“Oh, I found her most entertaining company,” I replied without taking my eyes off the boy. “Quite, refreshing. And very sharp.”

“For her age,” said Caroline.

“For any age,” I said.

“Well, I’m sure she seems so to a stranger,” said Caroline tightly. “But to her family…” She flashed me another of her cold smiles. “You have to understand that my mother is very old,” she explained. “Her mind isn’t what it used to be. Her grasp of reality-” She broke off with a nervous gesture. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” I answered pleasantly. “It’s none of my business, after all.”

I saw her eyes narrow as she registered the barb. She may be bigoted, but she isn’t stupid.

“I mean…”

she floundered for a few moments. For a second I thought I saw a glint of humour in the boy’s eyes, though that might have been my imagination.

“I mean my mother doesn’t always know what’s best for her.” She was back in control again, her smile as lacquered as her hair. “This shop, for instance.”

I nodded encouragement.

“My mother is diabetic,” explained Caroline. “The doctor has warned her repeatedly to avoid sugar in her diet. She refuses to listen. She won’t accept treatment.” She glanced at her son with a kind of triumph. “Tell me, Madame Rocher, is that normal? Is that a normal way to behave?”

Her voice was rising again, becoming shrill and petulant. Her son looked vaguely embarrassed and glanced at his watch.

“Maman, I’ll be l-late.” His voice was neutral and polite. To me: “Excuse me, Madame, I have to get to s-school.”

“Here, have one of my special pralines. On the house:”

I held it out to him in a twist of Cellophane.

“My son doesn’t eat chocolate.” Caroline’s voice was sharp. “He’s hyperactive. Sickly. He knows it’s bad for him.”

I looked at the boy. He looked neither sickly nor hyperactive, merely bored and a little self-conscious.

“She thinks a great deal about you,” I told him. “Your grandmother. Maybe you could drop in and say hello one of these days. She’s one of my regulars.”

The bright eyes flickered for a moment from beneath the lank brown hair.

“Maybe.” The voice was unenthusiastic.

“My son doesn’t have time to hang about in sweetshops,” said Caroline loftily. “My son’s a gifted boy. He knows what he owes his parents.”

There was a kind of threat in what she said, a smug note of certainty. She turned to walk past Luc, who was already in the doorway, his satchel swinging.

“Luc.” My voice was low, persuasive. He turned again with some reluctance. I was reaching for him before I knew it, seeing past the polite blank face and seeing – seeing… “Did you like Rimbaud?” I spoke without thinking, my head reeling with images.

For a moment the boy looked guilty.

“What?”

“Rimbaud. She gave you a book of his poems for your birthday, didn’t she?”

“Y-yes.” The reply was almost inaudible. His eyes – they are a bright green-grey – lifted towards mine. I saw him give a tiny shake of his head, as if in warning. “I d-didn’t read them, though,” he said in a louder voice. “I’m not a f-fan of p-poetry.”

A dog-eared book, carefully hidden at the bottom of a clothes chest. A boy murmuring the lovely words to himself with a peculiar fierceness. Please come, I whispered silently. Please, for Armande’s sake.

Something in his eyes flickered.

“I have to go now.”

Caroline was waiting impatiently at the door.

“Please. Take these.”

I handed him the tiny packet of pralines. The boy has secret. I could feel them itching to escape. Deftly, keeping out of his mother’s line of vision he took the packet, smiled. I might almost have imagined the words he mouthed as he went.