Some people are easier to read than others; and Jean-Loup Rimbault, for all his guile, is still only a twelve-year-old. There was something too candid about that smile, something I’d seen more than once in my teaching days as Françoise. It’s the smile of a boy who knows too much and thinks he can get away with it. And what was in that paper file that he left with Anouk in her bedroom just now?

Could it perhaps have been – photographs?

‘Coming to the party tonight?’

He nodded. ‘Sure. The shop looks great.’

Certainly, Vianne has been busy today. There are clusters of silver stars hanging from the ceiling and branches of candles ready to be lit. There is no dining-table here, so she has pushed the small tables together to make a single long one, covering them with the customary three tablecloths – one green, one white, one red. A wreath of holly hangs from the door, and cedarwood and fresh-cut pine fills the air with a foresty scent.

Around the room, the traditional thirteen desserts of Christmas are stacked on glass dishes like pirates’ treasure, gleaming and lustrous in topaz and gold. Black nougat for the devil, white nougat for the angels, and clementines, grapes, figs, almonds, honey, dates, apples, pears, quince jelly, mendiants all jewelled with raisins and peel, and fougasse made with olive oil and split like a wheel into twelve parts—

And of course there is the chocolate – the Yule log cooling in the kitchen; the nougatines, the celestines, the chocolate truffles piled on to the counter in a fragrant scatter of cocoa dust.

‘Try one,’ I say, handing them out. ‘You’ll see, they’re your favourites.’

He takes the truffle dreamily. Its aroma is pungent and slightly earthy, like mushrooms picked at the full moon. In fact there may actually be some mushroom in there – my specials are full of mysterious things – but this time the cocoa powder has been artfully doctored to deal with importunate little boys, and besides, the sign of the Hurakan scratched in cocoa on the counter-top is more than enough to do the trick.

‘See you at the party,’ he says.

Actually, I don’t think you will. My little Nanou will miss you, of course; but not for very long, I think. In a very short time, the Hurakan is going to descend on Le Rocher de Montmartre, and when that happens—

Well, who knows? And wouldn’t knowing spoil the surprise?

5

Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 6.00 p.m.

SO NOW AT last the chocolaterie’s shut, and there’s nothing but the poster on the door to suggest that anything’s happening here.

Christmas Party 7.30 tonight! it says over a pattern of stars and monkeys.

Fancy Dress Recommended.