He arrived at the railing surrounding Government House; the gate was open, and he entered.
The garden displayed the same lack of animation as the street. A large tame lioness was stretching herself in the sun with the airs of an amorous cat. Ostriches were sleeping on the ground near some stiff, bluish aloes. It was noon—not a soul visible—a silence like that of a necropolis. Yellow palm trees cast never-wavering shadows upon the great, white terraces.
Jean, in his search for someone to speak to, reached the office of the Governor himself, whom he found surrounded by the heads of the various departments of the colonial service.
There, strange to say, they were working strenuously. Serious matters seemed to be under discussion at this hour traditionally consecrated to the repose of the siesta.
In exchange for the cover he delivered, Jean received another addressed to the spahis’ commanding officer.
It contained definite marching orders, which were communicated officially that afternoon, to all the troops in St Louis.
When Jean found himself once more in the deserted street he could restrain himself no longer, and with trembling hands he opened the envelope.
This time it contained only his mother’s handwriting—handwriting that was shakier than usual, and stained with tears.
He devoured the lines—dizziness seized him, poor fellow—clasping his head in his hands, he leaned against the wall.
The packet entrusted to him was very urgent, the Governor had said. He kissed old Françoise’s name piously, and went on his way like a drunken man.
Was this thing possible? It was over, over for ever. They had taken from him, the poor exile, the betrothed of his childish days, whom his old parents had chosen for him.
“The banns are published. The marriage will take place before the month is over. I had been fearing this, my dear son, even since last month; for Jeanne no longer came to see us. But I did not dare to tell you just then for fear of distressing you, since there was nothing that we could do in the matter.
“We are in deep despair. Now, my son, a thought struck Peyral yesterday which has alarmed us; it is that you may not wish to come home again now, but to remain in Africa.
“We are both very old. My good Jean, my dear son, your poor mother begs you on her knees not to let this prevent you from being sensible and from coming back to us soon, as we had expected. Otherwise I would rather die at once, and Peyral too.”