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Updated: June 13, 2025
Her husband at first thought she had merely gone to Bonsecours market to purchase provisions for the ensuing week, and that she would shortly return. Breakfast time came, however, and she did not return, and he began to get uneasy; enquiries were made of neighbors and friends at whose houses she might possibly have stayed, but no one had seen her, or knew anything of her whereabouts.
I do not defend the feeble sentimentality, call it wickedness if you like, but I understand it, and I forgive it from my soul. They went first, of course, to the French cathedral, pausing on their way to alight and walk through the Bonsecours Market, where the habitans have all come in their carts, with their various stores of poultry, fruit, and vegetables, and where every cart is a study.
As in other Latin countries, each peasant has given a personal interest to his wares, but the bargains are not clamored over as in Latin lands abroad. Whatever protest and concession and invocation of the saints attend the transacting of business at Bonsecours Market are in a subdued tone.
On the left, and oldest of its class, was the Bonsecours Church, with its high-pitched roof, and airy, but inelegant, campanile, refulgent as if cut from some rock of diamond. Nearer, was the Court House, and, beneath it, the Jail; and, behind them both, the dusky expanse of the poplar-planted Champ de Mars.
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