Uncle Ludovic would not approve.

Every morning in summer Jacques used to sit at a little wrought iron table painted white for a late breakfast in the walled garden beside his house. 

Marie always brought a pot of coffee and some pastries when she heard him open the gate, and Jacques liked not to have to speak until he had read the newspaper that a boy brought from the village well before he was awake. 

The table was positioned out of the sun and any breeze that might trouble the poet; he had become a bit precious in his wealth and old age and had to have things just as he wanted them. 

It was seated at that table, the newspaper open and a pastry half eaten, that Marie found him dead.