Well, that was only the start of it. For the price of a drink and chocolate praline, Laurent Pinson is on our side. It’s not that we need his custom, of course; he’s a parasite, filling his pockets with lump sugar from the bowl and sitting for hours over a single demitasse – but he’s the weak link in this little community, and where Laurent goes, the others will follow.

Madame Pinot popped round this morning – she didn’t actually buy anything, but she did have a good look round, and left with a chocolate on the house. Jean-Louis and Paupaul did the same; and I happen to know that the girl who bought truffles from me this morning works in the boulangerie on the Rue des Trois Frères, and will spread the word to her customers.

It’s not just the taste, she will try to explain. The rich dark truffle, flavoured with rum; the hint of chilli in the blend; the yielding smoothness of the centre and the bitterness of the cocoa-powder finish . . . None of these explain the strange allure of Yanne Charbonneau’s chocolate truffles.

Perhaps it’s the way they make you feel: stronger, perhaps; more powerful; more alert to the sounds and scents of the world; more aware of the colours and textures of things; more aware of yourself; of what’s under the skin; of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.

Just one, I say.

They try. They buy.

They buy so many that Vianne was busy all day today, leaving me to run the shop and serve hot chocolate to those who came in. We can seat six, with a little goodwill – and it is a strangely attractive place; quiet and restful, yet cheery as well, where folk can come to forget their troubles, and sit and drink their chocolate, and talk.

Talk? And how! The exception is Vianne. Still, there’s time. Start small, I say. Or rather, big, in Fat Nico’s case.

‘Hey, Shoe Lady! What’s for lunch?’

‘What do you want it to be?’ I said. ‘Rose creams, chilli squares, coconut macarooooons.’ I drew out the word suggestively, knowing his passion for coconut.

‘Whoa! I shouldn’t.’

It’s an act, of course. He likes to put up a token resistance; grins sheepishly, knowing that I am not fooled.

‘Try one,’ I say.

‘I’ll just have half.’

Broken sweets, of course, don’t count. Nor does a small cup of chocolate, with four more macaroons on the side, or the coffee cake that Vianne brings in, or the frosting he cleans from the mixing bowl.

‘My ma always used to make extra,’ he said. ‘So I’d have more to lick from the bowl at the end. Some days she’d make so much frosting that even I couldn’t eat it all—’ He stopped abruptly.

‘Your ma?’

‘She died.’ His baby face drooped.

‘You miss her,’ I said.