It’s called Le Stendhal, and you can find it on the corner of Avenue Gambetta and Rue Matisse. No more than a dozen bedrooms in all; a balding tinsel Christmas tree and an extravagantly over-chintzed interior. By the fireplace there is a small round table upon which a china doll in a pink silk dress stands stiffly under a glass cloche. Another doll, this one dressed as a bride, stands watch at the foot of the stairs. A third – blue-eyed, in a red fur-trimmed coat and hat – is perched on the reception desk.

And there, behind the desk, Madame herself: a big-bodied woman with the drawn face and thinning hair of the habitual dieter and a look of her daughter in the eyes—

‘Madame?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m from Le Rocher de Montmartre. We’re doing a special promotion on hand-made chocolates, and I wonder if I could give you these samples to try—’

Madame’s face went sour at once. ‘I’m not interested,’ she said.

‘There’s no obligation. Just try a few, and—’

‘Thank you, no.’

Of course, I’d been expecting that. Parisians are deeply suspicious folk, and it did sound rather too good to be true. All the same, I took out a box of our specials and opened it on the desk-top. Twelve truffles, rolled in cocoa powder, each nestled in its bassinet of crinkly gold paper, a yellow rose on the corner of the box; the symbol of Lady Blood Moon scratched on to the side of the lid.

‘There’s a calling card inside,’ I said. ‘If you like them, you can order direct. If not—’ I shrugged. ‘They’re on the house. Go on. Try one. See what you think.’

Madame hesitated. I could see her natural suspicion at war with the scent that came from the box: the smoky, espresso-scent of cacao; the hint of clove; of cardamom; of vanilla; the fleeting aroma of Armagnac – a fragrance like lost time; a bitter-sweetness like childhood’s end.

‘So, are you giving these out to every hotel in Paris? You’re not going to make much of a profit if you are.’

I smiled. ‘Speculate to accumulate, that’s what I say.’

She picked a truffle from its bed.

Bit into it.

‘Hm. Not bad.’

In fact, I think it’s more than that. Her eyes half-close; her thin mouth moistens.

‘You like it?’

She should; the seductive sign of Lady Blood Moon lights up her face with its rosy glow. I can see Vianne in her more clearly now; but a Vianne grown old and tired somehow; embittered by the pursuit of wealth; a childless Vianne with no outlet for her love but her hotel and her china dolls.

‘It’s certainly something,’ said Madame.

‘The card’s inside. Come visit us.’

Eyes closed, Madame nodded dreamily.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I said.

Madame did not answer.