Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  “My Lord God,” she said, making the sign of the cross. “Death has come to our neighborhood.”

  She left quickly, followed by Magdeleine Brousse, who raced down the stairs. She passed by the other actors and nearly knocked them down in her hurry.

  “Hey!” shouted Durand. “What’s going on? What are those screams?”

  She made a vague gesture with her hand and ran to find the doctor, who had just come out of a neighboring house. When she came back with him, the little Tessyre girl had just opened her eyes. A blackish foam dribbled from either side of her mouth. Her tongue was protruded, dry and swollen.

  “She’s thirsty,” said the doctor. “Give her something to drink.”

  Mme Tessyre took the cup of tea from the table.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “An herbal infusion prepared by one of the Negro women in the neighborhood.”

  He looked at it suspiciously then brought the cup to his nostrils.

  “Sometimes these remedies are just what’s needed. Those people often know better than we doctors how to treat certain diseases in this country…Give her the tea.”

  Mme Tessyre placed her arm around the child’s neck and, raising her head, poured a few drops into her mouth.

  The doctor kneeled down at the girl’s bedside and took her pulse while examining her nails. He nodded his head.

  As soon as she’d drunk the tea, the child threw it back up with a painful retching. A fetid odor immediately suffused the little room. The doctor leaned over her. He raised her eyelids just as the Negro woman had done. The skin on the girl’s face, so pale just minutes before, had taken on a yellowish color. Her mouth tensed and became difficult to open.

  “This is the end,” whispered the doctor, leaning toward Macarty. “I’ve come too late.”

  Suddenly, he let go of the little hand he had been holding in his own and looked at Mme Tessyre.

  “Doctor,” whispered Magdeleine Brousse, suddenly overcome, “she isn’t breathing anymore.”

  As if he’d been waiting to hear that in order to act, the doctor began to pull the sheet, slowly, very slowly, over the little girl. She had died.

  Immediately, Mme Tessyre threw herself on the bed and began to scream. And Magdeleine Brousse, weeping, could not keep her from taking the dead child in her arms and rocking her as she cried out her name. Macarty was crying too. He had seen little Rose’s progress at the Comédie; he had watched her grow up. Like all the actors, she was part of the company – and for four years she had charmed them with her grace and talent.

  On hearing Mme Tessyre’s cries, the actors – François Saint-Martin at the head – ran to knock on the door.

  “Are you all crazy?” screamed Macarty, sticking his head out the half-open door. “One person, only one, can enter at a time. You, François, come.”

  And then, looking at the others:

  “The little one is dead.”

  As Saint-Martin entered, the doctor, picking up his hat, prepared himself to leave. Macarty leaned toward him and pointed at the body.

  “Doctor,” he asked, “what did the poor child die of?”

  “Fever. Always the fever. I’ve logged more than a hundred cases this month alone. Only Whites. Comfort her mother. Farewell, good people.”

  Mme Tessyre, on her knees by the bed, wept and called out her daughter’s name. Saint-Martin had his arm around her shoulder. She raised her head.

  “François, François, my poor little girl. You remember how she loved to dance? You remember how graceful she was? How will I go on without her? What will I do?”

  Saint-Martin wiped his tears, then called Magdeleine Brousse to Mme Tessyre’s side.

  “Stay with her. We’ll take up a collection to buy the coffin and have a vault made for the child.”

  The burial took place the day after, but without Magdeleine Brousse. She was still keeping the girl’s distraught mother company. Macarty and Saint-Martin carried the coffin, followed by the other actors, the musicians from the orchestra who had known Rose, the stagehands, the set designer Jean Peyret, and the mason. They passed by the Whites-only cemetery with seeming indifference, and after a great distance arrived at an out-of-the-way corner where they had all buried their dead. Goulard was walking next to Minette, when suddenly a horseman arrived at a furious pace and pulled so sharply on the reins that his horse bucked into the air and spun around on its back hooves before coming to a stop. It was Jean Lapointe, in a straw hat with his shirt open at the neck. Bold, handsome, with fire in his eyes and nervously holding his crop, he watched the funeral procession file by. He waved, abruptly removing his wide straw hat. He had the same harsh little sneer that tightened the corners of his lips. But when he noticed Minette, he shuddered, the arch of his eyebrows lifted, betraying his surprise, and his lips formed a brief smile. He spurred his horse on, then directed it toward a house built at the very back of an immense property and disappeared. Minette recognized him. She had noticed his surprise and his smile. It was the third time he had smiled at her, though he seemed rather sparing with them, with his usual serious and cynical expression. Minette’s heart had beaten faster upon noticing the handsome horseman and, seeing her reaction, Goulard said:

  “What’s going on? You seem scared.”

  There was no need for her to respond: the rider had disappeared and they had all arrived at the grave site. A few hundred modest gravestones stood facing the place where Lapointe had just disappeared. The mason set up his equipment on the ground and, picking up his pickaxe, dug the hole into which they lowered the little coffin. The bell of a neighboring church, as if to avenge the injustice done to the innocent artist, began to peal. It was eight in the morning and mass had just ended. In that moment, everyone remembered the night when a defiant Saint-Martin had forced open the door of the church and climbed up to the bell tower to sound the knell for the young Morange girl on her death, something the clergy had denied her. He was also the one who asked Minette to sing for Rose Tessyre.

  “That will be her burial mass,” he said, with a heartbreaking smile.

  Minette took Lise’s hand and took a step forward toward the gravestone the mason had just placed. They sang a Creole lullaby, infinitely sad and nostalgic – a lullaby that their mother had taught them and that ended with the words: “Sleep, sleep, little one, close your eyes.” The whole group wept and Saint-Martin etched the name of little Rose, eight years old, into the stone.

  The makeshift cemetery was located outside the town, just behind the Governor’s palace and next to the house Lapointe had entered. As the actors headed for the exit, a woman dressed in a horse-riding dress passed by on a chestnut-colored horse before entering into that same house.

  “There goes Louise Rasteau,” said Durand. “How I love seeing her on a horse!”

  Minette had also recognized her. She remembered the day she had met her at Lambert’s house and the distrustful way the woman had looked her over. Lapointe at Louise Rasteau’s house! Louise Rasteau a friend of the Lamberts! The Lamberts, what had they said when she had spoken of the person she suspected of killing the sailor? Had they not cried: “It’s him! It’s him!” And had they not danced with joy afterward? So it was Lapointe, then? All these ideas came crashing together in her head and she was so concentrated on trying to understand them that she almost let herself be knocked down by a carriage rushing by at top speed. Goulard grabbed her by the arm, calling her imprudent.

  Driven by a Negro, the carriage sped past the actors toward Louise Rasteau’s house. Three men got out and headed quickly inside the house. Of the three men, two were black and the other a young griffe who Minette and Lise recognized as Joseph Ogé.

  “Joseph!” cried Lise, surprised.

  Her sister covered her mouth imperiously.

  “Shh! You didn’t recognize him.”

  “But why? I recognized him perfectly well. It was Joseph.”

  “Be quiet, you little fool, and stop shouting out his name.”


  The carriage left the courtyard, again passed by the group of actors, and disappeared in a cloud of dust in the direction leading away from the town. At that same moment, a gold-fringed coach, trimmed with crimson, came out onto the opposite street and drove slowly in front of Louise Rasteau’s home. A broad-shouldered Negro, about twenty years old, was driving.

  “Hey there, stop!” shouted a voice from inside the coach.

  The door opened slightly and a white man’s head appeared. He was young-looking, with a thin nose and aristocratic mouth. Noticing the actors, the white man gestured with his hand.

  “Hey, you over there! Did you see a carriage pass this way?”

  Minette had the impression she had seen that face before.

  “Who’s he talking to?” asked Macarty, looking suspiciously toward the coach.

  “Let’s just play deaf,” suggested Mme Acquaire.

  “And blind,” added M Acquaire, twitching in the direction of the planter.

  “Did you hear me, you all? Did you see any runaway slaves around here?”

  Everyone looked around stupidly, shrugging their shoulders as if to say: “What’s that planter going on about?”

  For her part, Minette was observing the coachman. His eyes were fixed on her and his hands trembled horribly as they held the reins.

  “Hold on, you there, young lady – looking at my driver. Come over here and tell me what you know. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Minette was still looking at the driver. Where had she seen that face before? She was turning it over in her memory, trying to recall, when she felt as if the man was making a subtle sign with his hand. The index finger of his right hand, which was holding the reins, was bent like a hook, and moved rhythmically as if to call her over, as he held her gaze with his own. Minette suddenly remembered a young slave, held on a leash, his back bloodied. A planter, the very same one seated in the coach, had been striking him in the face with a long strap: it was M de Caradeux and his slave – that rebel slave that he had not gone so far as to kill because he was so handsome and strong. That purebred Senegalese slave, his pride and joy, sitting high up in the seat of his magnificent coach, whom he had beaten relentlessly the day he tried to escape and whom he had imprudently kept in his service as a domestic – ah! how blinded he was by his disdain! For his master, the slave was merely a handsome animal without the capacity for imagination or reflection – a handsome creature that could be subdued just as one tamed a wild horse.

  Had Saint-Martin gotten wind of the coachman’s ruse or did he fear Minette might respond thoughtlessly to the planter? He rushed toward Minette and took her arm.

  “We don’t get involved in politics, Minette. We’re artists, nothing but artists – don’t forget that,” he whispered to her.

  “I haven’t forgotten, Monsieur.”

  “Well then, come along.”

  She wrested her arm out of Saint-Martin’s grasp and tried to meet the coachman’s eyes. He had lowered his head and looked down stupidly.

  The planter became impatient. He swung the door open wide. “This house may be under suspicion,” thought Minette to herself. “We’ve got to get this coach away from here.” As if to prove her point, Goulard whispered to Depoix:

  “The slaves he’s looking for were surely brought to this house just a few minutes ago. But this isn’t our concern.”

  Yes, but it was Minette’s concern. She remembered Zoé, Jean-Pierre, and Joseph! To hell with the actors’ indifference! She was the daughter of a former slave and what they would never understand was up to her, Minette, to understand. M de Caradeux, in looking at her more closely, had in fact just realized who she was and exclaimed:

  “Well, well – you’re the ‘young person’! In the flesh! Why are you refusing to speak?”

  He was becoming agitated and his expression changed.

  “Come, come, young lady. Leave your friends here and come with me. You won’t regret it.”

  All of them looked at her. Oh! Such apprehension in Goulard’s eyes! With an attitude of silent disgust, Saint-Martin looked at her as if to say: “Well, go ahead, then. You’re just like the rest of them. You all end up doing the same thing.”

  The coachman’s finger again began to stir deceitfully to call her over, but he kept his head lowered and his eyes bore no expression.

  She turned toward Goulard with sudden resolve.

  “I’m leaving my sister in your care, Claude. Be a dear and bring her back home.”

  Then, looking at the others:

  “Please excuse me…I’ve waited for this moment for so long – to ride in a coach on the arm of a handsome white man. Don’t you remember, Lise?”

  And with that, she left the group, went up to the coach, put her hand in that of the planter and climbed into the carriage. The planter issued a brief command to his coachman.

  “Minette!” screamed Lise.

  The carriage advanced slowly for several minutes. Minette, emotional, looked around at the silk cushions, the gold handles, and the dusty embroidered rugs. Suddenly, the planter seized her arm and began to massage it.

  “I’ve heard you sing. Who doesn’t go to the Comédie to hear you sing? My niece herself!…Ah! How lovely you are! And young! How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, Monsieur.”

  “I’d have bet on it! I love little green fruits – still slightly bitter. In my book, a twenty-five-year-old woman is already an old lady. It’s what I’ve been trying to explain to that sanctimonious niece of mine, who keeps her little maids off-limits like a bunch of saints…Ah!”

  He took Minette in his arms and nibbled at her cheek.

  “Ah! My little dumpling! We’re going to have some fun together!”

  He was getting excited and his hands wandered toward the décolleté of her blouse, squeezed her curved and narrow waist, and began trying to raise her skirts.

  “Are you scared? That must mean you’re a virgin. If you are, I’ll pay you handsomely. My Lord, she’s beautiful! I’ve had an army of little wenches in my lifetime, believe me, but not one of them was as beautiful as you are. You see, I play fair and I never undervalue the merchandise.”

  Minette’s face flushed. She tried to push away his too-aggressive hands, squeezing herself as far as possible into the corner.

  “Monsieur, Monsieur!…”

  When will this coach ever stop? she thought to herself. When can I get away from this man? For what seemed like an eternity, she was forced to tolerate the impertinent caresses of the planter, as if outside her own body. Finally, the coach came to a stop.

  “We’re here. Come with me.”

  His tone left no room for discussion. He turned his head to shout a new order to the driver. Minette, taking advantage of his momentary inattention, opened the door and jumped onto the street.

  “Wait, wait…Ah! You little bitch,” he shouted after her, “you’ll pay for this!”

  Afraid of being seen in public running after the colored girl, he let her go. Minette looked at the driver. He was still seated, back straight, on his bench.

  “Drive into the courtyard,” shouted the planter.

  At that very moment, the slave raised his hands as if to let go of the reins and a ball of rolled-up paper hit Minette in the shoulder and fell at her feet. For a brief second, her eyes met those of the driver, who whipped the horses and made them turn into the long driveway. Minette bent down and picked up the paper. Unfolding it, she read the following words, written in an unpracticed hand:

  Warn Lambert. They suspect his house.

  He wanted to get a message to Lambert. But why had he chosen her – her! – for such a delicate mission? As she walked toward Zoé’s house, she thought back to the scene during which the young slave – bleeding, dragged like an animal – had tried to break through his chains when he saw Joseph. Joseph – that was it! He knew him and had seen him at Minette’s house. She understood everything now. But my God, my Lord, why did she have to be mixed up in all of thi
s? Why could everyone not just let her be? She was only sixteen. And then, as Saint-Martin had said to her, artists should live for their art alone. But while she was having all of these thoughts, she nevertheless had tucked away the note safely in her bodice and hurried her step. In her haste, she bumped into a young mulatto girl who nearly lost her shawl. A vulgar swear word followed by an exclamation of surprise escaped the girl’s lips. It was Nicolette, in a pick taffeta dress and shawl.

  “What are you doing here, by yourself?”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I bet you were meeting someone.”

  A six-horse carriage passed by, stirring up a cloud of dust. Nicolette pointed at a cabaret where a smiling and bloated Negro carrying a tray loaded with glasses was painted on the shop front.

  “Let’s go to Big Poppa’s, and I’ll treat you to one of those coconut liqueurs…”

  “No, no,” answered Minette.

  “Come on, we can catch up. I’ve got tons of stories for you.”

  She spoke loudly and in Creole. Minette felt a bit embarrassed.

  “Nicolette, I’ll see you tonight, I promise, but not now, not now, I can’t.”

  “So that’s it, you’re meeting someone? What a story, my friends! All right, I’ll see you later, my dear.”

  Once again, she burst into laughter and then left with a gentle sway of the head and hips.

  Minette nearly ran to the street where the Lambert’s house stood. Somewhere in the neighborhood by the seaside, she remembered it well. After much hesitation, she finally recognized the dirty little house – the house where people like her lived, without money, without slaves. She ran over and pushed the door open. This time, it seemed to be blocked from the inside, but the sound of chairs being moved let her know that someone was coming to let her in. It was Zoé herself.

  “Minette,” she exclaimed, “I’m so happy to see you!”

  “Where’s your brother, Zoé?”

  Zoé suddenly looked at her attentively.

  “Why?”

  Minette hastily pulled the note out of her bodice and handed it to Zoé who, after reading it, seized her hand and brought her inside. The old man and woman rocked silently in their rocking chairs. Respectfully, Minette went to greet them.