I do not own Chocolat, film or book.

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In The Streets of Paris

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Luc Clairmont strolled down the twisted street, a small smile curling at the corner of his lip. Behind him, Marguerite stalked along grumpily. Her black curls hung despondently over her face like a curtain, like a veil. Stubbornly, she refused to look at him. She had been sulking ever since they left the chocolaterie.

It had been his idea to walk down by the university. He hadn’t left his apartment since Sunday morning, being absorbed in his painting, trying to capture just the right light on Marguerite’s porcelain skin. Eventually, after seven hours straight of sitting and listening to her occasional mewls of boredom, he’d found it, that subtle blend of brown and red and white and yellow. He could still remember the exhilarating rush of relief and joy mixed together when he realised that he had caught it. He imagined a botanist must feel the same way when they found a new species of flower or carpenters, when they run their hands over a new piece of wood and feel the chair or cradle that is embedded in the soul of the tree. It was the thing that kept him pushing on, for painting is not easy and so often it was filled with frustration.

Once the light was found, he was off, painting so fast, he could barely fill his palette with enough colour before running out again. Blues, reds, yellows, crimson, emerald and burnt umber. The flower in her hand, the wooden loveseat behind her. Her feet, the hidden curve of her ribs and stomach, the beam of light along her voluptuously elegant neck. He painted like a mad man, like a demon, ignoring the hunger in his stomach, the growing numbness of his bare feet, cold on the bare wooden floor without socks or shoes. He could barely breathe. He forgot to breathe. All he knew was the canvas before him and the fragments of colour dancing before his eyes.

Then he was finished. He took a breath. A deep shuddering breath.

And announced that he was hungry.

Marguerite refused to cook. She didn’t know how and didn’t bother to learn. Even if she did, he had no oven, no cooker. It hadn’t occurred to him when he’d bought this apartment. So they’d made their way for a late breakfast down in the cafés on the Champs D’Elysee. Personally, Luc preferred the bistros around Montmartre and the other quartiers. He enjoyed watching the rest of Paris mill around him, sneaking down little sketches of them as he could. He enjoyed the hearty country food, the bouef bourguignon, the bouillabaisse and the stews. They reminded him of his mother’s cooking back in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. But Marguerite was of aristocratic stock. She refused to eat among the working class. If he ever even suggested heading away from the leafy utopia around the Arc de Triomphe, she would pull the pink bow of her lips down into a little moue and ask plaintively: “Luc, why do you even want to go there?”

She had said the same thing when he’d expressed a desire to head down by the Latin Quarter. He’d bit back the rising irritation at her fastidiousness and, after five minutes, had persuaded her to go. They had wandered down past the Jardin de Luxembourg; empty this morning of the Algerians who commonly populated it. Then they took a left turn and ended up in this tiny little street.

When he’d seen the sign, La Chocolaterie Maya, it had been like a punch in his stomach. How many times had he passed under that sign when he was younger? It must have been nearly every day since Vianne and her daughter had appeared in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. Instantly a fierce surge of protectiveness seemed to pass through him. He was furious that someone had taken the name and abused, violated it on their own petty merchandise. Before he could stop himself or listen to Marguerite’s bleats, he was inside.

It had been like coming home. He’d stood there, shocked for an instant.

Really, it was nothing like the café in the little town by the Tannes River. It was cramped and squishy. Large couches with tiny tables were squeezed in every nook and cranny. Posters from the Golden Age hung on the wall advertising can-can girls in frilly underwear. Vianne’s café had always been so spacious and easy. The only paintings had been the occasional landscape that was pinned to the boards and could not be removed.

But the smell. Sangdieu, the smell…

It was chocolate. Rich, dark, and creamy with other aromas mixed in like a tapestry made up of different coloured threads. Apples and honey, wine and pepper. There were other scents there too. Cigarette smoke feathered the edges. There was an undercurrent of clean brisk beeswax. But chocolate drowned the senses and lifted the soul to Heaven. If he were a religious man, he would have genuflected.

There had been a redhead sitting at the counter, lounging in the way all beautiful women do, even when nobody is watching them. She couldn’t have been the proprietor but he nodded to her anyway. Papa-Paul had instructed him that all women deserve manners, even if they do not exhibit them themselves. He’d been about to ask her where the owner was when a cool voice had issued out a greeting behind him. Cool like river water. He turned and saw her.

Anouk Rocher.

Even now, strolling through the streets with another woman hanging onto his arm, he grinned. Anouk Rocher. Anouk Rocher. Madame Vianne’s daughter. She had changed. What age must she be now? Twenty, twenty-one? She was a year young than him. He remembered that. That had always annoyed her.

She had been hideously dressed. The brown skirt was like a sack on her, swamping over her figure. She wore what looked like a grandmother’s blouse and an old jumper that put years on her age. Somehow though, she caught his eyes. Maybe it was the way she linked her hands so primly or the contrast between her proud expression and the uncontrollable brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Or maybe he was lying to himself. Maybe he should just admit that Anouk Rocher had always been able to catch his gaze and hold it, ever since she first appeared in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.

Her voice had been frosty. “Luc Clairmont.”

He’d wanted to provoke her. “Anouk Rocher. It’s been a long time.”

It was laughable, the obvious attempt she made to hold back her quick retort. White teeth bit down on her lower lip. She swallowed convulsively.

At last she seemed to trust herself to speak. “Yes, it has. What are you doing here?”

“I needed the exercise.”

She folded her arms. Brown eyes glared into his. “You know what I meant, Luc Clairmont. What are you doing… here.”

He copied her, folding his arms and straightening up until she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes. “I live here, Anouk Rocher.”

“I thought you lived in London.”

“So you’ve been keeping an eye on me, no?” He couldn’t resist teasing her. She’d always been quick to lose her temper.

She made an impatient gesture, flicking the brown hair away from her cheek. “Why should I bother? It is none of my business where you live.”

“I live in the Rue Malsherbes. For your information.”

“And I should care… why?”

“ So you may report to my mother that I am not living in a garret in Montmartre.”

Her lips tightened. Ah. He was beginning to get under her skin. “You went to school as I did, Luc Clairmont. Write your own letters.”

“I am a busy man, I have no time.”

“Oui, you are a painter.” Her lips curled up in mocking amusement. “Daubing paint on a page takes so long, doesn’t it?”

His easy grin fell. Abruptly, he scowled. His stance shifted again until he was straight and threatening. “Art is not simply slapping oils on a page.” He snapped. “You should know that, Anouk Rocher. But then, it was you, was it not, who could barely move beyond stick figures?”

She rolled her eyes in disgust. But the flush slashing across her cheeks betrayed her, even as she pushed past him. Her shoulder bumped hard into his. He did not think it was an accident. “I have a business to run, Luc Clairmont.” She retorted. “Buy something or leave.”

“Then if you are so busy I could come in tomorrow, perhaps.” She froze. He watched her, the grin returning. “It is not so difficult.”

“I thought you were a busy man.”

“I am. But it warms my heart to offer assistance to my countrywomen.”

A strangled sound somewhere between a snort and a snarl broke out. His grin widened. The redhead at the counter was staring at him as if he were a ghost made flesh.

“After all, Anouk Rocher, someone needs to correct your education in the arts.”

If she turned around now, she would kill him. He could see the way her hands were clenching into fists on the walnut wood, the way her hair nearly crackled with irritation. He picked up a tiny chocolate sphere from the basket near his elbow. The dark cacao was bitter on his tongue, the sharp tartness of lemons balancing and yet not cancelling out the flavour. He found a few sous in his pocket and clicked them on the table.

“For the chocolate.”

She nodded. A flash of white showed through her hair. He frowned. The colour was too dirty to be the neck of her blouse. Stepping over to her, he slipped his fingers in between the mass of brown.

She reacted like a cat. Her hair flew around; her hand flew up to strike. He twisted his head quickly, to dodge the slap. “Anouk, relax! Look!”

A tiny piece of chewing gum was perched between his two fingers. She stared at it dumbly. Slowly a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks.

Quietly, he laid the sticky piece of gum down on the counter and stepped away. His hands spread wide. Gently, he touched her shoulder. He wanted to be sure that she was listening to him. “Tomorrow, Anouk Rocher.”

She mumbled something inaudible. He was halfway out the door, when she finally spoke clearly.

“I’ll kill them for putting chewing gum under my table.”

He burst out laughing. He even laughed now as they turned out from the closed in streets on the Latin Quarter to walk by the Seine. Marguerite looked at him in outrage. “You have no sensibility.” She hissed.

“None, cherie.” He turned around and rested against the iron railings. “Absolutely none.” The sky was blue above, pale ultramarine mixed in with white and a hint of turquoise. He smiled up at it.

“You knew I was on a diet, Luc. You know I refuse absolutely to eat chocolate.”

He looked at her. She had been modelling for him for the past two months. They had shared several things: meals, conversation and a bed. But never chocolate. “You, Marguerite, are not a woman who eats chocolate.” He said simply. She took it as a compliment.

“Sans doute. Me, I have more self-control than the bourgeoisie.” She declared with a pointed tilt of her chin. “I am admired for that. I say this without vanity.” A defined black eyebrow rose against porcelain skin. “You will not entreat me to return there, Luc?”

“No, Marguerite, I will not.”

“Bon. We will instead…”

“I will return on my own.”

“Luc!” She span around. “If you return to that cramped little corner shop I shall never forgive you, mon cher. Never, never, never! It is a place for… for hooligans and for students and… and…” She stamped her foot, unable to express herself coherently.

“Then I should, how the Americans say, fit right in, shouldn’t I?” He retorted. She stamped her foot again. Luc had always gone as he pleased, she knew. She had never been able to drive him. Most of the time, he would carry along with her happily, escorting her to parties, meeting with friends. But when he dug his heels in…

“You are different and you know that well! You have exhibited in London and… and Rome and Venice…” A sly look came into the jewel-bright eyes. “It was that chocolatiere, wasn’t it? That frumpy, lumpy one in the brown.”

His eyes turned cold. “Sheath your claws, Marguerite. She’s an old friend of mine. Nothing more.”

“Pah! So that is it! You wish for the country squat in brown!” She tossed her black hair back. “I wish you the joy of her, mon cher, for I will not be there to see her fall!” She glanced back at him to catch his reaction to her dramatic speech. Her eyes widened. “Luc? Where are you going?”

He turned back and spread his hands. “If I wish for dramatics, Marguerite, I will visit the theatre! You want to end it? Bon, it is done.” His hands fell. His smile was as hard as his expression. “We are finished.” Turning around, he marched up along the Left Bank.

Behind him, Marguerite screamed in frustration. He ignored her. The relationship had been over before he ever even thought of entering the Latin Quarter. It had been over for days only he had been too absorbed in his painting and the basic cycle of eating and sleeping to do anything about it. Now, with the painting finished, he felt almost cleansed.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the tiny white feather. He had found in his pillow earlier in the week and, curious, he had shoved it into his pocket to keep safe. Twisting it this way and that, he smiled slowly.

Unlike Anouk, he had regularly attended the Sunday school classes with Sister Amelie.

A/N: Please don't forget to review! Reviews speed up the muse and her process! Reviews = white chocolate Buttons. White Chocolate Buttons = food for the muse.