Then, the priest, drawing himself up to his full height, cut a path through the young women, literally batting them away with his hands to disperse them, and escorted Jules to the front door of a small inn located directly opposite the presbytery.

‘I will be quick, but I ask you expressly not to leave this spot before I return.’

The room where he was supposed to wait for his man was furnished in astounding fashion. Every item the merchant seamen of that family had brought back from their travels was crammed into the space, not so much with a view as to what might look well together, but simply as to what might yet be squeezed in. A six-foot-tall Venetian mirror sat over the chimney, hobnobbing with two porcelain tea services and a ravishing collection of netsukes that one might have expected to find at the home of a shrewd japoniste from the Palais-Royal. When Jules expressed his astonishment to the priest, he replied wearily:

‘Chinoiseries . . . They’re all returning with chinoiseries... That, and palm trees. The gardens on the island are all full of depressing palm trees. Everybody wants their own. They don’t acclimatise at all well to the wind and salty sea air, but nor do they necessarily die. They struggle on, season after season. And yet they keep bringing them back here to die. I was born on the Île Bourbon, you know, and the palm trees there are something else,’ said the man of the cloth wistfully.

‘What a curious damnation!’ thought Jules, watching him head off. ‘What could he have done, that poor fellow, to be exiled so far from home, in this gynaeceum encircled by water and battered by winds?’

He was served an excellent meal featuring lobster, and scarcely had two hours passed before the priest reappeared with a man who had clearly taken very particular care in his attire, so well-groomed and close-shaven was he, and looking quite exalted in his Sunday best.

Jules could not help but note, from the manner in which this former Indian Ocean local introduced the kelp farmer in his best light, the way he skilfully had him open his mouth to confirm the state of his teeth, and made him jiggle about, hopping from one foot to the other so the deftness of his limbs might be admired, that the priest was quite in his element when it came to the presentation of his human merchandise.

‘Breval Botquelen, twenty-five years old. His boat has run aground and the family of the young woman with whom he’s in love no longer wish to have him as a son-in-law because he is too poor. He has told me he is willing to serve in your brother-in-law’s stead at the price you are offering.’

The poor devil, upon hearing his name, sketched a timid smile in an attempt to render himself more attractive to his purchaser.

‘He looks to be in excellent health.’