It’s the best vantage point I could have hoped for. From here I can see all Yanne’s customers, monitor comings and goings, keep track of deliveries and keep my eye on the children.

The little one is a handful; not noisy, but mischievous, and despite her small size, rather older than I originally guessed. Madame Pinot tells me she’s nearly four years old, and has yet to speak her first word, although she seems to know some sign language. A special child, Madame tells me, with that tiny sneer she reserves for blacks, Jews, travellers and the politically correct.

A special child? Undoubtedly. Exactly how special remains to be seen.

And of course, there’s Annie, too. I see her from Le P’tit Pinson – every morning just before eight and every night after half past four – and she speaks to me cheerily enough: of her school, and her friends, her teachers, the people she sees on the bus. It’s a start, at least; but I sense she’s holding back. In a way, it pleases me. I could put that strength to use – with the right education I’m sure she’d go far – and besides, you know, the greater part of any seduction lies in the chase.

But I’m already tired of Le P’tit Pinson. My first week’s wages will barely cover my expenses, and Laurent is far from easy to please. Worse, he has begun to notice me: I see it in his colours and in the way he slicks his hair; in the new, special care he gives to his appearance.

It’s always a risk, of course, I know. He would not have noticed Françoise Lavery. But Zozie de l’Alba has a different charm. He doesn’t understand it; he dislikes foreigners, and this woman has a certain look, a gypsy look that he mistrusts—

And yet, for the first time in years, he finds himself choosing what to wear: discarding this tie (too loud, too wide); balancing the merits of this suit and that; considering that old bottle of eau-de-toilette, last used at someone’s wedding, vinegary with age now, leaving brown stains on the clean white shirt . . .

Normally I might encourage this, play up to the old man’s vanity in the hope of a few easy pickings: a credit card, some money, perhaps; maybe a cashbox hidden somewhere, a theft that Laurent would never report.

At any normal time, I would. But men like Laurent are easy to find. Women like Yanne, however—