Grégoire rides by barouche to Marseille. He

enters Safara's convent cell. She greets him: "Tu

es traître! Tu es une peste exécrable!" She

turns away. "Je ne suis pas ton ennemi," he says,

trying to touch her shoulder.

Outside the window, stands a tree-a flamboyant

with red blooms. "Grégoire, in three months,

I will be fourteen." "I know, Safara, I've come

to take you home." "Home?" "To Africa. I have

permission to employ you as my guide."

Hands on hips, she hisses, "How could you make

that pink pig pregnant?" "Safara, had I not

married Marie-Louise, I faced disinheritance

and the King's displeasure, possibly death."

"Ha, the King's a child." "But his mother isn't.

Marie-Louise enjoys the milk swelling her

breasts, not me." "And you, Grégoire?" "I

only wanted you." Safara, holding his face in

her hands, looks unblinkingly into his eyes.

"Keep your promise to me, Grégoire!"

Behind the flamboyant, the sun sets in a

purple sky.