“That was very brave of you,” said Emilie, slumping down beside him. “You saved that woman’s life.”
“It was close for a minute there,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if we would make it.”
They turned to look at the stricken woman. Some gendarmes were pounding on her back, trying to resuscitate her. She coughed out water, which was a good sign.
“She’s damned lucky,” said Rémy. “The poor soul came close to being swept out to sea. It’s odd. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why the river flooded when it hasn’t rained in days.” He rose to his feet to survey the raging river. “I suppose it’ll be flooding for quite some time.” He turned to Emilie. “Well, mademoiselle, I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day. Tell me something: Is life here always so dramatic?”
The stone bridge over rivière Roxelane was inundated with the floodwaters, making it impossible to cross. Traffic was at a standstill, and the carriages were beginning to back up down rue Victor Hugo. The situation was worse than Emilie had ever seen it before.
“I don’t advise you return home tonight,” said Rémy. “It’s far too dangerous. I’m afraid the priest will have to wait for his herbal remedy.”
“But my family will be worried about me,” she said.
“Your safety is much more important. I think it would be more prudent if you spent the night here in town. Do you have a place you can stay?”
“My aunt has a small villa on rue de Cathédral, but it’s on the other side of the river. It’s useless to me now.”
“Come with me. I’ll put you up in a small inn. You’ll be much safer here in Saint-Pierre than attempting to cross the river. I can’t imagine rivière Blanche is any better. I’m sure by tomorrow you’ll be able to return home.”
“I wish I shared your confidence,” said Emilie.
Rémy gathered his tunic and pith helmet, and together they headed down rue Victor Hugo, past frightened Pierrotins running in all directions and frantic mothers looking for their children. Many were heading down to the shore, where some fishermen were launching their boats in a last-ditch attempt to find the missing washerwomen.
They located Emilie’s carriage and brought it to a barn for safekeeping, and then they located an inn on rue Petit Versailles that still had a vacant room. After the innkeeper handed Emilie her key, Rémy told her he would return at dinnertime, but first he had to report back to his regiment. Just to be safe, he paid for her lodging ahead of time.
As the appointed hour approached, Emilie waited in the foyer and tried to calm her nerves with a Ti’ Punch the innkeeper had given her. It slid down her throat and sent a warm feeling to all her limbs. She was grateful for the elixir’s ability to make one forget one’s problems, something she needed now more than ever.
At seven o’clock, Lieutenant Rémy marched into the inn sporting a fresh uniform and a wide grin. As soon as he spied Emilie, he beamed, and she felt her heart fluttering in her chest. As soon as she saw him, all her fears melted. She no longer cared that she was meeting him without a chaperone. Tonight she would learn to rely on luck alone.
Rémy stepped forward to greet her.
He kissed her hand. “Good evening, Mlle Dujon. You look charming. Much better than when you were all covered in ash and soot, although you didn’t look too bad then either.”
Emilie laughed. “Please call me Emilie. And you look splendid as well, Lieutenant, much better than when you were trying to impersonate a fish out of water. Actually, as I watched you dancing on the riverbank, I couldn’t help but notice how much you resembled a plucked chicken.”
“You’re too clever for your own good,” he said.
Together they strolled down rue Petit Versailles under the glow of electric streetlamps. The ash had settled on the rooftops and streets, giving the town a wintry look. A few cats could be seen licking their haunches, and a few birds lay dead in the piles of ash. But the mountain had settled down for the night, and it was quiet. With any luck, they would have a peaceful night in Saint-Pierre. The pungent smell of Creole cooking wafted from behind closed shutters, and the sounds of crying babies and clattering dishes broke the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. They stopped at a café along the water’s edge and dined on accras de morue and Ti’ Punch. Later they went for a twilight stroll along the beach. Sitting together under a pavilion, they watched the fishermen singing while they folded their nets, their yoles bearing names like Dieu Merci, Ange Gabriel, and Protection de Marie. Gazing out to sea, they caught the last rays of sunlight dancing on the water’s surface. Emilie was filled with an enormous sense of calm. And while her proximity to a strange man should have made her feel awkward, strangely enough it didn’t. Rémy put his arm around her, and she lay against his chest, smelling his musky odor mingled with the scent of bay rum. She felt so natural beside him. His presence filled her with a tremendous sense of belonging.
Snuggling closer to Rémy, she said, “While you were saving that woman’s life, what was going through your mind?”
He looked reflective for a moment. “Nothing. I pushed aside all extraneous thoughts and concentrated solely on my mission. That’s what soldiers are trained to do in life-and-death situations.”
“Where do you find the courage?”
“My commanding officer once told me that a strong will and a sense of duty often lead to greater results than enthusiasm. Once your resolution is fixed, whether good or bad, never lose sight of it until you’ve carried it out. Soldiers are trained to turn aside all obstacles and never flinch. Dogged perseverance often compensates for a lack of genius.”
“Tell me something,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“I noticed that you hesitated briefly before agreeing to meet me tonight. Why?”
“Personal reasons,” he said.
“Can you share them with me?”
He paused for a moment. “I try not to get involved with the locals if I can help it. It tends to complicate matters. In my field one must always keep one’s wits about him.”
“Yet you agreed to meet me. Tell me why.”
“That information is classified, but I tend to enjoy your company.”
Emilie blushed. “And here I was thinking it was my voodoo stories.”
“A good storyteller and a bottle of rum make for the best company on any mission.”
Following the pulsating rhythms of music, they arrived at a cabaret, where a band of native musicians in top hats, waistcoats, and cravats were playing biguines while couples danced. The beat was lively and infectious. The women in their colorful madras skirts and turbans and the men in their straw boater hats and duck suits twirled on the dance floor, filling the room with laughter and song.
Rémy stood watching the dancers, transfixed by the cheerful scene. Before she realized it, he held out his hand. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
Emilie flushed with excitement. As she placed her hand in his, they began to dance, absorbing the rhythm with their feet, legs, and hips. Colors blended into one, and song and laughter rang in their ears, the music almost lifting them off their feet. Rémy did his best to follow the steps, which were faster and more free-flowing than what he was used to, while Emilie sang along in the local patois. As they twirled across the dance floor, the rum coursed through their veins, making their steps lighter, their laughter merrier, their closeness more apparent. All of a sudden, a mischievous thought made Emilie burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he said, gazing into her eyes.
“I can’t tell you,” she said.
“You better tell me, or I’ll never let you go.”
“You’ll never get it out of me.” She smiled coquettishly.
“I have my ways,” he said.
“Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true,” she said with a boldness that astonished her.
He held her firmly in his grip. “Now you’ll have to tell me, or I’ll never let you go.”
Emilie relented. “I
was just thinking that when I went to see the quimboiseur, I was looking for a solution to a problem that seemed insurmountable. It’s ironic that the voodoo potion helped me in ways no one could have predicted.”
“But I thought you said the potion was a disaster; that it made the priest fall madly in love with you.”
“But it’s only on account of the voodoo potion that we met today. It’s the only reason why we’re here tonight.”
“Yes, but let’s not forget the volcano had something to do with it as well,” said Rémy. “Anyway, if we hadn’t bumped into each other, you’d be home in bed and infinitely much safer.”
“Who says I want to be safe?” she said with womanly guile.
Rémy’s eyebrows shot up. “I should have known by the way you tackled that mountain that you were no ordinary young lady. You have the pluck of a Legionnaire, but don’t let it get to your head. First you insist on climbing an erupting volcano, then you stare down a pit viper, and then you take on an infamous voodoo witch doctor. It seems as if you have no intention of living a safe life.”
“What about you?” she said. “Didn’t you risk your life today by saving a drowning woman? That took no small dose of courage.”
“I was in desperate need of a good bath,” he said.
“Have you always had such a dry sense of humor?” she said, staring into his eyes.
“No. In my younger years, they say I was quite funny.”
“I would have thought the life of a career soldier would have turned you into a hardened, callous individual. But you’re not like that at all.”
“I’m a realist, Emilie. I learned that bravery gets you nothing but hurt. But when I looked into that woman’s eyes, I knew I had to do everything possible to save her life. I figured she needed a second chance.”
“Maybe you need one as well,” she said.
All at once they stopped dancing. Rémy pulled her close and kissed her. Emilie melted into his embrace, caressing his head and neck, forgetting all her problems and worries. It was only until this moment that she realized how much she longed for him.
“You are lovely,” he said, caressing her face. “But I suppose many men have told you that.”
“You are the first,” she said. “The first man I’ve ever loved.”
He stared in her eyes and said nothing. She laid her head against his chest, and they continued dancing until the early-morning hours. Then, when all was quiet, they headed out into the night, the laughter and music still ringing in their ears.
Later, while Emilie lay in her room, she listened to the drumming of the raindrops on the tin roof. The wind howled and beat against the shutters. She worried that the river would still be raging in the morning. Memories of the day flashed in her mind. Rémy’s voice, his eyes, and his strong embrace had utterly captivated her.
Later, after the music died away, he had brought her back to the inn and kissed her in a hidden alcove. He spoke words of love that filled her with desire. The feelings he awakened in her came as suddenly as a West Indian hurricane, raging and powerful yet surprisingly peaceful. Rémy was so different from Lucien. He was a soldier, a leader of men, but above all, a gentleman. As she lay in bed, all she saw was Rémy’s face until sleep eventually took her.
Chapter 22
Wednesday, April 30
The next morning Emilie rode her carriage down rue Bouchers toward rivière Roxelane. When she arrived at the river, she was surprised to see that the floodwaters had actually receded. There was no hint of the raging flood from the previous day, and no reminder of the innocent lives lost aside from the tolling of the church bells. The only evidence that something was amiss was a light sprinkling of ash that had fallen over Saint-Pierre early in the morning, which gave the town a wintry look. A few brave souls were out on the water in skiffs searching for the missing women, but most people had given up hope of finding them. As Emilie crossed the river, a procession of mourners dressed in black was heading to church for the funeral mass, but there was no carriage and no bodies. From what she heard from the innkeeper, they had not recovered a single body.
When Emilie returned to Domaine Solitude, Abbé Morel was waiting for her on the front porch. As soon as she approached, he jumped to his feet and began waving his arms. She waved back, relieved to see that he was improving. But when she looked around, she was shocked to see the entire plantation was coated in a layer of ash. There were mounds of it on the roofs, the paths, and the fields. Some of the workers were brushing it off their shoulders and shaking it off their bakouas, but most of them continued harvesting nevertheless. Emilie felt a crushing guilt that during her brief interlude in Saint-Pierre, she had neglected her beloved cousin.
As soon as she got close enough, her spirits lifted. Abbé Morel seemed to come alive at the sight of her. He didn’t look sick as much as he looked lovesick. By all appearances, the voodoo potion had not physically harmed Abbé Morel, but he was still deeply in love with her. Her only hope now was that the antidote in her pocket would free him of this tragic love. It was her last chance to make things right again.
She ran up to the porch and flung herself in Abbé Morel’s arms.
“Tonton Abbé, I’ve missed you so much,” she said.
“Emilie, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Please forgive me,” she said. “But I was forced to spend the night in town because of the floods. Rivière Roxelane turned into a raging torrent, sweeping several washerwomen out to sea. Men in canoes went out looking for them, but they disappeared beneath the waves. The river didn’t recede until this morning.”
“Good Lord! What’s to become of us?” he said. “Thank goodness you’re safe. The forces of nature seem to be rising up against us. Those poor, poor women!”
“Did you read what Léon Sully wrote in Les Antilles this morning?” She handed him the newspaper.
If April has not been comic, it has been doubly tragic. We have seen two volcanic eruptions, one in people’s minds and the other at Mount Pelée; one electoral, the other physical; one of speeches, propaganda, rum, money and voting papers, and the other of smoke and ashes. One of them is still not finished, because the electoral volcano is still smoking and will not be extinguished for another 12 days. The other is still going on, for our Pelée is still active, and will put its fires out we know not when. We don’t know what the result will be in either case. Let us hope that it will be nothing bad.
“Rubbish!” said Abbé Morel, throwing the paper down in disgust. “He seems to think the ash and tremors are some comical April fool’s joke. How many people have to die before they take it seriously?” He took a small Bible from his pocket, opened it up to a certain passage, and read, “Hear my prayer, oh Lord, and let my cry come unto thee. Do not hide your face from me in my hour of distress. Turn your ear to me and when I call, answer me quickly. For my days vanish like smoke. My bones burn like glowing embers.”
Emilie shivered. “What is that?”
“Psalm 102, the one we say in times of grave misfortune.”
She rubbed her shoulders. “It sounds like a chilling prophecy. I feel that something terrible is in store for us.”
Abbé Morel tousled her hair. “Emilie, we must have faith. We must pray for deliverance.”
She took his hands and kissed them with great tenderness. “You’ll be happy to know I brought you some medicine from Saint-Pierre. The chemist said it should make you feel better. Take it, and I guarantee you’ll be like a new man.” She laid a hand on his forehead and was relieved to see he was not burning up with fever, but she spied a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. She jerked her hand away and attempted to pull him inside, but Abbé Morel grabbed her hand and wheeled her around. “My dear, I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you dearly. I have a strange feeling the end is near, but I have no regrets. Whatever happens, I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m prepared to accept whatever fate has in store. Perhaps it’s good that
I retired from my post in Carriacou. I believe it was Providence that brought me back here to you.”
“Of course it was,” said Emilie, hugging him. “Not because you’re going to die, but so that you can be near to your family. When you were gone, my life was so empty. I missed you so much.”
Abbé Morel assumed a wistful look. “And to think I wasted all those years chasing my vanity and pride while I was overlooking the one thing that truly meant the most to me.” He sighed. “I was blind to not realize that what I most needed was right here all along.”
“Don’t speak like that, Tonton Abbé,” she said in an admonishing tone. “You were serving your flock on an impoverished island. That is the noblest endeavor. And now you’re needed here in Saint-Pierre. I’ve heard the prisoners cry out for you. You’ve brought many of them back to the faith.”
“My only wish is to serve them fully. But right now my mind is in a state of turmoil.”
“You’ll feel better after you take the medicine. Go upstairs and lie down. I’ll bring it to you shortly.”
“Thank you, but I’m not sure I want to be cured.”
She led Abbé Morel inside and asked a servant to take him upstairs to his room. She had just removed her shawl and hung up her straw hat when the room began to shake. The bottles in the liquor cabinet rattled, and the chandelier swayed ominously. A glass fell off the table and shattered on the floor. The servants rushed outside in a panic and began crossing themselves. Just then Mme Dujon and Da Rosette came rushing downstairs with panicked looks on their faces.
“Emilie, where have you been?” said her mother in an admonishing tone. “We were worried sick about you. Your father was frantic.”
“I’m sorry, Maman; I was trapped in Saint-Pierre on account of the flood. This horrible volcano! When will it ever end?”
Island on Fire Page 15