But the music keeps playing, reminding me of another place, another time. I was someone else then, and the houseboats across the Tannes were crowded so close that you might almost have walked from one side of the river to the other. There was music then: steel drums and fiddles and whistles and flutes. The river people lived on music, it seemed, and though some villagers called them beggars I never actually saw them beg. In those days there would have been no hesitation—

You have a gift, my mother used to say. And gifts are meant to be given away.

I make a pot of hot chocolate. I pour a cup and I take it to the saxophone player – who is surprisingly young, no more than eighteen – with a slice of chocolate cake on the side. It’s a gesture that Vianne Rocher would have made without thinking—

‘On the house.’

‘Hey, thanks!’ His face lights up. ‘You must be from the chocolate shop. I’ve heard about you. You’re Zozie. Right?’

I begin to laugh, a little wildly. The laughter feels as bittersweet and strange as everything else on this strange day, but the saxophone player doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Got any requests?’ he says to me then. ‘Anything you like, I’ll play. On the house,’ he adds with a grin.

‘I—’ I faltered. ‘Do you know “V’là l’bon vent”?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ He picks up his sax. ‘Just for you, Zozie,’ he says.

And as the sax begins to play, I shiver with something more than the cold as I walk back to Le Rocher de Montmartre, where Rosette is still playing quietly on the floor among a hundred thousand spilt buttons.

12

Tuesday, 18th December

I WORKED IN the kitchen for the rest of today, while Zozie dealt with the customers. We’re getting more customers than ever now; more than I can deal with alone, and it’s good that she is still happy to help, because as Christmas approaches it seems that half Paris has developed a sudden appetite for hand-made chocolates.

The supplies of couverture that I thought might last me until the New Year were exhausted within a couple of weeks, and we are getting deliveries every ten days just to keep up with increasing demand. The profits are above anything I could have dared to hope for, and all Zozie can say is: I knew business would look up before Christmas, as if such miracles happened every day . . .

And once more I find myself wondering at how very quickly things have changed. Three months ago, we were strangers here; castaways on this rock of Montmartre. Now we are part of the scenery, just like Chez Eugène or Le P’tit Pinson; and locals who would never have thought to set foot in a tourist shop now pass here once or twice a week (and in some cases almost every day) for coffee, cake or chocolate.