‘Well, she’s out right now. But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

‘All right. I’ll wait.’ He sat down at a table, glancing around as he did so at the shop, the pictures, the chocolates – with pleasure, I thought, and some unease, as if unsure of his reception.

‘And you are . . .?’ I said.

‘Oh. Just a friend.’

I smiled at him. ‘I meant your name.’

‘Oh.’ Now I was sure he looked ill at ease. Hands in his pockets to hide his discomfort, as if my presence had disrupted some plan too intricate for him to change.

‘Roux,’ he said.

I thought of the postcard, signed R. Name or nickname? Probably the latter. Heading north. I’ll drop by if I can.

And now I knew where I’d recognized him. I’d seen him last at Vianne Rocher’s side, in a newspaper photo from Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.

‘Roux?’ I said. ‘From Lansquenet?’

He nodded.

‘Annie talks about you all the time.’

At that his colours lit up like a Christmas tree, and I began to understand what Vianne might see in a man like Roux. Thierry never lights up – unless it’s one of his cigars – but then, Thierry has money, which makes up for most things.

‘Relax, why don’t you, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.’

Now he grinned. ‘My favourite.’

I made it strong, with brown sugar and rum. He drank it, then turned restless again, moving from one room to the other, looking around him at the pans, the jars, the dishes and spoons that make up Yanne’s chocolate-making paraphernalia.

‘You look just like her,’ he said at last.

‘Really?’

As a matter of fact I look nothing like her; but then, I’ve noticed that most men rarely see exactly what’s in front of them. A dash of perfume, long, loose hair, a scarlet skirt and my high-heeled shoes; glamours so simple a child could see through them, but a man will be fooled every time.

‘So – how long has it been since you last saw Yanne?’

He shrugged. ‘Too long.’

‘I know how it is. Here. Have a chocolate.’

I put one by the side of his cup; a truffle, rolled in cocoa powder prepared to my own special recipe, and marked with the cactus sign of Xochipilli, the ecstatic god, always good for unleashing the tongue.

He didn’t eat the chocolate, but instead rolled it aimlessly around his saucer. It was a gesture I recognized somehow, but couldn’t quite identify. I waited for him to start talking – people generally do talk to me – but he seemed content to remain silent, fiddling with his uneaten truffle and watching the darkening street.

‘Are you staying in Paris?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Depends.’

I looked at him enquiringly, but he didn’t seem to take the hint. ‘Depends on what?’ I said at last.

He shrugged again. ‘I get tired of places.’