I do not own Chocolat, the book or the film.

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In The Streets of Paris

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It took two hours for the students of the Sorbonne and the other universities to discover La Chocolaterie Maya.

After that it took less than an hour for them to fill it to bursting.

The sagging sofas nearly touched the ground under the weight of human bodies pressing down on them. Students leant against the wall, sat unceremoniously on the floor and curled up by the counter. They assembled in packs, in couples and sometimes on their own, dragging the occasional text book or improving novel to occupy themselves while they sat and sipped their chocolat chaud. Like a pile of curious crows, they watched the crowds around them. The different accents from all over France mingled and rose as they argued. Sometimes they shouted at each other, trying to get their point across.

Anouk loved it. She loved picking out the various groups. She loved listening to the arguments about everything from Marxist philosophy to the latest hairstyles and she loved laughing with them about the latest tricks. She fielded clumsy flirtations and not-so-clumsy flirtations. Brown eyes flashing with enjoyment, she learned to hold her own on political debates. She dispensed chocolates, sympathised and congratulated in turn. It was as if she was joining in on part of her youth she had missed out.

Soon La Chocolaterie Maya became the nucleus of life for the Sorbonne. The remains of the Situationists plotted protests and sit-ins while filling up on montagnes noires, their defiantly tatty clothes proclaiming their allegiance with the proletariat of Marx and Lenin. The die-hard hippies wafted in happily, enveloping the chocolaterie in a cloud of incense. Their long hair and bright flower-covered clothes provided a pleasing contrast to the serious scholarship students who chose brown and sensible navy as their primary colours. Intertwining between these primary strands were the American exchange students, the chic Parisians, the Occidents, the emerging punk rockers … The chocolaterie was filled from morning until late at night when Anouk finally folded her arms and mock-glared the dregs of her customers out from their immovable positions on the comfortable sofas.

Of course, it wasn't just the students that took advantage of the delicious smells permeating from the dull red walls. Anouk quickly learned to reserve a seat for Mademoiselle Aimée for when she scuttled in for her elevenses. She also learned that Monsieur Giscard tended to pop in at seven o'clock, eleven o'clock and four o'clock when it was quietest. Most of the students were away at tutorials or lectures then and he could be guaranteed a seat. Then there was the bookseller from next door, musty crane-like Monsieur Dominique who harrumphed loudly. Mademoiselle Angélique, a waitress in a café who despised the tight, frilly uniform that was obligatory in her workplace, enjoyed sitting next to the carpenter Monsieur Robert. And all of them, like so many others before them, took time to pour their worries and petty grievances into Anouk's ever-patient ears.

It was not long before Anouk had begun to gather her own group of friends around, like a dove gathering soft feathers to cushion her nest. These were few. She had learned the hard way that having many acquaintances did not augur for an easy departure when the North Wind blew. But still, she couldn't resist drawing a few of her customers in closer, sharing her own secrets with them as they did with her.

Separately, her new friends were as violently different as colours of the rainbow. Durant, who had collapsed in her shop one day after having fasted for a week in protest against college dinners, was morose and brooding, prone to fits of passion and adoration over the most unsuitable women. Bernadette, the hot-headed feminist from Strasbourg, dressed every day in a man's three piece suit and was idealistic and sharp-tongued. Lazy, absent minded Amabel slept through most of her lectures and earned extra money by posing for the art students. Outside the chocolaterie, they would barely have spoken to each other. With Anouk however, like those colours on a rainbow, somehow they managed to get along.

Even though Bernadette thought Amabel was subjugating herself as an object for men's pleasure, Even though Durant thought Bernadette would look better in a blouse than a too-large blue shirt, they never mentioned it.

Then there was Ninette.

Pretty, foolish, hopelessly shy Ninette.

Wide, lake-blue eyes stared out from underneath preposterously long eyelashes. Pale skin was stretched thinly over high knife-sharp cheek bones delicate as the first frost. Her hair was flaxen. If it had been allowed, it could have tumbled down her back in a mass of white waves, like a princess in a fairy story. As it was, it floated around her head like a veil, chopped up short by her ears. She was small, reaching Anouk's shoulder, with delicate bones and fairy-like hands. The heavy black jumpers she wore crushed down on her fragile body until she became hunched and stooped with the effort of holding them up. Still, she refused to change them. Flavian had given them to her, she protested. He had dyed them black with his own hands.

Flavian was Ninette's boyfriend. Anouk loathed him.

He was a Communist. At least, that was what he claimed he was. As far as Anouk could see, he did little for the cause except sit back on her sofa and give orders. Even though she knew from Monsieur Giscard that his parents were aristocrats from the Loire Valley, he affected the air of a down-trodden poet. He always wore a spotted red and white scarf knotted around his neck and a tattered brown jacket. Once or twice he even tried to spout his own verses. The disregard of structure and lyrical rhythm was so bad, Amabel, whose brother was a published author, was forced to vacate the premises. He enjoyed smoking large fat cigars from Cuba to 'support our brother Castro' he declared.

Now, Anouk had nothing against men who smoke. Some of the best men she had ever known had been smokers. It had been Roux who had passed her her first cigarette on her thirteenth birthday. The experience was enough to make her sick for two days and put her off practising smoking for the rest of her days. But that was beside the point.

No, Anouk had nothing against cigarettes. But she did object when he extinguished the cigars in her cups of chocolat chaud.

"That boy will end up no good." Monsieur Giscard muttered. The tiny eyes behind the heavy glasses narrowed in dislike. Anouk held her tongue. She swept the dishcloth over the counter, wiping away the tiny crumbs of chocolate left behind.

The plump baker eyed up the blonde student, chewing viciously on his plump lower lip. He had an especial vendetta against Flavian since a band of Situationists had 'honoured' his shop by painting Liberalism symbols on the windows. Giscard, an avowed Gaullist and supporter of the conservative right wing politics, had nearly passed out peacefully on the street when he arrived down to open up in the morning. Since then he refused to tolerate the presence of Flavian in his own business or anyone else's.

Flavian, oblivious to the beams of veiled dislike being shot at him, draped an arm across the plump shoulders of Jeanne Fremont. The other hand was employed in vigorous gestures as he pounded out the Situationist doctrine to the converted. They listened with all the scepticism of cowed sheep. The shy Jeanne seemed overawed by the casual attention of her hero. She cuddled up closer to him, as if some if his gilded glory could rub off on her. Anouk's eyes narrowed slightly as Flavian readjusted himself to accommodate her. His hand drifted a little lower. Anouk gritted her teeth on a hasty retort.

Monsieur Giscard nodded at her expression of dislike. "You comprehend, Mademoiselle." He observed quietly.

Anouk gave him a small polite smile. Without a sound, she went over to the chocolate pot and poured out another cup for Durant. He was drowning his sorrows over a new assistant professor who was not only engaged but also a capitalist.

"Eh! Mademoiselle! Another cup!"

The manicured fingers tapped impatiently against the walnut counter. Anouk's fingers tightened along the stem of the chocolate pot.

"In a moment, Monsieur." She replied neutrally. "I am serving this gentleman." Durant's large head shot up. She had never called him a gentleman before. In fact Anouk rarely spoke so formally to any of her customers after their second or third visit.

"Hurry up." Flavian sighed impatiently. He turned around and viewed his disciples with satisfaction. The fat Cuban cigar sent out a stream of smoke. "We should have a sit-in." He called back over to the Situationists. "In the History lecture, this afternoon."

A stocky brunette lifted his head from his notebook. "Professor Heland?" He asked, frowning. "That lecture? The one on Napoleon's reign?"

Flavian lifted the cigar from his lips, releasing a perfect smoke ring. "Of course. What better?"

The brunette shook his head and blinked. "What's he done to you, Flavian? He's just doing his job, for God's sake."

"You would think that, Fernand."The blue eyes did not even glance down as Anouk silently filled his cup. "But I would expect little more of you."

Fernand sighed in disgust. "Heland won't take it lying down, Flavian." He warned. "You'd be better off staying here. It's warm. Good company." He grinned at Anouk. Relaxing a little, the dark-eyed woman rolled her eyes at him. Quietly, she slid his next chocolate over to him with a smile of thanks.

"Can you think of nothing but the proletariat rubbish that's been pounded into your skull?" Flavian sipped the chocolat chaud. He grimaced and replaced it. "This is our time to stand up for our beliefs."

"And be beaten down by Heland." Fernand bent his head once more.

"He wouldn't dare." Flavian snapped. With hard sharp actions, he shoved himself up from the counter.

Then Ninette entered the café.

She had removed the jumper today. It was unusually warm for February and many of the Parisians had shed their winter clothes in favour of lighter fabrics, cottons and even, for the hardy, gauze and silk. The dress was neat on her slight figure. The bright colours of the printed flowers gave colour to her cheeks: a bright delicate rose-flush. Her silvery-blonde hair hung in loose waves around her face. She was smiling.

Flavian scowled.

Eyes as wide as sapphires turned up at the corners to see him. Floating over, she kissed him on both cheeks. Her cheeks burned slightly as Fernand whistled in approval. "Bonjour Flavian."She whispered.

"What do you think you are wearing?"

She blinked. "I… It was warm so I thought…I thought…It's such a pretty…"

She deflated like a helium balloon under his glare. "We were going to have a protest."

"I'm sorry but I thought…"

He snorted. "You thought?"

Ninette bit her lip. She seemed to shrink into the ridiculous dress. "I thought the protest was for tomorrow." She offered up.

Flavian was taking no prisoners. He ignored Fernand's frown, Anouk's icy gaze and the self-righteous huffs of Monsieur Giscard. "The plans have changed."

"Oh." She bowed her head. "I didn't know. I'll just go get changed… I'm sorry."The last two words were lower than a mouse's whisper.

Anouk felt her temper rise. It was not often that she became angry. She had learned the hard way that you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar. But when someone treated her friends like that…

Then Flavian did the unforgivable.

The pale white hand reached behind his back. A fine line of ash drifted onto her counter from the cigar clutched between his fingers. He tapped the cigar once… twice.

Then extinguished it in the cup of chocolate.

It was then Anouk knew that she was capable of murder.

Flavian shoved past the pale figure of Ninette, shaking his head in disgust. "Hey, mes amis!" The Situationists glanced up as one. "Let's go, we have a protest to plan."

They cheered. They cheered. While Ninette stood immobile, her head still bowed. They moved out en masse. Jeanne Fremont hung back until she was at Flavian's side. Then they walked out of the café am in arm.

Immediately, sympathy surged around the crushed Ninette. Bernadette prowled around her like a protective bear, muttering dire threats against Flavian's sex and insisting Anouk press cups of chocolat chaud on her. Amabel ordered one of her boyfriends to run to the student quarters and fetch the heavy black jumper. Then she rubbed Ninette's hands and suggested various oils and lotions to relax. Monsieur Giscard, unused to female tears, bolted back to his bakery and Durant followed him post haste afterwards.

Anouk watched Ninette bleat out the old excuses of love and fidelity and knew - the same way she knew sugar tasted sweet and she was born on a Sunday – that one day Flavian would not just restrict himself to verbal blows. And she held her tongue.

Don't forget to review! I am procrastinating by posting this. I should be doing my homework. I really really should be doing my homework. So make me happy and review!