Explosion in a Cathedral, page 22
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Days later, there was a great uproar around the port, that is to say, in the entire city. Captain Christophe Chollet, whom no one had heard from for months, was returning with his people amid thundering salvoes, bringing nine ships captured in a naval battle in the waters of Barbados. They flew Spanish, English, North American flags, and one of the last to arrive was holding the rarest of cargo: an opera company, with musicians, sheet music, and set pieces. The troupe belonged to Monsieur Faucompré, a splendid tenor who had for years taken Grétry’s Richard Coeur-de-Lion from Cap Français to Havana and New Orleans as part of a repertoire which also included Zémire et Azor, La Serva Padrona, La Belle Arsène, and other magnificent productions, complemented at times with subtle stage machinery, magic mirrors, and storm scenes. His mission of taking lyrical art to Caracas and other cities in the Americas where lesser companies, being cheap to transport, had begun to bring in great profits, had ended in Pointe-à-Pitre, a city without a theater. But when Monsieur Faucompré, a businessman as well as an artist, heard of the colony’s newfound wealth, he was pleased to have landed there, after the fright of being boarded, when he’d astutely assisted his patriots, giving helpful instructions from the shelter of a hatchway. His company was French, he was among Frenchmen now, and the singer, who had known how to fire up royalists in the colonies with the aria “Oh, Richard! Oh, mon Roi!,” had readily yielded to the revolutionary sentiment of the times, belting out “Le Réveil du Peuple” from the quarterdeck of the admiral’s ship to the crew’s delight, with fermatas that made—as the supercargo confirmed—the glasses in the officers’ mess quiver. Faucompré came accompanied by Madame Villeneuve, whose talent was versatile enough, when needed, to play the innocent shepherdess, the mother of the Gracchi, or an ill-fated queen, and the chatty blonde Demoiselles Montmousset and Jeandevert, who had thoroughly mastered the lighter style of Paisiello and Cimarosa. The ships taken in gallant combat were forgotten when the company disembarked, with its women in showy, sophisticated gowns of a style still unknown in Guadeloupe, where few had seen floppy hats, Greek sandals, or those nearly transparent tunics, the waistline just below the breasts, that flattered the body by following its contours. Out came trunks stuffed with suits as lavish as they were sweaty, columns and thrones borne on men’s shoulders, a clavichord taken for concerts to the governor’s house on a mule-drawn cart no less carefully than if they were transporting the Ark of the Covenant. The Theater had arrived to a theaterless city, and opportune preparations were made . . . The platform for the guillotine being well suited for a stage, the Machine was moved to a courtyard nearby, abandoned to the hens, who slept high on its uprights. The boards were washed and brushed till no traces of blood remained, and the players stretched a canvas between the trees to start rehearsals of a work favored above all the others in their repertoire for its universal fame and for certain of its verses that proclaimed the revolutionary spirit: The Village Soothsayer, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Monsieur Faucompré had brought along few musicians, and attempts were made to swell their ranks with the Basque Huntsmen’s band and instruments. But seeing the latter’s gallant determination to execute their parts five beats behind the others, the conductor of the Company chose to relinquish their services, leaving the accompaniment to a pianist, a small wind section, and the violins, which were indispensable and which Monsieur Anse had gone to the trouble of tuning. One night, there was a gala in the Place de la Victoire, an evening gala where all the newly (extremely) rich of the colony turned out. Once the lower classes had filled the spaces adjacent to those reserved for their superiors, the plebes being cordoned off with velvet ropes with tricolor ribbons, the captains stepped forth in abundant braid, insignia, ribbons, and rosettes, arm in arm with their bejeweled, braceleted, bespangled doudous, whose precious and not so precious stones, Mexican silver, and Marguerite pearls shone wherever they could be placed to favorable display. Esteban attended with a Mademoiselle Athalie Bajazet sparkling and transfigured, glowing with sequins, nude under a Greek tunic of the latest fashion. In the front row, Victor Hugues and his functionaries, in the midst of devoted and solicitous women, had themselves passed trays of punch and wine without turning their heads to those in the back: the mothers of the lucky concubines, obese, big-bottomed, their hefty udders unworthy of display, in outmoded dresses laboriously let out, adjusted, patched, to accommodate their overflowing humanity. Esteban saw Victor furrow his brow when Antoine Fuët’s arrival was greeted with an ovation, but just then, the Overture sounded, and Madame Villeneuve attacked Colette’s aria, silencing the clapping hands:
Lost is all my peace of mind
Since Colin proved unkind.
Alas! He’s gone forever . . .
The Soothsayer appeared with his exaggerated Strasbourg accent, and the play went on to elicit a delight in its audience that the guillotine’s novel action had provoked not long before. The public, quick to catch any passing allusion, applauded all the verses that alluded to revolution, which the character Colin, interpreted by Monsieur Faucompré, underscored with winks at the Agent of the Directory and the officers and captains with their consorts.
My charming mistress I’ll see again,
Goodbye to my riches, comforts, domaines . . .
What great lords did every hour
For my Phoebe fondly sigh!
Yet in spite of their power
They are less happy than I.
There were shouts of enthusiasm when the Finale came, and they repeated it five times before the public’s insatiable demands:
They boast of noise and splendor in town
But more heartfelt enjoyments our festivals crown:
While dance and song
Our bliss prolong
And beauty warms
With artless charms
What music e’er can with our pipes compare?
The festivities ended with revolutionary hymns roared by Monsieur Faucompré in a sans-culotte attire, then a grand soiree was held in the Palace of Government, with a toasting of wines from great estates. Victor Hugues, unmindful of the insistent Madame Villeneuve, whose mature beauty recalled the sumptuous Ledas of the Flemish masters, was immersed in intimate dialogue with a Martinican mestiza, Marie-Anne-Angelique Jacquin, whom he’d seemed strangely attached to since, hemmed in by intrigues, he’d come perhaps to crave that human warmth which as a Sovereign he wished to disdain. That night, the friendless man showed himself friendly to all. When he passed behind Esteban, he gave him a fatherly clap on the shoulder. Just before dawn, he retired to his rooms, while Modeste Fuët and Commissar Lebas—a man in the Agent’s confidence held by some, perhaps without reason, to be a spy of the Directory—left for the outskirts of the city with the two pretty ladies, Montmousset and Jeandevert. The young scribe, well in his cups, returned on dark streets to his hotel, amused at how Mademoiselle Athalie Bajazet, taking off her antique-style sandals, pulled her tunic halfway up her thigh to step over the puddles left behind by the previous day’s rain. The thought of splashing mud on her clothing continued to worry her, and finally she pulled her dress over her head, leaving it slung around her shoulders and neck. “It’s a hot night,” she said as an excuse, swatting the mosquitoes that swarmed around her buttocks. Behind them rang out the last hammer blows of men striking the set of the opera.
XXVIII.
On July 7, 1798—there were events for which the Republican calendar was unsuitable—the United States declared war on France in American waters. The news resounded like a thunderclap through all the ministries of Europe. But for a long while, the prosperous, voluptuous, sanguinary island of Our Lady of Guadeloupe knew nothing of the news, which had to cross the Atlantic twice to reach her. People went about their business, complaining daily of summer, which had been particularly torrid that year. An epidemic carried off the occasional livestock; there was a lunar eclipse; the Battalion of Basque Huntsmen’s band gave public concerts; and there were fires in the fields of esparto desiccated by the sun. Victor Hugues knew the spiteful General Pelardy was doing everything in his power to discredit him in the Directory’s eyes, but after surviving so many tribulations, he felt there was no one who could replace him. “So long as I can send the gentlemen their ration of gold,” he liked to say, “they will leave me in peace.” In the watering-holes of Pointe-à-Pitre, people said his personal fortune had grown to more than a million pounds. There was talk of a possible marriage between him and Marie-Anne-Angelique Jacquin. In that moment, propelled by a growing appetite for riches, he formed an agency responsible for the administration of émigré property, public finances, the arming of the corsairs, and the monopoly on customs dues. Great was the furor this initiative unleashed, affecting many his government had favored up to then. So much talk there was of its arbitrariness in the streets and in the plazas that the guillotine was brought out again for a brief new period of terror intended to serve as a timely warning. The wealthy, the privileged, the prevaricating functionaries, those profiting from estates abandoned by their landlords, all had to swallow their protests. Behemoth was become merchant, ringed in by measures, weights, and scales, at all hours counting the takings his warehouses engulfed. When word came of the United States’ declaration of war, the same men who had sacked American ships blamed Victor Hugues for what they saw now as a disaster, with catastrophic consequences for the colony. As the news had been a long time in coming, the island, already surrounded by enemy ships, might well be attacked today, this very afternoon, or maybe tomorrow. There was talk of a powerful squadron coming from Boston, of troops disembarking in Basse-Terre, of an impending blockade . . . This unease and agitation dominated the public mood on the afternoon when the carriage Victor Hugues used for his jaunts through the city’s outskirts stopped at the Loeuillet printing shop, where Esteban was correcting a set of proofs. “Put that aside,” the Agent shouted through a window, “and come with me to Le Gosier.” On the way, they spoke of trivial events. When they reached the cove, the Agent told him to climb into a boat and, removing his coat, he rowed them to an islet. On the beach he stretched languidly, uncorked a bottle of English cider, and began to speak in measured tones: “They’re turning me out. There’s no other way of saying it: they’re turning me out. The gentlemen of the Directory wish for me to travel to Paris and give an account of my administration. Not just that: they’re sending over one of their minions from the army, General Desfourneaux, to be my substitute, while that bastard Pelardy will be making his triumphal return as Commander of the Armed Forces.” He lay back on the sand, looking at the sky, which was starting to cloud over. “I’m supposed to hand over power now. But I still have people on my side.” “Will you declare war on France?” asked Esteban. After what had happened with the United States, he felt there was nothing Victor wasn’t capable of. “France, no. Its despicable government . . . perhaps.” In the long silence that followed, the young man wondered why the Agent, so little inclined to sharing confidences, had chosen him to relieve himself of the burden of news still unknown to all—catastrophic news for a man who had known no grave adversity throughout his career. Victor spoke again: “There’s no reason for you to stay in Guadeloupe. I’ll give you a safe conduct to Cayenne. From there you can travel on to Paramaribo. There are Spanish and North American ships there. You’ll manage.” Esteban suppressed his jubilation, afraid he was falling into a trap, as he had before. But now everything became clear. Defeated, Victor told him he had been sending medicine, money, and provisions to several deportees in Sinnamary and Kourou. Esteban knew many of the great heroes of the Revolution were imprisoned in Guiana, but how things truly stood was never clear, since more than once, he’d heard men referred to as deportees and later seen their signatures on articles published in the Paris press. He was ignorant of the fate of Collot d’Herbois in American domains. He’d been told Billaud-Varenne was somewhere near Cayenne, raising parrots. “I’ve just found out the swine from the Directory have forbidden all shipments to Billaud from France. They want him to die poor and starving,” Victor said. “Wasn’t Billaud one of the men who betrayed the Incorruptible?” Esteban asked. Victor rolled up his sleeves to scratch at the rash reddening his forearms. “This is no time to reproach a great revolutionary. Billaud made his mistakes: the mistakes of a patriot. I will not stand by while they starve him like a dog.” For now, however, he’d best avoid being seen as the protector of a former member of the Committee of Public Safety. What he wished for from Esteban, in exchange for his liberty, was that he embark the next day on the Vénus de Médicis, a schooner leaving for Cayenne with a cargo of flour and wine, to deposit a large sum of money in the hands of his disgraced friend. “Watch out for Jeannet, the local Agent of the Directory. He has a sick envy for me. He tries to imitate me in everything he does, but he’s a sorry caricature. A cretin. I nearly declared war on him.” Esteban noticed that Victor, whose complexion had always been healthy, had an unpleasant yellow shade to his skin, and his belly swelled immoderately under his badly buttoned shirt. “Well, petiot,” he said with unwonted affection, “I will jail this Desfourneaux on his arrival. And then we’ll see what happens. For you, the great adventure is over. You will go home now, back to your family and their warehouse. It’s a good firm: take care of it. I can’t imagine what you must think of me. That I’m a monster, perhaps. But don’t forget: there are moments in history that are not made for gentle men.” He grabbed a bit of sand and let it spill from one hand into the other as if they were the twin bulbs of an hourglass. “The Revolution is crumbling. I’ve nothing to hold onto. I believe in nothing.” Night was falling. They crossed the cove once more, returned to their coach, and departed for the government offices. Victor gathered a few parcels and envelopes sealed with wax. “This is the safe conduct, with money for you. This is for Billaud. This letter is for Sofía. Bon voyage, mon émigré.” In a sentimental transport, Esteban embraced the Agent: “Why did you ever get involved in politics?” he asked, remembering the days when his friend had yet to lose his freedom to the exercise of a power that had become a kind of tragic vassalage. “Perhaps because I was born a baker,” Victor said. “If the negroes hadn’t burned my bakery that night, the United States Congress might never have met to declare war on France. If Cleopatra’s nose . . . who was it who said that . . . ?” Once outside, walking to his lodgings, Esteban had the sense of living in a future forged by proximity to great changes. He was strangely disengaged from his surroundings. Everything known and common became foreign to his life. He stopped at the Corsairs’ Lodge, knowing he was looking at it for the last time. He entered a tavern to take leave of his own presence there, alone, with a glass of brandy spiced with lemon and nutmeg. The bar, the barrels, the bellow of the mulatta waitresses, all of them were things of the past. The ties were broken. Again those tropics that had absorbed him for so long had turned strange, exotic. In the Place de la Victoire, Monsieur Anse’s assistants were busy dismantling the guillotine. On the island, the Machine had seen its vile labors through to the end. The gleaming, steel-blue triangle, raised high in its guides by the Plenipotentiary, lay once more in its casket. They took away the Narrow Door through which so many had passed, going from light to the night of no return. The Instrument, the only one of its kind to reach America, like a secular appendage of Liberty, would grow moldy now amid castoff iron stored in some warehouse. The night before he gambled it all, Victor Hugues was secreting away the artifact he had seen, along with the printing press and armaments, as an absolute necessity, favoring a form of dying—for himself, perhaps—in which man, in the supreme attitude of pride, could contemplate himself in death.
