It was time now for the toasts. There were many, each applauded with great enthusiasm. Night was beginning to fall and they had been at table since noon. Already, over the valley fine, milky mists were forming as the rivers and the meadows put on their gauzy nightgowns. The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, cattle were lowing in the distant hazy pastures and people were beginning to amble down home to Gisors. The procession broke into little groups for the return leg and Madame Husson, having taken Isidore’s arm, was giving him much urgent and no doubt invaluable advice. Finally they arrived at the greengrocery door and the Rose King was deposited at his mother’s house.

She, however, was not yet back. Having been invited by relatives to a family celebration of her son’s triumph she had followed the procession as far as the banqueting marquee then gone on to lunch at her sister’s. Isidore was therefore on his own in the shop as night fell. His head spinning with pride and the effects of the wine, he sat on a chair and looked about him. Carrots, cabbages and onions filled the enclosed space with their strong earthy, vegetable smell. Mingling with it was the sweet, pervasive fragrance of strawberries and the fleeting scent that wafted from a basket of peaches. The Rose King took one and bit into it eagerly even though his belly was as round as a barrel. Then in a sudden surge of joy he leapt to his feet and began to dance. As he did so, something clinked in his jacket. Surprised, he plunged his hands into the pockets and from one drew out the purse containing the 500 francs. He had completely forgotten them. Five hundred francs! A fortune! He poured the louis on to the counter and, with a loving gesture, spread them out so that he could see them in all their glory. There were twenty-five coins in all. Twenty-five solid gold coins! All gold! In the gathering darkness they gleamed on the wood as he counted and recounted them over and over again. He put a finger on each murmuring, ‘One, two, three, four, five, hundred; six, seven, eight, nine, ten, two hundred.’ Then, putting them back in the purse, he stowed it safely away in his pocket again.

We will never know and who could ever tell what a terrible struggle between good and evil then took place in the Rose King’s soul. What violent attack did Satan make upon him? What wicked temptation did he plant in this timid, virgin soul? What ideas, what suggestions, what desires did the Devil invent for the chosen one? Who knows? But Madame Husson’s golden boy grabbed his hat with the little coronet of orange-blossom still resting on its brim. Slipping out through the back door he disappeared into the night.