“What’s the matter, my boy?”
“Nothing, Master, I’m just resting to make sure I’m ready to make you proud later this evening.”
“You played very well this afternoon.”
He rapped him happily on the shoulder.
“Be in the salon early this evening. You’ll play a solo for us. Oh! Monsieur de Caradeux will be green with envy,” he added, punching his fist into his open palm.
“Thank you, Master.”
M Saint-Ar then turned to the other domestics.
“Everyone will celebrate tonight. Make merry, I’ll grant you quarter-liters of rum. Let them know in the workhouse.”
A purr of satisfaction arose from the group of slaves.
“Thank you, Master!” they cried, happily. “Thank you, our dear Master.”
M Saint-Ar called the head chef over and, placing his hand familiarly on the slave’s shoulder, said:
“You, César, be sure to stay on top of things. Don’t let the rum go to your head. An unsuccessful dinner is a dishonor for a great planter. Don’t you forget that – and watch that you don’t overdo it. Remember your title – you’re the ‘head chef.’ ”
The portly slave rubbed his chubby cheek with his thick hand.
“As far as the rum goes, Master, there’s a risk. I’ve been on my feet since dawn and I’ve still got to work tonight. If I drink even a drop I’ll fall asleep.”
“Well then don’t have any.”
“Very well, Master. Thank you, Master.”
The brass band from Port-au-Prince had just arrived in a carriage driven by a white coachman. Their instruments in hand, the musicians removed their hats to greet the master of the house and, following one or another of the slaves, went to the rooms that had been set aside for them. The guests began installing themselves under the trees for their afternoon nap. Young Creole girls stretched out on mats, heads leaning on a folded arm, smiled at the compliments offered by lightly clad gentlemen with flushed cheeks. Kneeling near the mats, young slaves with large earrings and their heads wrapped in brightly colored scarves used straw fans to swat away the mosquitoes.
Marie-Rose came and went among the guests, offering them refreshments and little hors-d’œuvres on silver trays.
“I’ve never met a Creole less lazy than Marie-Rose,” someone pointed out admiringly.
Fernand de Rolac, seated next to the young blonde with whom he had been speaking that morning, had moved the conversation into slightly thorny territory. He was telling the story of how he had won a duel in France over a woman who had left him two days later and run off with his adversary.
“European women are both heartless and heartbreakers.”
The little joke had been thrown out by a balding young man, lazily stretched out in a hammock and attended to by two slaves holding fans at the ready.
His comment had inspired cries of protest and reproach.
“European women are no worse than any others. There are good and bad women everywhere.”
“Of course, even among the colored girls,” said the man, bursting into laughter.
“They have one quality, at least,” declared Fernand de Rolac. “They don’t fade easily.”
“That’s what they say,” said the young woman in the chiffon gaule to whom M Saint-Ar had offered his arm a few hours earlier.
“Is it true that they smell bad?” asked the young blonde seated next to Fernand de Rolac, with a burst of laughter.
“Louise,” he interrupted, “you just can’t keep anything to yourself…”
Marie-Rose’s hands trembled so much that she let the platter drop.
“What’s the matter, my beauty?”
Fernand ran to her and placed his arm around her, but she shrugged him off and ran away.
She knocked on Minette’s door.
“My God, what’s the matter, Marie-Rose?”
Without responding, the young girl let herself fall onto the bed. The charming, youthful features of her lovely face were all distorted and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“They’re insulting colored girls.”
Minette shrugged her shoulders.
“They’re just showing off. They don’t really believe it. Believe me.”
“Even Fernard…”
“Let me ask you something, though it might seem indiscreet…Are you sure that Monsieur de Rolac loves you?”
“That’s what he’s told me.”
“Have you spoken about all of this with your godmother?”
“She’s encouraging it.”
“Do you plan to let Monsieur de Rolac know the truth about your status?”
“Oh, no – never! Godmother has forbidden it.”
“I see…is he the first man to court you?”
She lowered her head and sighed deeply.
“No. But the other was a quadroon and Godmother didn’t approve. He knew everything and…he loved me.”
Thus, out of this delicate and lovely girl they had also created a torn, tortured creature that they tossed around at will, even deciding her fate. Why had they revealed her social condition if only to have her pass for a White? Why, if they truly loved her, were they encouraging her to accept this smug little nobleman who would never make her happy?
Marie-Rose wept softly. She rose from the bed and hugged Minette.
“They’re good to me, so good to me – both of them. And yet…sometimes…oh! Minette, don’t betray me, please don’t ever betray me…”
She kissed her friend and went to the mirror.
“Oh my, they mustn’t see that I’ve been crying.”
“Lie down here and rest.”
“I can’t – I don’t have time. I’ve got to check on the table, put flowers in the vases, and count the silver. Then I’ve got to help Godmother get dressed.”
She laughed.
“I’m the only one she’ll let near her, really…She finds the slaves clumsy and calls me ‘her little white maid.’ ”
She too had been given a flattering little title. A pretty title that kept her from realizing that she was being taken advantage of and that made her believe she was loved.
“Marie-Rose! May I talk to you like an adult? May I give you some advice? You’ve shared your secrets with me, and I won’t betray you. Will you do the same for me?”
“I swear it, Minette.”
“Where is the quadroon you once loved?”
“He lives near here.”
“Find him and marry him.”
“What?”
She became so pale and trembled so much that she had to hold on to one of the bedposts.
“You’re advising me to leave Godmother, to go find this man without telling her? How ungrateful I would be! Have you not understood all that she’s done for me? My mother was a slave, have you forgotten?”
She began to sob, hiding her face from Minette.
“I’ve been harsh. It was my way of telling you plainly how things really are. Marie-Rose, if what I’m saying makes you hate me, I understand that you would be well within your rights.”
“Minette!”
She looked at her friend, terrified, opened the door and fled from the room, her handkerchief covering her eyes.
XIX
AS THE GUESTS who had been present throughout the day began to file into the salon in all their finery, additional carriages continuously brought less intimate acquaintances from all corners of the country. A crowd of curiosity-seekers backed away from the rearing horses: poor Whites, people of color, and local domestics gathered at the carriage entrance and tried to catch a glimpse of whatever bit of the gala they could.
The marching band launched into a minuet. M Saint-Ar opened the ball with the laughing blonde Louise, and immediately other couples followed them.
Minette, relegated with Marie-Rose to the room reserved for the young people, observed the splendorous decorations all around her: the flickering lights of the crystal chandeliers, the sumptuousness of the clothing
, the grace and elegance of the dancers, the immense tables laid for the dinner – she found it all ravishing. In this room, where she found herself with Marie-Rose, a few planters’ daughters – all younger than they – were making their society debut that evening. Young Creole girls, buttoned-up and shy, having lived like so many rare birds under the iron rule of their parents; and adolescent boys who, with their smooth-faced smiles and awkward gestures, slyly caressed exposed young necks with their eyes…
Marie-Rose, in her white brocade ensemble, tapped Minette on the shoulder with her fan and made a face in the direction of the youths.
“We have our pick. Who should we dance with?” she whispered.
Minette smiled.
“And so now I’ve got to go greet this bunch and be nice to them? How stupid they seem!” she added.
The band struck up a contredanse following the minuet.
“When can we go into the ballroom?” asked Minette.
“When one of the dancers gives us a sign.”
“Well, then, let’s go get these gentlemen.”
“How awful!”
“Make a decision…”
“Okay, let’s go…”
Opening their fans, they headed boldly for the group of young people.
“Well, now, gentlemen – are you afraid of a little heat?” asked Marie-Rose mockingly.
“We’ve been waiting around like wallflowers all this time,” added Minette.
There was an immediate scramble in the face of this unexpected gift. The ten youths who found themselves there immediately began to bow before the two beautiful young ladies.
“Come, come, now, there are plenty of us to go around,” said Marie-Rose, prodding some of them toward the young girls who, thrilled, rose hastily to their feet.
They left the room on the arm of their partners and entered the ballroom.
“Wait,” advised Marie-Rose, “this dance is ending.”
And turning to her partner:
“Do you even know how to dance?”
“Well…um…yes…of course,” stammered the young man, turning beet red.
The orchestra had gone quiet. Hidden in the doorway, the young people waited. M Saint-Ar, passing by on the arm of a very young man, stopped near the door without noticing them.
“Yes, my dear Monsieur de Laujon, they’ve been subjected to a harsh disciplinary regime, no matter what Monsieur de Caradeux thinks. Without them even realizing it, I get them to work their hardest. They’re decent creatures, and in exchange for my running this show without whips or torture, I never have to worry about fires or poison,” said M Saint-Ar.
“Are they even capable of things like that?” asked the young man, inquisitively.
“You’re new to this country, and it shows. Yes, Monsieur de Laujon, they’re capable of great destruction – and even of destroying themselves. Their vengeance can be horrendous. Whatever happens, anyway, those of us here in the Vases region – we’ll be just fine. There isn’t a single one of my slaves who wouldn’t die for me.”
The young man smiled sardonically.
“And how do you feel about mixed-bloods, dear Monsieur Saint-Ar?”
“I keep them happy, all the while steering as clear as possible. Sometimes I go so far as to invite them into my home. Frankly, some of them are pretty stand-up people. But since you never know with their kind, I handle them just like I handle my slaves and…”
The rest of his sentence was muffled by the first bars of a quadrille. Minette and Marie-Rose had not missed a word of their discussion.
“Now do you see what I told you was true?” Minette whispered to Marie-Rose pitilessly.
Marie-Rose followed her partner into the ballroom. But now, she had no desire to dance – none whatsoever. A feeling of confusion mixed with an incomprehensible need for solitude gripped her heart. M Saint-Ar’s voice still rang in her ears. “I handle them just like I handle my slaves…” So that was what it was – his affection! And it was surely the same thing for Mme Saint-Ar…Both of them must have been “handling” her the way they “handled” all the rest…How could she have believed for even a minute that they thought of her as “the young lady of the house” – her, the daughter of a slave?
These last words drummed against her temples to the point of making her dizzy. She let go of her partner’s hand, let out a slight cry, and lost consciousness.
Minette, abandoning her own partner, rushed over to her. Raising her head, she called her name. Someone passed her a vial of smelling salts and suggested:
“Tell Madame Saint-Ar.”
Someone else jostled past the dancers impatiently.
“Excuse me, excuse me…”
It was Fernand de Rolac. He bent over, picked up Marie-Rose in his arms and, followed by Minette and Mme Saint-Ar, headed for the nearest bedroom in the house.
“What happened?” asked Mme Saint-Ar, in a tone that suggested slight annoyance.
“She was dancing, Madame,” answered Minette, holding the vial of salts near the young girl’s nose.
“With you, Fernand?”
“Alas, no, dear Madame.”
“And I had specifically asked her not to leave the ‘young person’s room’ until I called for her.”
“Ah, temptation…” Fernand dared to comment.
“This child has never disobeyed me…Oh! She’s opening her eyes…Are you feeling any better?”
Marie-Rose passed a trembling hand across her face.
“What happened? How silly of me.”
With great effort, she sat up and smiled.
“Not to worry, it’s nothing.”
She looked at Mme Saint-Ar and her lips trembled.
“I’m sorry, Madame.”
“You’ve made yourself a bit of a spoilsport, but it’s nothing, as you say. Come now, are you feeling well enough to go back to the ballroom or would you prefer to be in your room?”
Mechanically, she caressed her goddaughter’s hair.
“My goodness, she’s beautiful, my little goddaughter!”
She said it without enthusiasm, in a monotone voice Minette found chilling.
“If you permit, Madame, I will bring your goddaughter to her bedroom myself.”
She helped the young girl to stand.
Fernand de Rolac took Marie-Rose’s trembling hand and pressed his lips to it with a bow.
“I’m so sorry about this troublesome little incident…”
“As am I.”
“Speaking of, my child,” said Mme Saint-Ar to Minette in a friendly voice, “you promised to sing a little something for me. I believe you’ll be sensational as Iseult. Do you like the outfits I had made for you?”
“I’d have liked to come thank you, Madame, but didn’t want to disturb you.”
“That’s very well, not another word…We’ve got to end the first part of the ball in just a few moments. Dinner is at midnight. What time do you have, Fernand?”
The young man consulted his watch:
“Nine-thirty.”
“Good. And now that you know the secret, keep it to yourself. It’s got to be a surprise. It would appear that this young lady has a voice…”
She took M de Rolac’s arm and headed back to her guests. Minette accompanied Marie-Rose to her bedroom.
They closed and locked the door and then sat on the bed without speaking. Marie-Rose had a faraway look as she nervously crumpled her handkerchief in her palm. Bursts of women’s laughter could be heard among the rustling of silks and the tapping of high heels on the wood floor of the corridor.
“The masked ball will soon begin,” noted Marie-Rose tonelessly. “The guests are coming to put on their costumes.”
“Yes.”
Her attitude suddenly changed and her eyes began to shine.
“Tell me more about yourself, would you?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Till now, I’ve only lived with my own little story. This house, the workhouse fill
ed with slaves, and the domestics in my service have been my whole world…I imagined the entire world to be just like this world I see here every day. A simple caress, a banal compliment sufficed to flatter me – like a dog. Since no one had ever told me about my mother’s past, I was satisfied with just about anything – the slightest thing made me perfectly content. Look at my dress – it’s brocade. Never before have I asked myself where all this money comes from…”
The costumed guests left their rooms and called out to one another from one end of the corridor to the other. The orchestra welcomed them with a sarabande.
“When I was very little,” continued Marie-Rose, not realizing that she was speaking instead of Minette, “when I was very little, I understood so many things. But they settled there, deep inside me, as if in reserve. Take those barrels where we store the wine. They all burst after a while. I feel just like them – I’m too full and now I’ve burst…Even though I had nothing to compare my life to, some little voice told me: careful, things aren’t supposed to be this way. I don’t even know if they’re worse elsewhere.”
“In a way, they’re worse, yes,” answered Minette. “Because it’s always better to tell yourself you’re happy, even if you’re in denial.”
“Oh, no – that’s exactly what’s criminal about this. It would have been better if they’d humiliated me, beaten me, tortured me!” she spat out loudly.
Minette started and placed her hand over Marie-Rose’s mouth.
“Are you mad?”
“I had to tell myself over and over, ‘They love you – can’t you see that they love you!’ ” she finished softly and with such a humble air that Minette’s heart tightened, so young did Marie-Rose appear in that moment. “When I went to the workhouse, the slaves’ sweating faces made me weep. I’d become very attached to an old one-armed man who told me stories from his country in Creole. Monsieur Saint-Ar sold him in spite of my tears and the slave’s tears. Since then, I’ve seen so many sold that it doesn’t even affect me anymore.”
She went over to the window and leaned out.
Shadows lit up by the torches emerged from the workhouse.
“The slaves,” she murmured, “they’re going to celebrate. In a few hours, someone will toss them the leftovers – as if they’re dogs. They’ll get drunk and believe they’re happy. They’ve been tossing me leftovers, too, but I didn’t realize it.”
Dance on the Volcano Page 23