In passing by the Acquaire’s house, she noticed Scipion, who ran toward her to offer her a pinkish amber hibiscus that he had picked just for her. He still called her “the little nightingale” and looked at her like a savior; he was sure that it was thanks to her success at the Comédie that his masters would never have to sell him.
Saint-Martin was waiting for her. When she arrived, he raised his arms enthusiastically, took a little newspaper from his pocket and held it out to her.
“The critics are raving about you. You owe Prince William a huge debt. Here, read it yourself.”
The evening’s performance had been written up eloquently. The review praised her costume, her beauty, and her talent. But nothing was said about her entrance into the ballroom with the Prince and that silence was like a slap in the face in its ostentatious insult. It was as if it had not even happened, but it was clear that this attitude was due solely to the respect held for the Duke of Lancaster, and that no reaction would come until after his departure.
Saint-Martin then handed over the profits from the performance and, in front of her, took out the expenses for the organization of the ball and the making of the costumes. That morning, she made a small fortune of nine hundred pounds and felt no emotion on receiving the envelope, which she stuffed into her pocket, thanking him in a perfectly clear and natural tone. But to herself she resolved to handle everything personally the next time it was her turn to receive the profits and, like the other actors at the Comédie, to take charge of organizing the sets and the direction of the performance. That would be easy enough for her to demand, she thought, since the director was heading for Les Cayes.
“Soon you’ll get those two years of salary the Comédie owes you,” he promised her.
A few days later, Saint-Martin, after long negotiations, had become the contract-holder for the Saint-Marc Theater. The current number of actors at the Comédie was insufficient to perform certain plays. He was thrilled to note that there were some top-level actors there, like Mme de Vanancé, Mlle Duchelot, and three actors – Desroches, Sainville, and Duchainet – who had had brilliant debuts in Paris. Saint-Martin expected them the following day and planned to have them perform in a new play alongside Magdeleine Brousse, Minette, and Mme Tessyre.
The trip to Les Cayes having been planned for the next week, Saint-Martin was preparing to go to Jasmine’s house to discuss Lise, when two talented actresses arrived from France.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning.
Minette, her hand on the heavy envelope stuffed in her pocket, was chatting with Goulard, leaning against a big empty trunk that was used to store rags. A little ways away, Saint-Martin was discussing the next play with Durand, Depoix, and Favart. Macarty was polishing his flute and Mme Tessyre, her face drawn and sorrowful, was embroidering a handkerchief while listening to Magdeleine Brousse’s silly stories. All of a sudden, from the back of the theater, two feminine voices launched into a duet – a song no one had heard before. The voices were lovely and their trills were technically brilliant. Everyone turned around, astonished, to see two elegant young women, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. They had a relaxed attitude and introduced themselves with studied, coquettish mannerisms.
“Madame Valville,” said the elder of the two, a redhead with a wide smile and a turned-up nose sprinkled with freckles.
“Mademoiselle Dubuisson,” said the other, a brown-haired girl, short and chubby, like a little doll. “We’ve just arrived from France. What’s the theater like around here?”
Saint-Martin, always excited when it came to new artists, welcomed them with open arms and told all of them about an idea he had been considering for several months.
“We now have enough artists here to put on the biggest operas from Paris. No more limited-distribution plays. For our next performance, we’ll put on one of the greatest French operas.”
The introductions took place right then and there, and when Minette and Goulard left the Comédie, the question of contracts was already being discussed.
Before going back home, Minette wandered a bit through the streets and went to a few stores with Goulard. At Mme Guien’s, on Bursar’s Square, she bought the parasol Lise wanted and at Mlle Monnot’s she bought a chambray scarf for Jasmine. Her shopping finished, she made her way home with Claude, who refused to leave her. She sat down in the front room and called to her sister and Jasmine, who were preparing lunch. When Lise unwrapped the package and saw the magnificent parasol, trimmed with pink fringe, she forgot all about her wound and her resentment, and jumped up and down, hugging Minette.
“But I warn you,” Minette admonished her, “no more of your nosiness – you’ve got to respect other people’s privacy.”
Jasmine offered Goulard a glass of grenadine and some cookies. Once he had left, Minette took the money out of her pocket, gave it to her mother and said:
“Mama, if I earn this much money every month, do you think we might rent a house where I’d have my own little room? I’m growing up, Mama…”
Jasmine took the envelope, counted the money and, trembling, responded:
“Very well, my dear. I’ll see what I can find in the neighborhood and we’ll change houses.”
Lise, in an effort to seem more elegant, had already taken off her bandage and, standing in front of the little mirror, was twirling her parasol on her shoulder like a real courtesan.
Jasmine interrupted this little game and asked her to take out the merchandise, which Lise did begrudgingly after closing her parasol with a big sigh.
It was May and great gusts of hot air already announced the arrival of summer. With the heat came several cases of fever, as happened every year. The hospitals pushed poor Whites out onto the street, where they ended up dying after three or four days of illness.
That was where things were when, one morning, a terrific beating of drums and the harsh, gloomy, and sinister sound of the conch shell could be heard in the nearby mountains. It was not the usual faraway sound interspersed with rhythmic moans, but rather a deafening concert that was coming closer every minute. In the streets, as if suddenly very anxious, people began to run. Mothers on doorsteps, ears cocked, called to their children and made them come indoors. Stagecoaches and horse-drawn carriages went by more quickly than usual. Riders from the constabulary, armed to the teeth, spurred on their horses and passed by at a gallop.
“Five hundred pound reward for every maroon captured,” they let it be known.
A white man dressed in a torn shirt and wearing a straw hat full of holes raised his hands to the sky:
“Maroons – the maroons are coming!”
A few gunshots rang out, followed quickly by the sound of screams and a wild dash by a group of people coming from the market. A few children out running errands, surprised by the scramble, ran away whimpering.
The townspeople never knew what was happening. The fight had taken place some ways away from Port-au-Prince and a hundred or so wounded had been brought to the already overflowing hospital. In the sudden excitement brought on by the maroons’ attack, several slaves had escaped the plantation houses and neighboring workhouses. The planters, furious, were forced to sign a peace treaty with the insurgent Blacks, whose only condition was the right to be baptized at Neybe and acknowledgment of the freedom they had paid for with their blood. That day, ten freedmen accused of having aided the flight of domestic and field slaves were arrested and put before a firing squad in the middle of the parade grounds without even a semblance of a trial. That night, two white families were poisoned during their meal: two families, including eight children between the ages of three and fifteen years old. Not even the most brutal torture could get any of the slaves to talk. The alarm bells at the church rang all night long in mourning, and the following day the priest blessed twelve coffins placed in the nave, before which the Whites tearfully left flowers. M de Caradeux’s vengeance was swift and terrible. He had lost two families who were his friends and, as much for them as to
preemptively remove any thought of similar plans for revolt among his own slaves, he tortured three of them by pouring hot lead into their ears and burying them alive up to the neck. All of Bel-Air, in complete turmoil, heard the screams of the poor wretches that night, and no one could sleep, so loud and piercing were their cries – loud enough to reach neighboring areas.
Joseph stayed late at Jasmine’s. Silently, he watched Lise, who was covering her ears so not to hear the slaves’ screams, while Minette nervously chewed her handkerchief with a drawn and tense expression on her face. She refused to eat, claiming her stomach was too tied up in knots and, with that same closed expression, began singing an opera solo at the top of her lungs. Joseph alone understood how greatly she was suffering when, completely spent, she let herself fall into a chair, panting, her eyes dry. When he left and Jasmine turned out the light, she stayed awake, listening to the faraway voices that gradually got fainter and fainter. At dawn, it was silent. The slaves were dead. It was only then, hiding her head under her pillow, that she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, not waking until late that morning, her eyes red and throat dry.
The Duke of Lancaster had also slept poorly. He woke up that morning in a very bad mood. He was meant to have dinner that evening at M de Caradeux’s home. He went there yawning after declaring frankly to the Governor, at whose residence he was staying, that there was nothing safe nor pleasant about the country other than the actors at the theater. In less than five days, he had witnessed a maroon revolt, mass poisonings, and torture. He declared he had had quite enough and decided to leave the very next day.
“Monseigneur,” the saddened Governor began to explain, “it’s just an unfortunate incident, believe me. You’ll have to come back.”
“Your country is beautiful and the women are ravishing, I’ll admit,” answered the young Prince, “but things just aren’t right here. Discontent and hatred reign here far more absolutely than the King of France himself.”
The Governor lowered his eyes and changed the subject. He would have liked to blame the planters for the state of things, but he did not dare accuse anyone. Certain of the King’s edicts had recently favored the planters and, like an experienced diplomat, he preferred to keep quiet on the matter. Eighty torches illuminated the driveway leading to M de Caradeux’s home. When the Governor’s carriage entered, fifty or so other vehicles were already crowded into the courtyard. Céliane de Caradeux, very pale in an ivory silk dress, greeted the guests at the door. The Prince, noticing her, saw that she had not slept that night either and that she was making a superhuman effort to attend the dinner. He was seated next to her at the table. More than fifty slaves, dressed as lackeys, were posted behind the guests’ chairs, anticipating their slightest gestures and, despite the wide-open doors, the heat in the dining room was suffocating. Flowers and expensive dishes decorated the table; Bordeaux was served in crystal glasses with chiseled silver stems. M de Caradeux’s nervousness did not escape the Prince. He sniffed at the food suspiciously and jumped up, startled, when the sound of a conch suddenly pierced the air. Some of the women, shivering, cocked their ears and M de Chastenoye held his fork suspended in the air as he listened intently. The slaves, stoic, acted as if they heard nothing. Only their eyes seemed livened in their otherwise enigmatic faces and for a brief moment they exchanged conspiratorial glances. Céliane de Caradeux seemed as calm as all the slaves. A sad little smile danced periodically across her pale lips and, when the Prince observed the slave serving her, he understood that because of this young girl, sweet and pure, the Blacks would enact no vengeance that might put her life in danger. She must have done her best to repair the damage done by her uncle and father, and the slaves probably loved her for it. The Prince leaned toward her.
“I will leave this place with two wonderful memories,” he said to her, “you and that evening at the theater.”
He left the following day.
The paper had the decency to wait for his departure before attacking Minette. A scathing article appeared immediately afterward. It argued that someone needed to put a stop to the relaxing of customs that had allowed for the admission of a young person of color, perfectly thrilled to show off her triumph, into high society events. It criticized the extravagant luxury of Minette’s Myris costume and the Duke of Lancaster’s presumptuous eccentricity.
François Mesplès had been waiting for things to backfire before reacting. He went to the Comédie and there, in the presence of the actors who had come from Saint-Marc as well as Mesdames Valville and Dubuisson, began insulting Minette. François Saint-Martin and Goulard intervened; Macarty and Depoix even had to hold back Goulard, who was ready to fight and screamed at Mesplès that he was a brute.
“She slept with you, huh? She suckered you and you let yourself be taken, you imbecile.”
“Shut up, Mesplès!” Saint-Martin screamed at him.
“And you, too, you’re going to let yourself be played for a fool – if it hasn’t happened already,” continued the ultra-rich loan shark, beside himself. “But it sickens me to see this little colored wench wrapping all of you around her little finger. Giving her all the profits from that exceptional evening? What, have you all gone mad? Twenty percent would have been more than sufficient. All the profits? All the profits? And then when you’re broke, it’ll be: ‘Mesplès, give me a little advance for this…Mesplès, just a little advance for that…’ As long as you’re giving performances for her benefit, I won’t lend you another dime, got it?”
He left and Saint-Martin lowered his head. They had been friends for many years and they had never had any trouble. Saint-Martin was perhaps the only one toward whom Mesplès had ever shown himself completely selfless and he had to admit that the loan shark had gotten him out of tough spots more than once without ever asking for anything in return. Their friendship dated back to the time when Saint-Martin still went by his real name, La Claverie. After the scandal that had followed the death of young Morange, the scandal that had obliged him to change his name, news of his prowess reached Mesplès, who went to shake his hand and nicknamed him “The Bell-Ringer.” That particular character trait revealed a certain bravery in the actor that Mesplès quite admired. Quick-tempered and violent, he was more than happy to find these same tendencies in other people – as long as those people were white, it goes without saying. Filled with color and racial prejudice, he passionately detested all those who had the slightest drop of African blood in their veins. Slaves and freedmen were to him one and the same and, in his bad faith, he made no distinction between them.
Minette, rage in her heart, had wiped away Mesplès’ insults in silence. When he left, a certain tension began to be felt between the actors newly arrived from France and from Saint-Marc and those from the Port-au-Prince theater. The newcomers seemed to think that the stockholder Mesplès was in the right.
There were plenty of white actors now, and to continue to favor this colored girl was to declare that they lacked talent. When Minette decided to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere at the theater, leaving without a word to anyone, only Goulard went after her. During the entire duration of the walk from the Comédie to Traversière Street, they did not exchange a word. But when she arrived in front of her house, Minette turned to Goulard and held out her hand.
“Thank you, Claude,” was all she said to him.
“I beg you,” he advised her, “not to make any hasty decisions. Wait till things settle down. Other Prince Williams will travel through the country and they’ll need you.”
She shook her head.
“I won’t quit the Comédie, my dear Claude. I have a contract. I earn eight thousand francs a year and I’m part of the company.”
“Bravo!” responded Goulard. “There’s a girl who knows what she wants.”
He seized her hand and brought it to his lips. Then he asked when he might kiss her again.
“When I return from Arcahaie,” she answered him, so serenely that he understood that she was not at all in love
with him.
His heart tightened in his chest and his face immediately darkened.
“What are you going to do in Arcahaie?” he then asked her, with a tone he hoped would sound indifferent.
“I have a meeting there.”
She laughed and then added:
“And I’m going to make them miss me by refusing to collaborate with Saint-Martin this time. They’ll perform without me and we’ll see.”
When Joseph came that night, she told him everything that had happened at the Comédie and repeated to him word for word all the insults Mesplès had thrown in her face. Then, she spoke to him of her plan to leave for Arcahaie for a little trip.
“Why choose Arcahaie, Minette?” he asked her with his vibrant, direct voice.
She offered no answer.
“Why, Minette?”
“Joseph, I care for you very much, you know that. You’re my brother. But I’ll be seventeen soon and I can’t let anyone push me around, not even my brother. I promised you that nothing and no one would distract me. And I’ll keep my word. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Life can be cruel and men disappointing.”
“I’ve known that for a long time.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to look in her eyes.
“All things considered, you’re right. You’ve reached the age where you can determine your own fate. Take your chances, but never forget that whatever you do will reflect on the whole of your race – this race you represent in the eyes of all the Whites who know you.”
She lowered her head without answering. Did she not have the right to live her life in peace? She had already done enough for her people. Was she obliged to think of others every moment of her existence before lifting her little finger?
Dance on the Volcano Page 17