But Zozie was already making plans – seemingly unaware of the impact of that casual word – plans for a line of hand-made truffles, the simplest of all chocolates to make; and then, perhaps some mendiants – my own favourites – sprinkled with almonds, sour cherries and fat yellow sultanas.

I could do it with my eyes closed. Even a child can make mendiants, and Anouk had often helped me in the days of Lansquenet, selecting the plumpest raisins, the sweetest cranberries (always keeping a generous portion aside for herself) and arranging them on to the discs of melted chocolate, dark or light, in careful designs.

I haven’t made mendiants since then. They remind me too much of those days, of the little bakery with the wheatsheaf over the door, of Armande, of Joséphine, of Roux—

‘You can ask what you like for hand-made chocolates,’ Zozie was saying, oblivious. ‘And if you put out a couple of chairs, made a bit of space here –’ she showed me the spot – ‘then people could even sit down for a while, have a drink, perhaps, a slice of cake. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Friendly, I mean. A way of getting them inside.’

‘Hm.’

I wasn’t altogether sure. It sounded too much like Lansquenet. A chocolaterie should remain a place of business; its patrons should be customers and not friends. Otherwise one day the inevitable happens; and the box, once opened, cannot be shut. Besides, I knew what Thierry would say . . .

‘I don’t think so,’ I said at last.

Zozie said nothing, but gave me a look. I feel I have disappointed her, somehow. An absurd feeling – and yet—

When did I become so fearful, I ask? When did I begin to care so much? My voice sounds dry and fussy, like that of some prude. I wonder, does Anouk hear it too?

‘OK. It was just an idea.’

And where’s the possible harm? I thought. It’s only chocolate, after all; a dozen or so batches of truffles, just to keep myself in practice. Thierry will think I am wasting my time; but why should that stop me? What do I care?

‘Well – I suppose I could make a few boxes for Christmas.’

I still have my pans, the copper ones and the enamel, all carefully wrapped and boxed in the cellar. I have even kept the granite slab on which I temper the melted chocolate; the sugar thermometers; the plastic and the ceramic moulds; the dippers and scrapers and slotted spoons. Everything is there, clean and stored and ready to go. Rosette might enjoy it, I thought – and Anouk.

‘Great!’ said Zozie. ‘You can teach me, too.’

Well, why not? What harm could there be?

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

So that was that. Back in business at last, without any fuss. And if any qualms remain in my mind—