CHAPTER XXVII
THE GARDEN OF LOVE
“And now,” said Gaspard, “I must be going.”
He had been for half an hour in the Café Palmiste opposite M. Seguin, a cup of coffee, and a box of cigars.
He rose from the table and his companion rose also, accompanying him to the door.
“Well, if you have business, I will not detain you—so you start on Friday? I may see you before you go, anyhow, remember Paul Seguin, who is always your friend, and be careful with that shark of a Sagesse—you say you will be back in a few months’ time, well, when you come back, come right over to Grand Anse and we will arrange a future for you, you must not leave the island, you will marry and settle here; I will find you a home and work, not at St. Pierre, but over at Grande Anse where it is cool and where the trade wind is always blowing.”
They shook hands and M. Seguin returned to his coffee and his eternal cigars, whilst Gaspard struck up town, taking the Rue Carcenet which was the nearest way to his destination.
Ten minutes later he was at the commencement of the road to Morne Rouge, at the exact spot where on the evening before, he had stood with Marie looking down at the lights of St. Pierre.
He was before his time; the sun would not reach the horizon for two hours and a half, and leaning on the old, moss-grown, lizard-haunted wall that protected the road to seaward, he looked down at the city, the harbour and the bay.
It was that beneficial moment of the tropic day when, “getting towards evening” the world, released from the ferocious kisses of the vertical sun, breathes again.