She threw herself against him, delirious with happiness.
“Jean, Jean,” she murmured. “I was so afraid. Finally, I’ve understood. I feared loving you, while hating you at the same time…”
He cut her off and, moving away, looked her straight in the eyes.
“Hold on there, I’m not one to help slaves run away.”
What does that matter? Minette said to herself, as long as he understands the situation – as long as he’s close to Joseph and the Lamberts. What does it matter – that touch of cynicism in his voice – as long as he’s brave, rebellious, and a fighter. No, he isn’t an assassin and he was right to kill! She herself had felt that temptation one day at the market when she had watched young slaves being sold as they wept.
“Oh, it’s all just so wrong, it’s just so wrong,” she sighed.
She walked away from him and looked up at the sky. An immense glow was visible through the branches of a mango tree, like a moving lantern. The young man came over to embrace her. They went back down the stone staircase and walked toward the alley lined with heavy-smelling orange trees in bloom.
He picked some flowers, which she put in her hair. Then he told her she resembled Myris, and how much he had liked one of the melodies from The Beautiful Arsène.
“I made the trip just to see you perform,” he admitted to her.
So she immediately began singing for him:
I seem young,
But I’m more than a hundred years old.
I remember that in my youth
A particular fairy, to whom I was too precious,
Gave me a gift – it was the gift of pleasing
Grace, talent, beauty, the art of seducing,
That was my fate…
You see me in my original form
I see myself again at fifteen years old.
“What a voice you have!” said Lapointe, looking at her admiringly.
Roseline and Fleurette came to offer them dinner. Two place settings had been laid in the front room. They sat down and four young male slaves immediately began to flutter around them, anticipating their slightest gestures.
It was a veritable pageant of delicious courses and Minette, remembering Jasmine’s meager meals, enthusiastically consumed the chicken and many desserts. Lapointe poured her a drink and raised his glass to her health. At the end of the meal, the two of them had managed to empty a good bottle of Bordeaux. When Minette wanted to rise from her seat, she stumbled a bit and, laughing, leaned against the table. He put his arm around her and led her outdoors beneath the trees, where the slaves had set up hammocks. She refused to lie down, claiming she had eaten too much.
“You’re not a true Creole, then,” he said to her.
“Yes,” she responded, “but no one’s ever gotten me accustomed to such luxury.”
The young man’s face darkened. He got into a hammock and was immediately joined by Roseline and Fleurette. Kneeling next to him, one began scratching his head, while the other, squatting, hummed and played a mandolin. She sang a lascivious and melancholy song while staring at her master with eyes filled with devotion.
“Minette,” said Jean-Baptiste Lapointe all of a sudden, “allow me not to make any changes to my lifestyle during your time here.”
He rose from the hammock and whistled for his enormous dogs, who immediately ran over.
He turned to his servants:
“Watch over your mistress.”
Before they could even respond, Minette protested.
“Oh, no – you aren’t going to impose these two girls on me. I, for one, do not need slaves.”
“Will you feel safe without your ‘bodyguards’?”
“What do I have to fear?” responded Minette. “Only your dogs scare me.”
“You don’t recognize your fiercest protectors, then.”
“Perhaps, but I prefer to be alone.”
“You should feel perfectly at home here.”
He clapped his hands twice and the two girls left them.
He had changed yet again. Why? said Minette to herself. Now what’s going on inside him? Might as well try to resolve an enigma. He looked at her in silence, in the half-light of the moon. A delightful feeling of trust spread over her, however, and relieved her of all worry. She had not thought for a moment about the Comédie or about Mesplès and her disappointment. A sweet lassitude spread through her limbs. Oh, to spend my life here, she thought. To lounge in a hammock myself – to hear myself called Mistress and deliver myself into the hands of adoring servants I would reign over with kindness! She raised her eyes to Lapointe. He was looking at her silently:
“You are very beautiful,” he simply said.
She lowered her head. She was not going to let herself get carried away. No. She desired him too much for that. Why wasn’t he speaking? Why wasn’t he trying to do anything about the awkwardness between them?
“Farewell,” he said quietly.
“Jean!”
She cried out to him – throwing herself into his arms.
In the little wood house, the candles burned out one by one. Slaves lying on mats slept in the gallery. Fleurette and Roseline had disappeared. Only the night stood between the lovers, a night rendered golden by the moon, whose rays penetrated into the bedroom, sprinkling Minette’s loosened hair with shimmering scales that Lapointe collected with his lips.
XVII
FOR THREE DAYS, they holed up together, speaking softly in their somewhat cramped quarters, which afforded them little privacy. An elderly slave, hunchbacked and toothless, who everyone called Ninninne, was the only person Minette was willing to receive in the bedroom. Ninninne brought them food, grumbled as she tidied the room, and observed their embraces unflinchingly. Unused to having slaves, Minette did not realize that all of them would have shown the same indifference, out of respect for the master. Lapointe refused to speak to an overseer who had come with important news to give him, and he left his bookkeeper at the door as well.
When, on the morning of the fourth day, he left the room, he learned that two of his best slaves had escaped. The spell was broken immediately. He insulted the bookkeeper and struck one of his overseers in the face with a leather strap. Minette screamed at him for this overreaction. She reproached him his brutality and he asked her not to meddle in things that were his affairs. Despite his refusal, she followed him to the workhouse and mounted a horse whose reins were held by a young slave. Lapointe threatened her. Despite her cries and protestations, he punished three Negroes and the wives of the slaves accused of having helped in the escape. Weeping, Minette got back on her horse and took off. She had hardly noticed the immense field of sugarcane, the naked little black children panting as they carried bundles of grass, the disabled old slaves weeding, the hundreds of black and brown backs bent over and the arms who raised machetes to cut the stalks, as she was already convulsed in tears. All of these laboring faces, streaming with sweat, nervously anticipating the overseers’ whip, were screaming out a truth she refused to acknowledge. Everything, from the leaf-covered huts to the factory with its mill, its ovens, and its chimney – the entire existence of the exploitative and pitiless planter, rendered indifferent and vicious by the love of profit, was all spread out right before her.
The entire time it took to go back, Minette had not stopped weeping. She had been too happy and the wake-up was horrific. Once at the house, she immediately packed her things and hugged Ninninne.
“He ain’t so bad,” said the old slave, caressing her hair. “He fightin’ and he fightin’ – and he wanna fight the whole world. Don’ leave now, don’ leave – else he gon’ get real mad.”
Roseline and Fleurette, hidden in the doorway, looked at her hypocritically. If Mistress was leaving, if Mistress was crying, it must be that Master was finished with her. They rejoiced in the news without daring to smile.
Just before leaving, Minette was tempted to leave a note for Lapointe, but she decided against it and, calling for one of the s
laves, asked to be driven to town.
Another storm was gathering. Ominous dark clouds hung in the sky like so many dirty rags. Intermittent bolts of lightning flashed in the sky, brewing silently.
Minette had hidden Saint-Martin’s letter in her bodice and headed to see Mme Saint-Ar at the “Les Vases” estate. Though it was eleven in the morning, the somber weather cast an air of melancholy in the atmosphere, making it feel more like the late afternoon.
She got off her horse at Mme Saint-Ar’s gate and saw that the many puddles of water had dried out. The streets seemed cleaner and more navigable. She adjusted her skirts and shawl and, carrying her bag, entered the property, at the end of which was a very beautiful house, adorned with long vines of red hibiscus. The house was dazzling: wide galleries enclosed by intricately decorated railings that attached to a staircase supported by white columns. The garden was filled with imported plants and, at its center, there stood a little Cupid-shaped fountain, water spraying from its smile. Magnificent lemon trees let fall golden fruits whose heavy scent lingered in the air.
Minette climbed the stairs and knocked on the front door. A little dog with long white hair like that of a sheep began to yap sharply. The door opened, and she was greeted by a smiling young black girl in a white apron and bonnet.
“Madame Saint-Ar?” asked Minette, looking around in surprise.
Immediately, she began to make the comparison: in her mind, she once again saw Lapointe’s little wooden house with its one tiny gallery. To think she had found that beautiful and luxurious! Next to Mme Saint-Ar’s heavy, carved wood furniture, mirrors, paintings, vases, carpets, and velvet wall-coverings, Lapointe’s life was, despite his fortune, very simple, she realized – different in every way from that of the white planters. This immense living room, with its crystal chandeliers and silver candelabras, its overstuffed silk armchairs and gold ashtrays, revealed a luxury she had never seen before.
The black maid looked attentively at Minette. “Now who is this girl?” she seemed to be asking herself. “A white woman or a person of color?”
“Who shall I say is here?” she asked in a lilting French.
“I’ve come with a letter,” answered Minette, taking the folded note from her bodice.
The maid took the letter and, with a slight hesitation, gestured toward a chair.
“Would Miss like to sit?”
She looked her up and down and, apparently, was satisfied with what she saw, as she offered a broad smile of welcome before exiting the room.
A violin played a Grétry melody in one of the adjacent rooms and, from time to time, the sound of a happy young woman’s laugh reached her ears.
The black maid returned:
“Mistress is waiting for you.”
Minette followed her through a string of rooms, each one more luxuriously appointed than the next, and found Mme Saint-Ar seated outdoors, in a large mahogany rocker. At her feet knelt a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen, with milky white skin and even features framed by silky black curls. Both wore silk gaules trimmed with lace, and atop Mme Saint-Ar’s white hair sat a chambray bonnet with pleated flounces. Her cheeks were painted pink and her double chin gave her a friendly and vivacious air. She fixed her youthful blue eyes on Minette, as her heavily bejeweled fingers gestured in welcome.
“Come in, my child, come in,” she said to Minette. “My dear friend Monsieur Saint-Martin told me marvelous things about you and your talent. I loved the theater when I was young and I’m happy to have you here with us.”
“Thank you, Madame,” answered Minette.
“Give this young lady a chair, Marie-Rose, take her bag, and then have someone bring her a nice, cool glass of fruit juice.”
Marie-Rose stood up in a rustle of silks, smiled at Minette and took her bundle.
“Which room, godmother?”
“The pink one, dear.”
“So, I’m told you sing at the Comédie?” said Mme Saint-Ar to Minette once they were alone.
“Yes, Madame.”
“You’ve had the honor of dancing with the Duke of Lancaster?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“My word! What charming modesty…Have you come here just to see me?”
The slightly malicious tone, with its innuendo, made Minette flush to the tips of her ears.
“Oh, my, my – by the Virgin Mother, isn’t she just so lovely! I’m not asking you to tell me your secrets, my dear. I’ve had plenty of my own…Have you thought about having dresses made for my ball? In two days it will be the third Thursday in Lent and that very evening we’ll have a grand ball, followed by a masked ball.”
“Madame, it’s just that…” Minette stammered, embarrassed, “Monsieur Saint-Martin must have forgotten to mention…”
She stopped and looked Mme Saint-Ar straight in the eyes.
“What, my child, that you’re a colored girl? Do you think that isn’t obvious at first glance?”
Minette lowered her head.
“And why would I care about the color of your blood? I’m not one of those racist French people. The only prejudices my husband and I have are against vulgarity and ugliness.”
Laughing, she added:
“It’s not very forgiving, but what can I do?”
Without answering, Minette threw herself at the older woman’s feet and kissed her hand.
“My word, my word!” exclaimed Mme Saint-Ar with a smile, “So much gratitude for such a small thing. Come now, get up and come sit here by me. By the Virgin Mother, isn’t she just lovely, with her golden skin and her dark eyes!” she repeated. “And to think, they say you’ve also got a marvelous voice…why, yes, you’ll sing something for me on the night of the party…”
She got up heavily from her rocker and began inspecting Minette.
“Let’s see, what sort of costume shall I have you wear? A Harlequin, a Pierrot – that would be too obvious…”
She pondered for a moment as she turned round and round the young girl.
“A narrow waist and perfectly curved, and what posture!…You’d make a wonderful Iseult, that’s it. But I’ll need a Tristan. Who is your paramour, my dear, go ahead, tell me – do you have a paramour? Tell me his name and I’ll see what kind of taste you’ve got.”
Minette, unsettled by this flood of kindness and courtesy, suddenly burst into sobs. Since her departure from Jean-Baptiste Lapointe’s home, she had bravely held back her tears. But her heart, full with bitterness, suddenly burst like an abscess from the prodding of a lancet. A white woman had welcomed her without the slightest haughtiness or pity. And what a white woman! A great lady, wife of a planter, and impossibly rich, whose home even had a suite for the Governor!
Mme Saint-Ar watched her cry for a moment then, shaking her white curls and the folds of her bodice, asked:
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, Madame,” Minette sputtered.
“Now, now, I know all about that. You’ve got a case of heartbreak. I know just what you need: some solitude. Go to your room and don’t you come out until I say so. I’m going to take care of you, all right?”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Minette as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Mme Saint-Ar clapped her hands. Immediately, the door opened and a slave appeared. Minette jumped in surprise. It was the young traveler, Simon, who had helped her to find Lapointe’s house. He bowed to Mme Saint-Ar and awaited her orders.
“My dear Simon,” she said to the slave, “accompany Mistress to the pink bedroom and ask my goddaughter to have her meals brought to her there until you hear differently from me.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“Put yourself at her disposition and make sure she wants for nothing.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“Where are the gentlemen?”
“In the library, my lady. They’re playing a game of craps.”
“My word, what an obsession! They might have waited a bit!”
Mi
nette followed the slave as they traversed a long corridor lined by a series of rooms on either side. On the back gallery, twenty or so slaves – cleanly dressed men, women, and children – washed dishes, shelled peas, and prepared the fire, all the while speaking in low tones. A delicious harmony seemed to reign over everything. On the countenance of the slave who accompanied her, just as with all the others, Minette was surprised to note a sort of blissful, trusting air of satisfaction.
The slave opened the door to a bedroom and said:
“Please make yourself at home, Mistress.”
“Thank you, Simon. Funny we should meet again.”
“I’m very glad of it, Mistress.”
He bowed and closed the door after him. Minette went over to the window and looked out. As far as she could see rose up white huts, and gray smoke poured from a red brick chimney. The odor of sugarcane juice and freshly milled cane emanated in gusts. A Negro melody, taken up by hundreds of voices in a jumbled and deafening chorus, rose into the air to the rhythm of the drums. The workhouse! thought Minette. She closed her eyes and again saw Lapointe and his terrible expression of pitiless hatred; she saw again the hands of the overseers tearing off the slaves’ clothes; she saw the whips they raised. Oh! The cries of the poor wretches – would she ever be able to forget them? How could he have done this? He was heartless – soulless! My God, it was all so irreparable! She threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow. Once she had calmed down a bit, she looked around her and admired the pink silk curtains, the four-poster bed, the white mosquito netting, and the large mirror toward which she rushed over. Her eyes were a pair of red embers, with dark circles around them. She was suffering – her, Minette – because of an unworthy man. She clenched her fists and beat them against the mirror. Forget him, forget him. She went to her suitcase, opened it, and took out a clean dress, which she laid out on the armchair. The sound of a violin made her perk up her ears. Someone was playing, quite expertly, a melody from The Beautiful Arsène, which she had sung only recently for Lapointe. She ran to the window and looked into the courtyard. The violinist was the young slave, Simon. “Oh,” cried Minette, so startled that she dropped the scarf she had been holding in her hand. The violin stopped and the slave turned his head toward her window. He bowed to her with a wide smile and, picking up the scarf, climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. As he handed her the scarf, Minette was struck by the refinement of his manners.
Dance on the Volcano Page 21