Another liar. Thierry’s dislike of this man – this interloper – is immediate, irrational and wholly instinctive. His over-compensation takes the form of a terrible heartiness not unlike that which he adopts towards Laurent Pinson. His voice booms like Santa Claus; his handshake cracks bone; in a moment he will be calling the stranger mon pote.

‘So you’re a friend of Yanne’s, eh? Not in the same business, though?’

Roux shakes his head.

‘No, of course not.’ Thierry grins; taking in the other man’s youth and balancing it against everything he himself has to offer. The moment of jealousy subsides; I can see it in his colours, the blue-grey thread of envy taking on the burnished coppery hue of self-satisfaction.

‘You’ll have a drink, won’t you, mon pote?’

There. You see. I told you so.

‘How about a couple of beers? There’s a café just down the road.’

Roux shakes his head. ‘Just chocolate, thanks.’

Thierry shrugs his cheery contempt. Pours chocolate – a gracious host – never taking his eyes from the interloper’s face.

‘So exactly what business are you in?’

‘No business,’ says Roux.

‘You do work, don’t you?’

‘I work,’ says Roux.

‘In what?’ says Thierry, grinning a little.

Roux shrugs. ‘Just work.’

Thierry’s amusement now knows no bounds. ‘And you’re living on a boat, you say?’

Roux just nods. He smiles at Anouk – the only one here who seems genuinely happy to see him – while Rosette watches him in continued fascination.

And now I can see what I missed before. Rosette’s small features are still unformed, but she has her father’s colouring – his red hair, his green-grey eyes – as well as his troublesome temperament.

Nobody else seemed to notice, of course. Least of all the man himself. At a guess, I’d say that Rosette’s physical and mental lack of development has led him to think that she is much younger than she really is.

‘Staying long in Paris?’ says Thierry. ‘Because some might say we’ve got enough boat people here already.’ He laughs again, a little too loudly.

Roux just looks at him, empty-faced.

‘Still, if you’re looking for a job round here, I could use some help doing up my flat. Rue de la Croix, down there . . .’ He nods to indicate the direction. ‘Nice big flat, but it needs gutting – plastering – flooring – decorating – and I’m hoping to finish it all in the next three weeks, so that Yanne and the kids don’t need to spend another Christmas in this place.’

He puts a protective arm around Yanne, who shrugs it off in quiet dismay.

‘You’ll have gathered we’re getting married, of course.’

‘Congratulations,’ says Roux.

‘You married yourself?’

He shakes his head. Nothing in his face betrays the slightest emotion. A flicker in the eyes, perhaps, though his colours flame with unrestrained violence.