Chocolat by Joanne Harris Page B

There will be others. How many, we must wait and see. But it is as I feared. Three of them today. Tomorrow, how many more? I called on Clairmont on the way here. He will spread the word. I expect some resistance — Armande still has friends — Narcisse may need some persuasion. But on the whole I expect co-operation. I am still someone in this village. My good opinion counts for something. I saw Muscat too. He sees most people in his cafe. Head of the Residents’ Committee. A right-thinking man in spite of his faults, a good churchgoer. And if a strong hand were needed — of course we all deplore violence, but with these people we cannot rule out the possibility — well, I am certain that Muscat would oblige.
           Armande called it a crusade. She meant it as an insult, I know, but even so…I feel a surge of excitement at the thought of this conflict. Could this be the task for which God has chosen me? This is why I came to Lansquenet, mon pere. To fight for my people. To save them from temptation. And when Vianne Rocher sees the power of the Church — my influence over every single soul in the community — then she will know she has lost. Whatever her hopes, her ambitions. She will understand that she cannot stay. Cannot fight and hope to win.
           I will stand triumphant.

 
    FOURTEEN
      
         Monday, February 24

           CAROLINE CLAIRMONT CALLED JUST AFTER MASS. HER SON was with her satchel slung across his shoulders, a tall boy with a pale, impassive face. She was carrying a bundle of yellow hand-lettered cards.
           I smiled at them both. The shop was almost empty — I expect the first of my regulars at about nine, and it was eight-thirty. Only Anouk was sitting at the counter, a half-finished bowl of milk and a pain au chocolat in front of her. She shot a bright glance at the boy, waved the pastry in a vague gesture of greeting, and returned to her breakfast.
           “Can I help you?”
           Caroline looked around her with an expression of envy and disapproval. The boy stared straight in front of him, but I saw his eyes wanting to slide towards Anouk. He looked polite and sullen, his eyes bright and unreadable beneath an overlong fringe.
           “Yes.” Her voice is light and falsely cheery, her smile as sharp and sweet as icing, setting the teeth on edge. “I’m distributing these”— she held up the stack of cards — “and I wonder if you’d mind displaying one in your window.” She held it out. “Everyone else is putting them up,” she added, as if that might sway my decision.
           I took the card. Black on yellow, in neat, bold capitals:
           NO HAWKERS, VAGRANTS OR PEDLARS. THE MANAGEMENT RETAINS THE RIGHT TO REFUSE TO SERVE AT ANY GIVEN TIME
           “Why do I need this?” I frowned, puzzled. “Why should I want to refuse to serve anyone?”
           Caroline sent me a look of pity and contempt. “Of course, you are new here,” she said with a sugared smile. “But we have had problems in the past. It’s just a precaution, anyway. I very much doubt you’ll get- a visit from Those People: But you may as well be safe as sorry, don’t you think?”
           I still didn’t understand. “Sorry about what?”
           “Well, the gypsies. The river people.” There was a note of impatience in her voice. “They’re back, and they’ll be wanting to”— she made a small, elegant moue of disgust “do whatever it is they do.”
           “And?” I prompted gently.
           “Well, we’ll have to show them we won’t stand for it!” Caroline was becoming flustered. “We’re going to have an agreement not to serve these people. Make them go back to wherever it is they came from.”
           “Oh.”
           I considered what she was saying. “Can we refuse to serve them?” I enquired curiously. “If they have the money to spend, can we