Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [144]
Coisnon made to speak again, but Isaac was on his feet, gesticulating.
“Mon père, I can assure you that the regard of the First Consul for you—for us all!—is warm and sincere. His commitment to the liberty of our race is absolute. It is the pledge of all France. Has not liberty for us and for our people forever been the first and last of your intentions?”
Toussaint cocked back his head and caged his fingertips together. “You speak compellingly,” he said. “But how are you so sure of this commitment?”
“Why—we have heard it made ourselves, out of his own lips. And . . . he bade us to dine with himself and his family, the Captain-General Leclerc, who is married to his own sister. Papa, she is known now as the greatest beauty in all France! Colonel Vincent was there as well, and others you have always trusted. And also . . .” Isaac looked down on his gaudy uniform, the wide polished belt with its ornate weapons, “. . . the First Consul presented us these arms with his own hands.”
Somehow the sword and the chased pistols did not have the same glow they’d had at the Tuileries—though they were still brilliant, their radiance was overshadowed by the dimness of the candlelit room. Now Isaac looked to Placide for help, but Placide could say nothing. A weight lay on his lips. What unease had he felt that evening, during the grand dinner with Bonaparte and his connections? It must have been a premonition of how brittle all that show would seem, before his father.
“Well spoken.” Now Toussaint was standing on the carpet, turning to include Placide at the same moment he brushed Isaac’s epaulette. “But now you must go to your rest, my boys, for your journey has been long.” He touched Isaac’s cheek and turned from him, to raise Placide from the sofa with both hands. Stooping, Placide laid his face for a moment against his father’s collarbone, and felt the quick, hard pulse of Toussaint’s hands in the center of his back. Then he disengaged and, his eyes a little blurry, followed his brother out of the room. Suzanne, her face a mask, went after them.
On an inlaid chess table near the sofa stood a small bronze orary, designed to show the phases of the moon. The clockwork was oiled and the metal polished to a high shine, though Coisnon noticed that the arrangement of the spheres bore no relationship to this month’s almanac.
Toussaint pushed at the gears so that the bronze balls moved a few inches on their levers. He looked cannily at Coisnon.
“Perhaps my sons now have a knowledge of such instruments.”
“A little,” Coisnon said. It was Placide who’d taken an independent interest in astronomy.
“General Louverture,” Coisnon said. “Though the Captain-General Leclerc has not committed it to writing, I can tell you assuredly that he invites you to become his second in command. Go to him now! I know that you will understand each other.” He paused. “I will remain here myself, if you accept it, as a guarantee of your security, and of the honesty of what I say.”
“Monsieur.” Toussaint’s long fingers passed across his mouth, to flick away the shadow of a smile. “For the care you have given to my sons, I offer you all gratitude and my highest regard. And for your offer too, which is brave as it is generous. But it is now too late for what you propose. The war has already begun.”
Coisnon said nothing, for he felt certain that these would be Toussaint’s last words. The hand passed over the mouth again, and this time it seemed more like it was pressing down a pain. Toussaint had moved to leave the room, but he stopped and turned in the doorway.
“The people are possessed by a spirit of destruction,” he said. “Do you know?—when such a spirit has been called, it will not depart before it has eaten its fill. My officers have already begun to sack and burn everything. But if