Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [396]
Fort de Joux, France September 1802
“You are unwell,” Toussaint observed.
Caffarelli, who sat diagonally across the table from him, removed his handkerchief from his nostril to reply. Toussaint had placed himself with his back to the fire. Caffarelli was farther from the meager heat, nearer to that raw stone wall with its constant, dreary seepage.
“It is nothing,” he said, honking slightly. “A cold.”
“Take care lest it become more serious.” Toussaint smiled. “You must take every care.”
An unfolding movement of his hand seemed to indicate for Caffarelli’s benefit all of the frosty, insalubrious conditions beyond the walls, surrounding the mountaintop and the Fort de Joux. To be patronized so, by the prisoner! It was outrageous. Caffarelli blew his nose, delicately, for his nostrils were chafed, and folded the handkerchief into his pocket.
“Oh,” he said casually. “Once I have returned to the lowlands, I shall recover easily enough.”
Toussaint said nothing.
“It is still warm there, below these heights,” Caffarelli said. “You understand, it is only autumn, and a mild one too, once one has left these mountaintops.” As you can never hope to do, he added with a silent smirk.
“Allow me to wish you a safe and pleasant journey,” Toussaint said.
An unpleasant pressure spread beneath Caffarelli’s cheekbones, behind his eyes and the bones of his forehead. He sniffed, swallowed the disagreeable slime.
“I shall not see you again, General,” he said.
“No,” Toussaint agreed. “I regret the loss of your company.” He reached inside his coat and drew out two folded papers sealed with wax. “I ask you to deliver two letters for me,” he said. “One to the First Consul. The other to my wife. If you would render me this small service . . .”
“Of course,” said Caffarelli, in a milder tone than before. He glanced at the letters, then pocketed them. “I shall send you news of your family, as soon as I may. But even now I can assure you that they are treated with all consideration.”
“Thank you,” Toussaint said. “I will be glad of any news of them.” He pressed the madras cloth to the side of his jaw.
“As we shall not meet again,” Caffarelli repeated, “I wonder, General, that you do not take the opportunity to tell me something more substantial.”
“But I have nothing more to tell,” said Toussaint. “You have my memoir.” He dipped his chin. “My letters.”
“Yes, of course,” Caffarelli said, and added in a flash of irritation, “for what little they may be worth.”
But Toussaint only looked at him with his slightly rheumy brown eyes.
“Your secret pact with the English,” Caffarelli said wearily.
“There is no such secret, as I have told you many times,” Toussaint said. “You know all my dealings with the English, and they are clear as glass.”
“Your treasure,” Caffarelli said.
Toussaint blew out a fluttering, contemptuous breath, which made the flame of the candle waver.
“I have no wealth, in money,” he said.
“But in your own memoir you record that at the outbreak of the revolt you possessed six hundred and forty-eight thousand francs.”
“Sir, that was more than ten years ago, and surely you know the costs of war. That sum was all spent on the army, down to the very last sou.”
“But what of the profits of your commerce since? Your exportations, the sugar and the coffee?”
“Commerce?” Toussaint’s eyebrows lifted. “I was a planter, not a commerçant. What property I enjoy is not in money, but in land.” He paused, considering. “In fact, I owe money which for the moment I am not able to pay. For purchase of those lands of which I have told you. For one plantation I still owe four hundred portugaises, and on another, seven hundred and fifty, I believe.”
“And what of Habitation Sancey?” Caffarelli said quickly.
“Pardon?” said Toussaint. “What, indeed?”
“It was there that your chests of treasure were buried, is it not so?” Caffarelli lunged. “Fifteen million