Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [58]
“He is poor, and she is not rich either. I have money enough for both of them. They will not be in need,” he announced to them.
Then he went down to the street again.
“I am a black man,” he shouted, “and I spit in your faces. Dreadful are you who see evil everywhere. You soil every noble feeling with your stifled and bastardly minds. I am certain that God spits on this province as I do, and the day will come when you shall feel the weight of His mighty and avenging hand.”
Curious onlookers gathered on the veranda and crossed themselves piously. Eight days later, Dr. Audier was woken up in the middle of the night. He only had time to throw on a robe as his servant led him by flickering candlelight to the Granduprés’. Agnès was already coughing up blood, and she died in Georges Soubiran’s arms, holding old Mathurin’s hand.
Her parents seemed to be in a daze. Sitting by the coffin of their only child, they watched a procession of heads go by that only yesterday had been turned away from them. Then Mathurin rose:
“We will bury Mademoiselle Grandupré without you,” he shouted. “Let her at least rest in peace.”
And Mme Grandupré, suddenly feeling her pain, ignored my mother’s outstretched hand.
I looked at Agnès, so pale and white that I envied her. Her hands were clasped on her chest, and Georges Soubiran was kneeling near the coffin in tears. I wish I died in her place, I told myself. Pursing her lips, my mother then pushed me aside and we left the Grandupré house. I stole away from home and followed the funeral procession up to the cemetery. Standing beside the freshly dug grave, Georges Soubiran recited one of Agnès’s poems and swore that her name would be forever engraved in literature …
The terrible political news that reached us that evening by way of a few passengers off the British boat prevented my parents from punishing what they called my insubordination. It was July 27, 1915, a dreadful date that would forever destroy my father’s political ambitions, ruin his good health and lead him straight to his grave.
The next day, we were still in bed when we were startled by Dr. Audier’s voice calling for my father.
“Clamont! Port-au-Prince is up in arms. The Palais National was attacked and the political prisoners were shot.”
“Where did you hear this?” asked my father, looking haggard, his hair disheveled.
“From a student, Justin Rollier. He arrived on horseback last night.”
Then Laurent arrived, out of breath, to announce that President Sam had been assassinated.
“They broke into the French embassy where the president had sought refuge. They murdered him. His body was mutilated and dragged in the streets … Ah Clamont, I can’t go on, I really can’t …”
“What?” screamed my father. “Speak, Laurent, I beg of you.”
“The Americans!”
“What? What about the Americans?”
“Their troops have landed at Bizoton. They are taking every key position in the capital.”
“Laurent! Come now!” my father said as gently as possible, “have you lost your mind?”
“Alas! No, Clamont.”
He didn’t notice Dr. Audier gesturing in protest behind my father’s back. He brought in Justin Rollier, still covered in mud from his long trip on horseback.
“Tell him, Justin. Tell Monsieur Clamont what you saw with your own eyes.”
He noticed me at the door of my room in my nightgown and he stuttered in embarrassment. I quickly shut the door, threw on my robe and went down to find Augustine in her quarters.
“Up already, Mademoiselle Claire?” she exclaimed in astonishment.
“I’ll have my coffee here.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“Give me some bread and butter, too.”
“There, Mademoiselle … I’ll see if Mademoiselle Félicia is up now, and then I’ll come back to get a tray for Madame and Sir.”
I heard a scream and rushed upstairs: my father lay on the ground before