Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  Goulard handed the infants to the slave.

  “Watch over their mother and over them,” he asked him.

  “Oh! I love them like my own children, Monsieur.” He took each in one of his arms and then sat in the rocker to soothe them.

  The elder child was named François and the younger was Jean. Goulard especially loved the elder one, as he was more or less his godson.

  He caressed the boy’s hair and promised to come back the following day.

  Early that next day, a messenger on horseback knocked on Jasmine’s door and handed her a note addressed to Minette. It was Céliane de Caradeux’s response: the requested interview was granted and she would await Minette that very evening at six o’clock. Once the messenger had left, she stuffed the note in her bodice and ran to Nicolette’s house.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m grateful for your talents: they’re irresistible.”

  “Oh, my!” said the courtesan coyly. “I didn’t have to do much…”

  Minette took off with a laugh. Finally, she would be able to fight for Joseph! Until that evening, she remained in a state of feverish agitation that kept her from properly rehearsing her role at the Comédie.

  “How nervous you are, my child,” said Macarty, making faces in an effort to make her laugh. “Come listen to me play something on the flute. It’ll calm you down.”

  He pulled her into a dark corner and, twisting his lips into a hideous grimace, he asked whether she might consider giving him a kiss. Before she could answer, he had grabbed his flute to play her a gentle, seductive melody.

  “Is that better?” he asked her once he had finished.

  “Yes, that was kind of you.”

  “That’s how I am with all the pretty ones, all of them…”

  He punctuated his remark with a dangerous pirouette. Then righting himself, he took a bow and made the gesture of removing his hat to salute her.

  “And now, on to more serious things,” he shouted.

  Someone told him to quiet down. The rehearsals had begun again and Mme Tessyre and Goulard were singing their duet in the folksy Creole play. Observing them, Minette understood how painful it must have been for them to expend so much effort making others laugh when they were both so unhappy.

  Despite Macarty’s flute, she was still so anxious that Depoix, discouraged, was forced to send her home.

  “But what’s going on? What’s wrong with you?” asked M Acquaire.

  “I just don’t feel very well, Sir.”

  “Well then, go on home and rest,” advised Mme Acquaire, mortified to see Minette lose control that way in front of Mmes Valville and Dubuisson, who had never heard her sing.

  “Audiences in Saint-Domingue have pretty bad taste, as far as I can tell. Seems to me that’s the case throughout the colonies,” said the latter mockingly.

  “Perhaps,” answered Macarty, “but they know what they like.”

  Durand, who was well aware of Minette’s talent, smiled, then ran his fingers through his too-blond hair and shot an amused glance at Mlle Dubuisson. Macarty, who had just slipped behind the curtain to find a shortcut to the wings, jumped back in shock upon discovering Magdeleine Brousse in the arms of Nelanger in a decidedly suggestive position.

  “That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” he said to them as he slipped away.

  “What’s the matter,” asked Favart, “did you just have a run-in with someone?”

  “No, it’s Nelanger. He’s playing the guitar without making a sound,” answered Macarty coolly.

  “Well that’s certainly one way to practice,” answered Favart.

  “I’m sure.”

  With that, Macarty headed off, doubled over with laughter.

  At exactly a quarter to six, Minette was ready. She had dressed herself simply, with neither jewels nor lace. Minette based her outfit on the modesty she had seen in Céliane de Caradeux on the day she had first met her. She had been as discreetly dressed as those sanctimonious little freedwomen, “as rare as diamonds in the pockets of slaves,” as Nicolette always said. Her sister wanted to know where she was going and questioned her about it, but Jasmine stayed quiet.

  “Speaking of, how’s Joseph?” asked Lise at that very moment. She was no longer ill but had stayed in bed so as to continue to be doted on by her mother. Minette stared at her and said harshly:

  “He was hiding runaway slaves. He was arrested and handed over to Monsieur de Caradeux.”

  Lise let out a cry.

  “You’ll make her sick,” protested Jasmine. “She just had a terrible shock and you’re giving her another one.”

  “It won’t kill her, Mama. Come, come, calm down, little sister. I’m going to see what I can do to free him. I’ll see you later, Mama. Console yourself and take care of her. She needed to know everything, don’t you see?”

  She bent down and kissed them both, then went out into the street that led to the sea. The daily flood of vendors, sailors out enjoying themselves, and prostitutes welcomed her with a deafening sound.

  She hurried her step and arrived out of breath in Bel-Air. Several homes as rich and luxurious as the Saint-Ars’ rose up at the far end of immense courtyards lined with elm trees.

  Minette stopped just in front of an enormous gate and knocked. A furious barking of dogs answered her. Trembling, she leaped backward. At the same moment, one of the shutters of the immense doors opened slightly and a Negro’s head appeared.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “To see Mademoiselle Céliane.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Minette.”

  “Come in,” he said without hesitation, which led Minette to believe she was expected.

  “The dogs!”

  “Come in,” repeated the Negro. “They’re chained up.”

  A long path, guarded by slaves dressed as footmen, led up to the planter’s lavish home. Each time he crossed one of the footmen, he made a knowing gesture. As she walked, Minette thought of the expression she would have if she ran into Céliane’s uncle. He hated her, that one, as much as Mesplès and all the other horrible, racist Whites. They must hate all people of color just as much as they hated her and Minette was surprised at her inability to figure out why. After all, it was easy to say: “There are too many of us; they’re afraid,” or “Too many freedmen are rich; that bothers them,” or even, “They don’t like our color and our blood.” But those were nothing but pretexts. The last was an especially weak explanation: the Whites were very fond of pure Negro women. So what then?

  As she thought over all of these things, she had arrived with the slave at a gallery that lead to an apartment situated somewhat independently from the rest of the house. The slave ran up to a door, careful to stay hidden, and proceeded to knock. It opened immediately and a woman’s voice whispered:

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Mistress,” breathed the slave. “The young lady is here.”

  “Thank you, Tabou. Tell her to come in.”

  How mysterious, thought Minette to herself. What’s she afraid of?

  She entered into the bedroom, modestly furnished with a bed, a table, and a few ironwood chairs. A large golden crucifix was suspended above the bed and a painting of Saint Cécile hung on the wall. Two young slaves, one a câpresse and the other a Negress, were seated in a corner of the room.

  “Light the lamp,” said Céliane de Caradeux to the câpresse.

  Then turning, she put her hand on Minette’s shoulder.

  “You may speak freely. No one here will betray you.”

  Minette looked at the slaves: they were dressed decently in white gingham, their hair wrapped in white scarves that covered their ears. They wore leather sandals on their feet. On neither of their faces could be seen that trace of brutish stupidity so common among young female slaves. Involuntarily, she compared them to Fleurette and Roseline.

  “Someone’s coming, Mistress,” said the Negress suddenly, leaning toward Mlle de Carade
ux.

  A footstep fell on the left gallery and someone knocked on the door of the room.

  “Who’s there?” asked Mlle de Caradeux. “Go and see, Phryné.”

  The Negress rose and opened the door.

  A voice could be heard immediately:

  “My master requests Mistress’ presence in the salon.”

  “Very well.”

  Phryné closed the door. Céliane de Caradeux leaned on the table, trembling.

  “I’m going to have to fight again, dear Lord,” she muttered. “Give me strength. Quick, Nanouche, pass me my veil.”

  The câpresse handed her a long white veil with which she covered her magnificent blond hair. She was standing near the portrait of Saint Cécile and Minette was struck by the resemblance between the two.

  “Wait for me, Minette. This won’t take long.”

  The two slaves opened the door for her and she went out, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

  Several long minutes passed in silence. Nanouche took a rosary from her pocket and began to fumble with it, and Phryné began reading a holy book. Observing them with astonishment, Minette saw that their hands were trembling just as those of their mistress had trembled. These were not slaves. Out of two miserable creatures born into a life of brute animals, Mlle de Caradeux had crafted conscious beings who trembled not before the threat of punishment but simply from love and devotion for another being.

  “How hard it must be,” sighed Phryné, placing next to her the holy book that was none other than the book of Saint Cécile.

  “Poor Mistress!”

  Abruptly, the sound of voices broke the silence. A man’s voice – harsh and sharp – spat out a string of words that sounded like they had been cut with a knife. Heels hammered at the bricks of the left-side gallery and an authoritative hand pushed open the door to the room.

  “I’ve had enough, do you hear me,” said the voice. “I’ve had enough of sending away your suitors. You look ridiculous in that pious little get-up…Your head is filled with all sorts of nonsense and…”

  The Marquis de Caradeux entered his daughter’s room wearing a velvet doublet. Tall, with a pale face framed by ash-blond hair, he had as much beauty and allure as she did. He was ten years older than his brother, whom he had made his associate and overseer. They were the most feared planters for miles around. Greedy, cruel, ambitious, and criminal, they had turned their home into a political meeting place where, fervent slavers, they battled the slightest signs of relenting on the Government’s part in favor of the freedmen and kept their slaves in a state of ignorance and superstition, so better to exploit them. The nobility of their blood made them sacred beings and descendants of Jesus, as far as their slaves believed, scared as they were at the mere sight of them. They had made themselves invulnerable in declaring to the slaves that whoever tried to kill them would be doomed to the eternal flames of hell. Their preferred punishment was most often the penalty by fire, thus rendering this prophecy more concrete. Certain nights, one could see flames from the pyre on which some wretch was dying, gagged, contorted in agony.

  The Marquis’ wife had died giving birth to Céliane. At the age of twelve, he had sent her to study in Nantes, from which she returned with a calling to the faith. He cared about his daughter, and loved her in his way. The day she told him of her decision, he became blind with rage and, hoping to distract her from what he called “her foolish pietism,” he brought her out into society, organized sumptuous parties, and introduced her to the very best members of his entourage. All to no avail…

  He closed the door behind him without noticing Minette.

  “You will marry, my daughter, whether you want to or not. I have no heir to spare for the convent. I’ve worked hard to provide you with a dowry. In exchange, you’ll give me grandchildren. The Count of Chateaumorond has left disappointed. You looked like a nun wearing that veil of yours. From now on, I forbid you to wear it.”

  Turning his head to rip it off of her, his eyes met those of Minette.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, as if trying to figure out where he had seen her face before.

  “She’s an actress with the Comédie,” answered Céliane de Caradeux in a plaintive voice.

  Minette rose from her chair. The Marquis walked over to her.

  “Yes, I recognize her. It’s the ‘young person’ with the beautiful voice. Well now that’s better, young lady,” he said more gently to his daughter, placing a long, thin hand on her head. “I wouldn’t recommend you associate with someone like her publicly, but for a little distraction, perhaps she’s just the thing.”

  Minette turned pale, as she always did when insulted. Céliane de Caradeux noticed.

  “This ‘young person,’ ” she answered sweetly, “ate in my presence at Prince William’s table.”

  “That was the extravagance of a young hothead on holiday. Do you really think, my child, that Prince William would have set such an example in Jamaica?”

  Céliane de Caradeux lowered her head.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” the Marquis said sharply. “If this young person is willing to distract us with her talent, I’ll happily pay whatever it takes to satisfy her…”

  He looked Minette over from head to toe and smiled.

  “Farewell, my child. I intend for you to marry very soon,” he added, pinching his daughter’s cheek.

  Once the door closed behind him, Céliane de Caradeux let herself fall onto the bed, where she remained curled up into a ball for several minutes. Then, finally reacting, she turned her sad, sweet face to Minette:

  “What did you want to tell me, Minette?”

  “Mademoiselle!”

  She threw herself down at the foot of the bed and raised her head to the planter’s daughter.

  “Mademoiselle, will you help me?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “A week ago, a young freedman named Joseph Ogé was brought here: he’s my brother.”

  “You’ve seen the kind of man my father is. There’s no way I can help you,” she said, as if ashamed.

  She seemed to think for a moment and then, suddenly, panic washed over her face and she looked around for her two slaves. Then, lowering her head, she hid her face in her hands and slid to her knees at the foot of the bed, right next to Minette.

  “My Lord,” she murmured, “have pity on that poor soul.”

  Minette suddenly had an idea.

  “If only the law allowed it, my brother would be a priest,” she whispered to the young girl.

  “Oh!” whimpered Céliane de Caradeux.

  And her gaze lifted, seeking the eyes of the saint in whose footsteps she hoped to follow. She would go find her father and make a deal with him: Joseph Ogé’s freedom for her own marriage. Voilà, it was settled. She rose and, without looking at Minette, said:

  “Now go. You’ll soon see your brother again.”

  “Oh! Thank you, thank you, Mademoiselle. Bless you.”

  “Do you know how to pray?”

  Faced with such a candid and pure expression, Minette lowered her eyes for the first time in her life.

  “Joseph will pray for you, Mademoiselle,” she promised.

  And clasping her hand, she brought it to her lips. That gesture reminded her of another she had made with Mme Saint-Ar. Was she going to be deceived yet again? No, those blue eyes reminded her of Joseph’s, just as her own reminded her of Zoé Lambert’s. The eyes, if one knows them well, rarely lie – and Minette had just lowered hers before the celestial glow that dwelled in the depths of the eyes of the planter’s daughter.

  She left the room, escorted by the two slaves who led her to the gate, where they were met by the furious barking of the dogs.

  XXIII

  ALTHOUGH EVERYONE remained unsettled by the disaster of the overturned stands, Minette had the feeling that Jasmine’s morale was not completely crushed. What was keeping her spirits up? The hope that Joseph would soon be freed? Her daughters’ success? Min
ette could not tell. Too many different feelings were knocking about inside her. It was keeping her from figuring out what was most important. Even her love seemed to have dimmed. She had the impression that her memory of Jean-Baptiste Lapointe was alive in her heart but no longer rose to her brain. She thought about him in flashes of memory quickly overshadowed by the daily battles she was fighting. Her days were spent at the Comédie, at fittings, and in the evening she studied her role late into the night. From the money Durand had given her for her costumes, she had siphoned off a little bit, which was putting food on the table. She was going to find herself back onstage and, in order to show up her white rivals, she was extravagant with her costumes, buying velvet, taffeta, and lace without even thinking about the cost.

  Once she had finished her errands, she went back home. Turning the corner, she noticed people gathered around her house. Running, she pushed away the neighbors and tried to open the door, which wouldn’t budge. She then began to shout, “It’s me, Minette, open the door…” It opened immediately. Lise had propped two chairs against it to keep the vendors from coming in. She was crying. Jasmine was crouched at Joseph’s feet and, chin in her hand, was rocking back and forth in a sort of lamentation.

  “Joseph!” shouted Minette.

  She hurled herself at him, crying with joy. Then, taking his face in her hands:

  “Mademoiselle de Caradeux kept her promise. When did they let you go?”

  He had changed. His was thin and drawn. He looked at Minette and smiled without answering.

  The silence suddenly seemed strange to her.

  “Joseph!” she cried. “What’s the matter with you? What did they do to you?”

  He had a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand. He looked at them nervously. Jasmine grabbed the paper from his hands and handed it to Minette. It was Joseph’s handwriting. She read the words she saw there:

  They cut off my tongue.

  “No, no!” she cried again. “No, no…”

  She threw herself to the ground at his feet and began weeping desperately, repeating:

  “No, no…”