'm not quite ready for last rites yet.’

Reynaud looked sour. `So it would appear,' he said. A quick glance in my direction. `It was fortunate that Mademoiselle Rocher is so – competent – in the use of needles.’

There was an implicit sneer in the words.

Caroline was rigid, her face a smiling mask of chagrin. `Maman, cherie, you see what happens when we leave you on your own. Frightening everyone like this.’

Armande looked bored.

`Taking up all this time, putting people out-' Lariflete jumped up onto her knee as Caro was talking, and the old lady stroked the cat absently. `Now do you understand why we tell you-' `That I'd be better off in Le Mortoir?’ finished Armande flatly. `Really, Caro. You don't give up, do you? That's your father all over, you know. Stupid, but persistent. It was one of his most endearing characteristics.’

Caro looked petulant. `It isn't Le Mortoir, it's Les Mimosas, and if you'd only have a look round'

`Food through a tube, someone to take you to the toilet in case you fall over-'

`Don't be absurd.’

Armande laughed. `My dear girl, at my age I can be anything I please. I can be absurd if I feel like it. I'm old enough to get away with anything.’

`Now you're behaving like a child.’ Caro's voice was sulky. 'Les Mimosas is a very fine, very exclusive residential home, you'd be able to talk to people your own age, go on outings, have everything organized for you-' `It sounds quite wonderful.’

Armande continued to rock lazily in her chair. Caro turned to the doctor, who had been standing awkwardly at her side. A thin, nervy man, he looked embarrassed to be there at all, like a shy man at an orgy. 'Simon, tell her!' 'Well, I'm not sure it's really my place to-' 'Simon agrees with me,' interrupted Caro doggedly. `In your condition and at your age, you simply can't go on living here on your own. Why, at any time, you might-'

`Yes, Madame Voizin.’ Joline's voice was warm and reasonable. `Perhaps you should consider what Caro – I mean, of course you don't want to lose your independence, but for your own good…’

Armande's eyes are quick and bright and abrasive. She stared at Joline for a few moments in silence. Joline bridled, then looked away, blushing. `I want you out of here,' said Armande gently. `All of you.’

`But, Maman-' `All of you,' repeated Armande flatly. `I'll give the quack here two minutes in private – seems I need to remind you of your Hippocratic oath, Monsieur Cussonnet – and by the time I've finished with him I expect the rest of you buzzards to be gone.’

She tried to stand, pushing herself up from her chair with difficulty: I took her arm to steady her, and she gave me a wry, mischievous smile `Thanks, Vianne,' she said gently. `You, too.’ This was to Roux, still standing at the far side of the room looking drab and indifferent. `I want to talk to you when I've seen the doctor. Don't go away.’

`Who, me?’ Roux was uneasy. Caro glanced at him with undisguised contempt.

`I think that at a time like this, Maman, your family should be the-' `If I need you, I know where to call,' said Armande tartly. `For the moment, I want to make arrangements.’

Caro looked at Roux. `O-oh?’

The syllable was silky with dislike. `Arrangements?’

She flicked her eyes up and down him, and I saw him flinch slightly. It was the same reflex I had seen previously with Josephine; a stiffening, a slight hunching of the shoulders, a drilling of the hands into the pockets as if to present a smaller target. Beneath that knowing scrutiny every flaw is revealed. For a second he sees himself as she sees him: filthy, uncouth.