Chocolat by Joanne Harris

place to settle, to breed…I preached a sermon against them this morning, but I know that in spite of this some of my parishioners — Narcisse amongst them — will make them welcome in defiance of me. They are vagrants. They have no respect and no values. They are the river-gypsies, spreaders of disease, thieves, liars, murderers when they can get away with it. Let them stay and they will spoil everything we have worked for, pere. All our education.
           Their children will run with ours until everything we have done for them is ruined. They will steal our children’s minds away. Teach them hatred and disrespect for the Church. Teach them laziness and avoidance of responsibility. Teach them crime and the pleasures of drugs. Have they already forgotten what happened that summer? Are they fool enough to believe the same thing will not happen again? I went to the houseboat this afternoon. Two more had already joined it, one red and one black. The rain had stopped and there was a line of washing strung between the two new arrivals, upon which children’s clothes hung limply. On the deck of the black boat a man sat with his back to me, fishing.
           Long red hair tied with scrap of cloth, bare arms tattooed to the shoulder in henna. I stood watching the boats, marvelling at their wretchedness, their defiant poverty. What good are these people doing themselves? We are a prosperous country. A European power. There should be jobs for these people, useful jobs, good housing. Why do they then choose to live like this, in idleness and misery? Are they so lazy? The red haired man on the deck of the black boat forked a protective sign at me and returned to his fishing.
           “You can’t stay here,” I called across the water. “This is private property. You must move on.”
           Laughter and jeering from the boats. I felt an angry throbbing at my temples, but remained calm. “You can talk to me,” I called again. “I am a priest. We can perhaps find a solution.”
           Several faces had appeared at the windows and doorways of the three boats. I saw four children, a young woman with a baby and three or four older people, swathed in the grey no-colour which characterizes these people, their faces sharp and suspicious. I saw that they turned to Red Hair for their cue. I addressed him. “Hey, you!” His posture was all attentiveness and ironic deference.
           “Why don’t you come over here and talk? I can explain better if I’m not shouting at you across half the river,” I told him.
           “Explain away,” he said. He spoke with such a thick Marseille accent I could hardly make out his words. “I can hear you fine.”
           His people on the other boats nudged each other and sniggered. I waited patiently for silence.
           “This is private property,” I repeated. “You can’t stay here, I’m afraid. There are people living along here.”
           I indicated the riverside houses along the Avenue des Marais. True, many of these are now deserted, having fallen into disrepair from damp and neglect, but some are still inhabited.
           Red Hair gave me a scornful look. “There are also people living here,” he said, indicating the boats.
           “I understand that, but nevertheless—”
           He cut me short. “Don’t worry. We’re not staying long.”
           His tone was final. “We need to make repairs, collect supplies. We can’t do that in the middle of the countryside. We’ll be two weeks, maybe three. Think you can live with that, he?”
           “Perhaps a bigger village…”
           I felt myself bristling at his insolent air, but remained calm. “A town like Agen, maybe—” Shortly: “That’s no good. We came from there.”
           I’m sure he did. They take a hard line with vagrants in Agen. If only we had our own police in Lansquenet.
           “I’ve got