I was so absorbed that I barely heard Armande as she came in through the half-open door.

“Well, hello,” she said in her brusque manner. “I came for another one of your chocolate specials, but I can see you’re busy.”

I manoeuvred carefully out of the window.

“No, of course not,” I told her. “I was expecting you. Besides, I’ve nearly finished, and my back is killing me.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble…”

Her manner was different today. There was a kind of crispness in her voice, a studied casualness which masked a high level of tension. She was wearing a black straw hat trimmed with ribbon and a coat – also black – which looked new.

“You’re very chic today,” I observed.

She gave a sharp crack of laughter.

“No-one’s said that to me for a while, I’ll tell you,” she said, poking a finger at one of the stools. “Could I climb up there without breaking a leg, d’you think?”

“I’ll get you a chair from the kitchen,” I suggested, but the old lady stopped me with an imperious gesture.

“Rubbish!” She eyed the stool. “I used to be quite a climber in my youth.” She drew up her long skirts, revealing stout boots and lumpy grey stockings. “Trees, mostly. I used to climb up them and throw twigs onto the heads of passersby. Hah!”

A grunt of satisfaction as she swung herself onto the stool, grabbing hold of the counter-top for support. I caught a sudden, alarming swirl of scarlet from under her black skirt.

Armande perched on the stool, looking absurdly pleased with herself. Carefully she smoothed her skirts back over the shimmer of scarlet petticoat.

“Red silk undies,” she grinned, seeing my look. “You probably think I’m an old fool but I like them. I’ve been in mourning for so many years – seems every time I can decently wear colours someone else drops dead – that I’ve pretty much given up wearing anything but black.” She gave me a look fizzing with laughter. “But underwear – now that’s a different thing.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Mail order from Paris,” she said. “Costs me a fortune.” She rocked with silent laughter on her perch. “Now, how about that chocolate?”

I made it strong and black, and, with her diabetic condition in mind, added as little sugar as I dared. Armande saw my hesitancy and stabbed an accusing finger at her cup.

“No rationing!” she ordered. “Give me the works. Chocolate chips, one of those sugar stirrer things, everything. Don’t you start getting like the others, treating me as if I didn’t have the wit to look after myself. Do I look senile to you?”

I admitted she didn’t.

“Well, then.” She sipped the strong, sweetened mixture with visible satisfaction. “Good. Hmm. Very good. Supposed to give you energy, isn’t it? It’s a, what do you call it, a stimulant?”

I nodded.

“An aphrodisiac too, so I heard,” added Armande roguishly, peeping at me from above the rim of her cup. “Those old men down at the cafe had better watch out. You’re never too old to have a good time!”

She cawed laughter. She sounded shrill and keyed-up, her crabbed hands unsteady. Several times she put her hand to the brim of her hat, as if to adjust it.

I looked at my watch under cover of the counter, but she saw my movement.

“Don’t expect he’ll turn up,” she said shortly. “That grandson of mine. I’m not expecting him, anyway.”

Her every gesture belied her words. The tendons in her throat stood out like an ancient dancer’s.

We talked for a while of trifling matters: the children’s idea of the chocolate festival – Armande squawking with laughter when I told her about Jesus and the white chocolate Pope – and the river-gypsies. It seems that Armande has ordered their food supplies herself, in her name, much to Reynaud’s indignation. Roux offered to pay her in cash, but she prefers to have him fix her leaky roof instead. This will infuriate Georges Clairmont, she revealed with an impish grin.