Chocolat by Joanne Harris Page A

a problem with my engine. I’ve been trailing oil for miles downriver. I’ve got to fix it before I can move on.”
           I squared my shoulders. “I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for here,” I said.
           “Well, everyone has an opinion.”
           He sounded dismissive, almost amused. One of the old women cackled. “Even a priest is entitled to that.”
           More laughter. I kept my dignity. These people are not worth my anger.
           I turned to leave.
           “Well, well, it’s M’sieur le Cure.”
           The voice came from just behind me, and in spite of myself I recoiled. Armande Voizin gave a small crow of laughter.
           “Nervous, he?” she said maliciously. “You should be. You’re out of your territory here, aren’t you? What’s the mission this time? Converting the pagans?”
           “Madame.” In spite of her insolence I gave her a polite nod. “I trust you are in good health.”
           “Oh do you?”
           Her black eyes fizzed with laughter. “I was under the impression that you couldn’t wait to give me the last rites.”
           “Not at all, Madame.” I was coldly dignified.
           “Good. Because this old lamb’s never going back into the fold,” she declared. “Too tough for you, anyway. I remember your mother saying—”
           I bit her off more sharply than I intended. “I’m afraid I have no time for chit-chat today, Madame. These people”— a gesture in the direction of the river-gypsies — “these people must be dealt with before the situation gets out of hand. I have the interests of my flock to protect.”
           “What a windbag you are nowadays,” remarked Armande lazily. “The interests of your flock. I remember when you were just a little boy, playing Indians in Les Marauds. What did they teach you in the city, apart from pompousness and self-importance?”
           I glared at her. Alone in all Lansquenet, she delights in reminding me of things best forgotten. It occurs to me that when she dies, that memory will die with her, and I am almost glad of it.
           “You may relish the thought of vagrants taking over Les Marauds,” I told her sharply. “But other people. — your daughter among them — understand that if you allow them to get a foot in the door—”
           Armande gave a snort of laughter. “She even talks like you,” she said. “Strings of pulpit cliches and nationalist platitudes. Seems to me these people are doing no harm. Why make a crusade of expelling them when they’ll be leaving soon anyway?”
           I shrugged. “Clearly you don’t want to understand the issue,” I said shortly.
           “Well, I already told Roux over there”— a sly wave to the man on the black houseboat — “I told him he and his friends would be welcome for as long as it takes to fix his engine and stock up on food.”
           She gave me a sly, triumphant look. “So you can’t say they’re trespassing. They’re here, in front of my house, with my blessing.”
           She gave the last word special emphasis, as if to taunt me.
           “As are their friends, when they arrive.”
           She shot me another of her insolent glances. “All their friends.”
           Well, I should have expected it. She would have done it only to spite me. She enjoys the notoriety it affords her, knowing that as the village’s oldest resident a certain license is allowed her. There is no point in arguing with her, mon pere. We know that already. She would enjoy the argument as much as she relishes contact with these people, their stories, their lives. Not surprising that she has already learned their names. I will not allow her the satisfaction of seeing me plead. No, I must go about the business in other ways.
           I have learned one thing from Armande, at least.