“Doudou, you must stay home,” said Da Rosette.
“Where’s Papa?” said Emilie, looking around.
“Out in the fields,” said her mother. “A whole slew of workers ran away on account of the tremors. We’re falling farther and farther behind schedule. I fear this will not end well . . .”
As soon as they started cleaning up, the tremors stopped. The only remnants were the shards of broken glass on the floor and the worried looks on everyone’s faces. Da Rosette picked up a broom and started sweeping up the glass, while Emilie ran outside to the kitchen to fetch a glass of tea for Abbé Morel. Clutching the tea and the vial, she hurried upstairs to the priest’s room. She poured the contents of the vial into the tea and then bade Abbé Morel to drink it.
“Here, take this,” she said. “It will make you feel better. I promise.”
He sat up in bed and took the glass. “Thank you, Emilie. You know, I fear all this trembling is a warning from heaven that the people of Saint-Pierre should repent.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Last Carnival something unusual happened,” he said, sipping the tea. “Late one night I left the rectory and followed the sound of drumbeats to rue Victor Hugo. The crowd was thick. I stood among them for quite some time as bottles of rum were passed around and people laughed and sang and clapped their hands in merriment. There was much carousing. And then the usual group of devils began parading down the street, all dressed in red with shiny horns and demonic faces. They were dancing and twisting and turning their bodies in an unholy fashion. My heart started pounding. One of them in particular stood out from the crowd—it was Papa Djab himself. His eyes were like yellow orbs, his mouth like a grinning skeleton. He thrashed his arms and twisted his body in an ungodly manner, like a demon straight from hell.”
“What happened next?” she said.
“Papa Djab called out to his followers and led them up the stairs to the cathedral. I suspected something devilish was up, so I followed them, making sure to keep to the shadows. Then, before my eyes, he committed a sacrilege by throwing ashes into the holy water basin! I cried out in shock, but my voice was drowned out by the revelers. Another group had lifted up the Virgin Mary’s skirt. I was beside myself. They shrieked and howled at this blasphemous display, and then they fled the church and ran outside to rejoin the parade as it continued marching down the street. Frightened out of my life, I tried to clean out the basin, but I felt that a great sin had been committed, a sin for which the whole city would suffer, a sin that even I could not prevent. Later, when the bishop found out what had happened, he raised an outcry, promising the scoundrels that they would all roast in hell for what they had done. A chill went through the cathedral, as if the entire assembly was struck dumb. In his booming voice he ordered the sinners to repent immediately. He said, ‘He who throws cold stones will receive hot stones.’ A hush went through the crowd, me included.”
“How terrible!” said Emilie. “It seems like a shocking premonition. I wonder how this all will end. Sometimes I have bad dreams about it.”
“I only pray that no harm comes to you,” said Abbé Morel. “Your soul is pure and unblemished.”
But Emilie felt weak in the knees. She was overcome with nausea for having visited the voodoo witch doctor. If Abbé Morel ever found out, she would be mortified. She could not face losing his respect. How much longer could she keep this terrible secret?
Abbé Morel finished drinking the tea in one shot. Lying back against the pillow, a beatific glow came over his face, and he said, “Thank you, Emilie. If that medicine was my punishment for all my worldly sins, then I’m guaranteed a place in the heavenly kingdom.”
With trembling hands, Emilie took the cup and saucer and placed them on a side table.
“Just try to rest now,” she said. “When you wake up, I hope you’ll be better.”
Later, as they played a game of whist, Abbé Morel seemed like a changed man. The color returned to his cheeks and he had renewed vigor, but a closer look showed dullness in his eyes. His eyes became dazed and unfocused, and he barely responded when spoken to. He looked like a man who was present in body but not in spirit. Soon he fell into a deep sleep. Emilie caressed his hand and then left his room, heartbroken.
As she lay in bed that night, Emilie’s body was soaked with sweat. She tossed and turned in the hot, humid air, listening to the croaking and chirping of the insects. They seemed to be mocking her, admonishing her. She was filled with a growing fear that her life was about to spin out of control.
Chapter 23
Thursday, May 1
The next morning brought a slight improvement in Abbé Morel’s appearance. He sat up in bed reading his Bible, sipping a little tea, but he ate almost nothing and spoke very little. Emilie checked on him from time to time, and he would look at her longingly in return, but his eyes had lost their spark, as if his soul was slowly dying. Her heart ached for her Tonton Abbé, but there was little more she could do.
There was also a slight improvement in the countryside. The rain had washed away most of the volcanic dust, and the workers were reporting that Saint-Pierre gleamed in the sunshine. The workers floated in between the cocoa trees, their bakouas visible above the dark green leaves, their chatter more cheerful and hopeful. Even Georges Dujon seemed to be in better spirits. He helped load sacks of cocoa beans into the warehouse, where they would wait until they were transported to the dock the following week. It looked as if their money problems would soon be over.
Later, after Emilie returned from the drying shack, two letters had arrived for her. One was from Maurice, who reported that he was concerned about the constant rumbling from the volcano. He told them he felt better and wanted to return home as soon as possible.
The other letter bore unfamiliar handwriting.
She tore it open and was surprised to see that it was from Lieutenant Rémy. She cradled the letter in her hands and drank in every word. He told of how much he had enjoyed their evening together in Saint-Pierre, and he wanted to invite her to dine with him that evening in the Hôtel Intendance if the idea was not displeasing to her. Emilie’s heart raced at the prospect. Ever since their impromptu meeting in Saint-Pierre, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. But to meet him again in public entailed enormous risk. The hotel’s dining room was frequented by many people from high society who would recognize her. How could she find a way to keep the matter from reaching Lucien’s ears?
While she read the letter, something in her demeanor drew the curiosity of her mother and Da Rosette, who was hovering near the piano, pretending to be dusting it.
“Who’s the letter from?” said her mother.
“It’s from Maurice,” said Emilie with nonchalance. “He says he wants to come home.”
“Not that letter; the other one,” said her mother, inching closer.
“Oh . . . that’s from Lucien,” said Emilie, forcing a smile. “He’s inviting me to dine with him this evening at the Hôtel Intendance.”
Her mother beamed. “Wonderful! I’m so happy he’s willing to overlook your behavior and patch things up. He’s such a gentleman. You’d better hurry and get ready.”
Emilie felt her stomach churning. She placed the letter in her pocket and retreated to the safety of her room, overcome with guilt for having lied again.
Later, as she was seated at her mahogany vanity table brushing her hair, Da Rosette knocked on the door and entered. The elderly woman hobbled into the room wearing a look reserved for petty thieves and public drunkards, her muslin dress brushing against Emilie in silent admonition.
“Doudou, where are you going tonight?” said Da Rosette, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I’m having dinner with Lucien.”
“Tell me the truth.”
Emilie gave her a sly half look but continued brushing her hair. “That is the truth. Why are you being so mistrustful lately?”
“Don’t give me that cock-and-bull story,” said Da Rosette. “
I know you’re not going to meet Lucien tonight.”
Emilie eyed her sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I know when you’re lying.”
Emilie feigned indignation. “I’m not lying!”
“I know you better than anyone else,” said the old woman with a reproving look. “I saw the look on your face when you read the letter. I saw the way your eyes lit up. I saw how you bounded up the stairs as if you were the Empress Josephine waiting for her Napoleon.” She crossed her arms and raised an admonishing eyebrow. “You were never like that for Lucien. The last time he came to visit, you looked as if you were facing a firing squad. So don’t tell me that nonsense that you are going to meet Lucien tonight. Tell me the truth.”
Emilie put the brush down. “Zaffè cabritt, pas zaffè mouton. What the goat does is not the sheep’s business.”
Da Rosette grabbed her arm. “Doudou, in this house what the goat does is the sheep’s business. You are my business. Now tell me the truth.”
Emilie’s cheeks flamed. “Why are you always so suspicious? Everywhere I go, you spy on me; you watch everything I do. You probably even read my letters. Very well, if you must know the truth, I’ll tell you, but you must promise not to tell Maman and Papa. I’m meeting someone tonight.”
Da Rosette’s eyes narrowed. “I know that but who?”
“An officer from the garrison.” Da Rosette sucked in her breath. “Do you remember those two soldiers who came here with Professor Landes? It’s the dark-haired officer with the moustache.”
Da Rosette looked horrified. “Bon Dieu, when Lucien finds out, he’ll kill that innocent man, and he may turn his pistol on you as well. He’s more jealous than an old Spaniard with a wife of eighteen. You’d better not let him catch you with him.”
“The officer carries a revolver and can defend his own life. As for me, I’m not afraid of Lucien. I’m not his slave. I don’t love him, and I have no intention of marrying him.”
“Cocotte, do not talk like that!” said Da Rosette, eyes blazing. “It brings bad luck. Crabe pas mâché, li pas gras;—li mâche touop, et li tombé dans la chôdiér. The crab that walks around too much falls into the pot!”
“Doudou-Da, stop talking like that. It’s old superstitious nonsense. I want to be happy. I want to be free to marry the man I love.”
Da Rosette clutched her necklace of gold beads. “Doudou, I think you do not love me anymore. Aye! You give me so much pain . . . so much grief!”
Emilie grasped the old woman’s arms. “Don’t say that. You know it’s not true! You know I love you, but I don’t want superstitions and voodoo curses to haunt me all my life. And I don’t want Lucien to haunt me all my life either. I must be free of him, or I will surely die.”
Da Rosette shook her head. “No, cocotte, you do not love me one bit! If you loved me, you would not say these things. You would marry the sugar planter and be his adoring wife. To spurn him is to make a pact with the devil.”
Emilie shook her head. “I can’t marry Lucien. I’m sorry, I just can’t . . .”
“Doudou, you must stop seeing that soldier, or you will both wind up dead.”
“If I marry Lucien, I will surely die. Oh, it will be a slow death for sure, but the end is the same: misery and despair. A slow death that will suck all the life out of me—all my hopes and dreams. Do you want to see me end up like that? A soulless, lifeless zombie trapped in a loveless marriage? Haven’t you seen women who end up with men like that? They are miserable and pray for death. Perhaps they are better off dead.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Da Rosette. “You’ll bring an evil eye! And don’t think you can cross the Monplaisir family and get away with it. Nobody makes a fool out of them. Lucien is a dangerous man. I know he loves you, but if you cross him, he will turn his gun on you.”
Emilie stared at her nanny, but her throat was too dry to speak.
A few hours later, after Emilie had left for Saint-Pierre and her parents had settled down for the evening, there was a sharp knock on the door. A servant ran to answer it and announced that M. Lucien Monplaisir had come to pay an unexpected visit.
After giving each other a quizzical look, her parents went to greet their future son-in-law in the foyer. Slightly breathless, they found him with a look of great expectation on his face.
“Lucien, to what do we owe this pleasure?” said Georges. “I thought you were having dinner in town tonight.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but I had to see Emilie. May I speak to her for a minute? It’s urgent.”
Mme Dujon looked perplexed. “But I thought . . .”
Lucien produced a jewelry box. “I bought this for Emilie. Do you think she’ll like it?”
Georges and his wife exchanged a worried glance.
“Oh dear, it’s beautiful,” said Mme Dujon, gaping at the glittering gold bracelet.
“There must be some mistake . . .” said Georges, hemming and hawing. “I thought you had gone to meet her in town.”
Lucien looked surprised. “In town? What are you talking about?”
Mme Dujon cleared her throat. “We were under the impression you had invited her to dine with you at the Hôtel Intendance at seven o’clock tonight.”
Lucien’s brow furrowed. “Dinner at the Hôtel Intendance?”
“I saw the letter myself,” said Mme Dujon. “Perhaps you meant some other night? She seemed very excited. She left about an hour ago.”
A shadow fell across Lucien’s face.
“Ah yes . . . how forgetful of me,” he said, his face turning pale. “Please excuse the intrusion. I must make haste. Don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Lucien thrust the jewelry box into his jacket pocket and stormed out of the house.
As he slammed the door shut, Mme and M. Dujon looked at each other with eyes full of panic.
Chapter 24
The ride to Saint-Pierre was exhilarating. Emilie’s heart raced as the horse trotted down the coastal road past fields of sugarcane and bananas, towering coconut palms, and barefooted laborers with baskets piled high on their heads. She gazed out to sea. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting shimmering rays that danced like sparks of fire on the water. The air was cooler, smelling faintly of the sea. Overhead, a bird cried out and disappeared in a splash of foam. Many times she thought about turning back, but each time she resigned herself to press onward. She would not shy away from her destiny, whatever it was.
She crossed the bridge over rivière Roxelane and arrived at the Hôtel Intendance. After leaving the carriage at the stable, she hurried through the courtyard and up the main steps, breathless and trembling with excitement.
The lobby was bright and cheerful. Tropical flowers peeked out of colorful vases. Soft piano music was playing, and the voices of the guests added to the exciting atmosphere. She wended her way through the lobby and stopped short when she spotted Rémy. He was pacing back and forth with an air of great seriousness. He looked freshly scrubbed and was wearing his navy tunic and pith helmet, and his boots were polished to a brilliant shine, while slung across his shoulder was his service revolver. She watched him for several minutes, aware of the beating of her heart. When he looked up suddenly, their eyes met. Before either one could speak, Rémy stepped forward to greet her.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Emilie, you look charming. Just like the day we first met.” He bowed slightly and kissed her hand. “I was worried you wouldn’t come. I hope my invitation did not offend you.”
“Not in the least,” she said, smiling. “I was delighted to receive your letter. And quite the contrary, I feel honored by your invitation.”
Rémy’s face brightened. “I wanted very much to speak to you again. I enjoyed your company so much the other day that I felt I had to see you again. I enjoyed our time on Mount Pelée immensely. I have very pleasant memories of that day.”
Emilie laughed. “I think your memory is playing tricks on you, Lieutenant Rémy. If I reme
mber correctly, I fell in the mud more times than I care to remember. I think there was even mud inside my boots.”
“You speak like a true soldier,” he said, “for whom no sacrifice is too great. Always willing to sacrifice his life for la Mère Patrie, like Napoleon, whose only wish was to serve in the army with éclat and, if necessary, die the glorious death of a citizen soldier.”
“You’re quite amusing, Lieutenant,” she said.
“Please call me by my given name of Denis. After completing such a dangerous mission together, I feel as though we are comrades in arms.”
Emilie laughed in spite of herself. All her fears and worries were melting away. She felt so comfortable and natural with Rémy that Lucien was becoming just a distant memory.
Rémy took her arm. “Come; let’s sit and get more acquainted, shall we?”
He led her to the dining room with its tiled floor, potted palms, and crystal chandeliers. Emilie scanned the room. There was an assortment of prominent members of society, including merchants and politicians she knew from the newspapers. She tried to keep her face averted, although she noticed several of them eyeing her. The maître d’ showed them to a corner table with a white linen tablecloth and a flickering candle. Rémy ordered a bottle of champagne, and after the waiter popped the cork, he lifted his glass in a toast.
“To your health,” he said, studying her with his blue eyes.
“Cheers,” she said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
Emilie took a sip and put her glass down. “Denis, I have something to confess. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I told my parents I was meeting Lucien tonight. I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion about where I was going. I hope you don’t mind the secrecy.”
“I understand completely,” he said. “This shall be our little secret, but how long do you think you can keep it up? Eventually you will have to tell your father the truth. And Lucien is bound to find out. Anyone here who may recognize you could inform him within a matter of hours. There could be trouble. I just thought I’d warn you.”
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