Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

Minette stood up and distractedly moved a few objects around on the wood table.

  “Mama doesn’t have a dime, Lise,” she stated dully.

  “Oh! But you’re going to get a lot of money. Monsieur Saint-Martin dictated his last wishes to the notary, in my presence, and he acknowledged owing you nearly three years’ worth of wages.”

  “Well there’s some consolation. But unfortunately the Comédie’s till is empty.”

  “He wrote to Mesplès, telling him to pay you.”

  “Mesplès! Was Saint-Martin delirious?”

  “He also dictated that letter in my presence. He asked him to pay you.”

  “So I’ll never see a cent of that money.”

  “Why?” asked Lise naively.

  Minette gave no answer and left the bedroom. As she headed to join her mother in the street, she saw Mme Acquaire arrive, completely out of breath.

  “The Governor has agreed to Depoix and Favart’s proposition. They’re the new directors. Their enthusiasm is rivaled only by that of poor François Saint-Martin…”

  She stopped speaking abruptly, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

  “Poor François,” she exclaimed…“Well, life must go on…The new directors charged me with letting you know that a new show will go up in about two weeks. You’ll play the lead role as Iphigenia in the duet with Durand, who has asked for the privilege of acting at your side. Durand’s a ward of the King, you know; he’s performed in France at the great concert of the Queen. We’ll make sure to let the public know in the posters, to drum up the audience…Oh, my dear – the rehearsals are going to be tough! Loads of lines to learn, arias to sing…Bah! It’s all child’s play for you…All right, goodbye, then. We meet tomorrow morning at the Comédie. Be sure to be on time.”

  She squeezed Minette’s cheek and was about to open the door to leave when the young woman quietly stated:

  “I won’t perform until I’ve been paid, Madame.”

  “You’ll tell that to the new directors tomorrow.”

  “Very well, Madame.”

  Once Mme Acquaire had left, Minette joined her mother in the street. Jasmine held out her hands to the passersby, presenting her wares to them, and the veins in her neck swelled up as she strained her voice to call out to them. How tired she seems, thought Minette. Discouraged, she went to the back of the courtyard and sat down sadly underneath the orange tree. All her projects, all her childish dreams had been torn apart, uprooted. She had worked hard and was still just as poor as before. So many sleepless nights spent learning her long monologues by heart; so many early mornings spent standing next to the piano doing her vocal exercises and learning to sing her more difficult songs! None of that showed: her talent had gone so far as to erase any signs of her diligent training. “Bah! It’s all child’s play for you,” Mme Acquaire had said. But she had worked hard; she knew that. She had overcome horrendous anxiety and felt her heart nearly stop beating from fear. As compensation, she had earned the honor of entering the Whites’ ball on the arm of a Prince that one time. A great and enviable honor for a freedwoman. She was happy to have worked for that distinction, that honor, but also would have liked to assure her material well-being. She would have been proud to rent a nice house for her mother, to help her build her business, to buy her a few dresses. It had not been wise, her leaving for Arcahaie. Yet, she felt she should not regret anything about what had happened there, in that little house in Boucassin.

  She was no “easy” girl. She truly loved that man, at once complicated, cruel, and so sweet – that young, tortured being who struggled with the duality of his impetuous feelings, as compelled by vengeance and hatred as by forgiveness and love. She suspected somehow that he was only half responsible for some of the things he did, and that he carried them out like a man repressed, out of bravado and a desire to make his mark. There was a revolt in him – a revolt, she thought, that likely would be forever futile – and it transformed his righteous feelings into a burning desire to destroy. She did not yet see clearly how her surroundings were the root of this. But having lived with him for twelve days, she had learned that he did nothing without thinking it through and always with the sole objective of satisfying himself through the most reprehensible acts. He was compelled by hatred. A terrible, mortal hatred that risked enslaving his better instincts. He was torn. He wanted one thing but was forced to do another. He had been so tender with her, yet so harsh and so vicious with his slaves. He hated too much. Hatred is as destructive as poison. It would put a weapon in his hand, freeze his heart, and soon push him, Minette was sure, to take revenge, at the risk of condemning himself. This was the sort of man her heart had chosen to love. How she longed to save him with her love – to make him forget everything and to erase all bitterness from his thoughts. She saw him, his brow furrowed, walking between his two dogs and striking out at his slaves with rage. How she would have loved to leave, to return to him, to forget everything in his arms and to see his wild face become tender with her kisses!

  XXII

  ONE AFTERNOON, total ruin befell several of the vendors on Traversière Street, in the form of a young white soldier.

  They were seated in front of their stands like always. A poor white woman from the neighborhood was selling her soaps to Jasmine as the mixed crowd bustled all around them.

  After making some sort of bet, two young officers came bounding through like madmen with their horses at a gallop.

  A dog let out a cry of pain. It had been knocked over by one of the horses, which, panic-stricken by the chafing of the bit and the cries of the market-women, whinnied as it pranced about. Left behind by his companion, who was roaring with laughter, the first horseman pulled angrily on his reins. Instead of advancing, the horse began backing up.

  “Watch out, watch out…”

  Several stands were overturned, including Jasmine’s.

  A flood of screams and protestations followed, adding to the steed’s panic. He stamped in place, held back by his visibly amused rider. The soaps, the bottles of perfume, and the handkerchiefs were soon nothing more than a jumbled-up pile.

  Screaming, Jasmine attempted to push the horse away. The officer smacked her hand with his crop.

  “Get your paws off of him!”

  On their knees, the poor women tried to save whatever they could from the disaster.

  The white horseman was about to ride off when he noticed Minette. He immediately had his horse move toward her. She was standing and, fists clenched, looked at him with hate in her eyes.

  “Hey, now what do we have here! So this is where you live, ‘young person’?”

  Without responding, she turned her gaze on Jasmine who, down on all fours, was still gathering up the scattered merchandise.

  “Your horse has made quite a mess, Monsieur,” she said to him, with rage in her eyes.

  “Are these all the wares you possess? They’re unworthy of you.”

  “They allow me to eat, Monsieur.”

  “Oh! Well you must be so poorly fed that you risk losing your voice. You deserve better. Come with me tonight to the King’s Garden and I’ll give you ten times the value of this junk.”

  A black woman touched Minette’s arm and whispered:

  “Lower your eyes, child, that’s the cousin of the King’s Bursar.”

  She became enraged. She felt like throwing herself on the horseman’s leg and sinking her teeth into it until she drew blood.

  At the same time, a jumble of thoughts stirred within her. If she disrespected a white man, she would be thrown in prison, whipped – who knows? She could lose her place at the Comédie. Jasmine and Lise might also be arrested. Oh! How could she fight? The deck was stacked. Was the only way to get revenge to kill by surprise, to assassinate in the shadows? Lapointe was right.

  She clenched her fists even more tightly and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

  “So it’s settled,” repeated the horseman. “Tonight in the King’s Garden.”

  She underst
ood that she had to say something, but she just couldn’t contain herself and blurted angrily:

  “Thank you, Monsieur, but I’m not part of the merchandise. I’m not for sale.”

  “Well, well! A proud one, are we? Perhaps you like things a bit rougher?”

  She refrained from answering. He turned his horse around.

  “I’ll still come hear you sing. Good luck…”

  He took off at a gallop.

  Lise consoled the crying vendors. Jasmine, wracked with tears, wiped her half-smashed soaps and wrinkled, torn madras scarves with her camisole.

  “Dear Lord, he did it on purpose. How could he have done that on purpose?” she kept repeating.

  “It’s unjust!” shouted Minette suddenly, “unjust…”

  “Hush!”

  She looked around as if she was about to burst.

  “Don’t you understand we’ve got to stop being afraid?”

  “Hush!” someone said again. “It’s the police…”

  A few soldiers passed slowly by the anxious vendors. My God, how I wish I’d just died, thought Minette.

  Her throat was so tight she could barely swallow her saliva. She bent down without a word and helped Jasmine transport what was left of the stand inside the house.

  When she woke up the next morning, Minette ran over to Nicolette’s house first thing. Only Nicolette could help her get a note to Céliane de Caradeux. Minette had had a horrible night, haunted by thoughts of Joseph and of the soldier who had destroyed Jasmine’s stand. She had found herself almost suffocating with rage.

  She gave the letter to Nicolette and said:

  “Did you see what that white soldier did to the vendors in our neighborhood?”

  “Oh! Even if that one gave me a golden chariot to sleep with him I’d say no,” spat Nicolette, disgusted.

  “He’s the cousin of the King’s Bursar, my dear,” said Minette encouragingly.

  Nicolette looked at her with surprise.

  “What did you say?”

  “Listen, I need you to get this letter to Mademoiselle de Caradeux. Even if you have to give it to my worst enemy…”

  “Oh!” said Nicolette.

  “Even if that soldier from yesterday were to bring the letter himself,” concluded Minette, looking Nicolette straight in the eyes. “And a word of advice, if you really want to help me out – accept a little less than a golden chariot. Otherwise, this might not work.”

  “Fine, we’ll see about that,” acquiesced Nicolette, conciliatory.

  “Do it,” said Minette, “for the cause. And then, avenge us by cuckolding him.”

  “Okay, fine…”

  She made a gesture of farewell to the young courtesan and went to the site of the Comédie. Once there, she found Depoix and Favart suddenly overwhelmed by all of Saint-Martin’s debts.

  “I’d never have imagined the cashbox could be so empty,” confided Favart in a tone of utter distress.

  A few notes asking delinquent planters to pay for their subscriptions to the theater immediately appeared in the daily paper. These debtors, some of whom were either cousins of the Governor or the Bursar or friends of the Prosecutor, ignored them and did not pay a single cent.

  “We’re back at zero,” admitted Depoix to the actors gathered around. “Monsieur Saint-Martin is dead, may he rest in peace. May each one of us, out of love for the profession and respect for the memory of our wonderful young director, sacrifice whatever it is the Comédie owes them.”

  A few furtive glances were exchanged between the actresses from the Saint-Marc Theater, who had not known Saint-Martin well. Minette looked at Goulard and the color drained from her face.

  “Here we have a notice that Monsieur Mesplès, executor of Saint-Martin’s will, plans to publish very soon,” continued Depoix.

  He unfolded a piece of paper and read:

  Next Wednesday, we’ll proceed to an estate sale in Saint-Martin’s home of all effects of said estate, including a Negro cook, a driver, a wheelchair, furniture, linens, silver, etcetera, and the creditors of said estate will be welcome to thereby seek compensation for everything that is owed them.

  Depoix folded the paper and slipped it in one of his pockets.

  “Here’s what I propose,” he concluded. “After the sale of Saint-Martin’s effects, a part of the money will go to the theater’s till to take care of likely upcoming expenses and the rest of the actors and workers for the Comédie. We’ll sign new contracts once the monies have been distributed and decide whether we’ll be fully paid. Do you all accept?”

  Goulard was the first to say yes. The actors from Saint-Marc made a face and Mme de Vanancé said frankly that they all might as well stand there with their arms crossed rather than work for a pittance. Mme Tessyre sighed and Mme Valville argued that, when all was said and done, it was better that she and Mlle Dubuisson return to France.

  “Our little company,” interrupted Depoix, “has both old and new members. I’m counting on those of you who’ve long known François Saint-Martin – who loved and appreciated him…”

  Magdeleine Brousse began to cry, which immediately caused Mme Tessyre to do the same. Goulard cleared his throat and said:

  “For my part, I accept Depoix’s proposal. I loved Monsieur Saint-Martin too much not to try anything I can think of to take care of all these difficulties.”

  He cleared his throat again as if he were embarrassed and added:

  “Monsieur Saint-Martin died owing more than three years of wages to Minette…”

  Favart interrupted him.

  “Monsieur Saint-Martin, in his will,” began Goulard again, “left me his clothes and his theater costumes, along with five thousand pounds. I accept the clothing and costumes. I refuse the money.”

  “That’s a whole other story,” interrupted Depoix. “This is a private affair.”

  “Why are you refusing the money, Claude?” asked Mme Acquaire.

  “I’m leaving it to his kids.”

  He turned his back and left the Comédie. Minette ran after him. She touched his arm and he turned around. Since her return from Arcahaie, she had avoided speaking to him alone. She hated the idea of breaking things off with him definitively now that, having been in love herself, she understood how painful it would be to be rejected.

  “Thank you, Claude,” she said simply.

  “I loathe you,” he said to her so softly that for a moment she thought she had misheard.

  She looked at him without responding. Yes, he had to hate her – just as she would have to hate Jean-Baptiste Lapointe if ever he made her suffer by rejecting her. She put her hand on his arm again and said: “Forgive me,” in a tone so pleading that he felt things had been broken irreparably and he had to flee. Minette went back to the other actors.

  “Monsieur Durand has asked to sing the duet with you as Iphigenia, Minette,” said Favart to her.

  “I’m flattered, Monsieur.”

  “He is a graduate of the Royal Academy and…”

  “I’m aware, Monsieur.”

  She took her script and promised to come regularly to the rehearsals.

  “We’re going to aim,” said Depoix, “for a completely full house. The curtain will rise on a Negro dance, executed by Monsieur Acquaire, and then an Indian ballet with Madame Tessyre, Madame Acquaire, Magdeleine Brousse, Favart, Goulard, and me. Then we’ll perform a comic opera scene and finish with Iphigenia’s duet.”

  M Acquaire whistled. “That’s quite a full night you’ve got planned.”

  “I’ll collect all the profits and be responsible for everything,” said Durand at that moment, with his impeccable accent.

  “Great!”

  Everyone dispersed and Minette headed back to her house. Goulard, who had been watching her from the street corner, came up beside her.

  “It’s because I love you that I loathe you,” he said to her with such a sorrowful air that she pitied him.

  “I understand, Claude.”

  “Answer
me honestly – you owe it to me. Are you in love with someone else?”

  She did not lower her eyes and answered:

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know.”

  He began walking alongside her, his eyes dark and his face sorrowful.

  “I tried to forget you, to hate you, but I couldn’t,” he admitted without shame.

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Oh, don’t I know it…”

  He then asked her if she wanted to accompany him to Zabeth’s house.

  “She still doesn’t know anything, the poor woman. I’ve got to tell her about François’ death before Mesplès seizes all his effects and sells them.”

  “What did he leave for them – her and the children?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t help weeping for the loss of the artist, but my friendship for Saint-Martin was erased when his will was read. He left his home to François Mesplès.”

  “To Monsieur Mesplès!”

  “He died just as he lived: as a total narcissist. I never would have thought him capable of that.”

  They found Zabeth in the middle of making food for the children. Kneeling next to her, an old slave wearing an apron spoke softly. Noticing Goulard and Minette, she stood and paled horribly. Goulard opened his mouth to speak and she cried out:

  “François!”

  “He’s dead, Zabeth.”

  She wept and brought her children close to her, still crying out:

  “François, François…”

  “He thought of you, Zabeth. He sent this for you.”

  He took the five thousand pounds out of his pocket and gave them to her.

  Minette saw that she was trembling and touched her forehead; it was burning.

  “She’s sick, Claude.”

  He took the children in his arms and made a gesture to the old slave.

  “She doesn’t want to take care of herself, Monsieur,” the slave immediately confessed. “I know some good herbs. She refuses to take anything.”

  “Is that so, Zabeth?”

  She did not answer. Her beautiful brown face was gaunt and completely drained of color. She wiped her eyes with her flowered calico skirt and left the room without a word, her step faltering and weak.