Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [157]
“They must suppose it is some witchcraft,” said Maillart from his place crouched over the fire. When it had burned down, he scraped the ashes into the canal with the side of his boot, then threw in handfuls of the rings and chains and hearts. Riau’s eyes were sharp on him as the trinkets turned glittering through the cloudy water and disappeared in the silt of the bottom. Why throw away such articles of value? When they were done, Maillart and Lacroix concluded to give the letterbox to Riau—it was a well-crafted article, after all, and there seemed no urgent reason to destroy it.
Two days later, Maillart attended General Lacroix as he conducted a review of the troops of the Port-au-Prince garrison. Lacroix still moved with a slight hitch in his step from his leg wound, but the crispness of the drill was unmarred. The colonial troops who’d come over to the French at the time of the Port-au-Prince landing had by then been incorporated into Boudet’s force, and together they gave a good showing. As the review concluded, Maillart noticed Paul Lafrance standing nearby, with Riau saying something in his ear. The old man was grizzled and a little stooped, but his brigadier’s uniform was impeccable.
He seemed to be trying to catch Lacroix’s eye, and once Maillart had given him a nudge in the right direction, Lacroix crossed the parade ground and greeted him warmly. Paul Lafrance had brought his wife with him to attend to the review, and also three daughters: Agnès, Marie-Odette, and Célestine. Lacroix bowed deeply over the hand of Madame Lafrance, a jet-black woman of a regal height, then turned his courtesies toward the girls. They were lovely, all three of them, in their early bloom, and dressed as they might be for church. All three were demure, their eyes downcast, but though their parents held themselves as stiffly, formally upright as the soldiers who’d lately stood to attention on the parade ground, the girls could not help themselves from swaying and shimmering like flowers in a moist spring breeze. They were as light on their feet as young deer and . . . a man might be moved to impure thoughts, but Maillart saw how Lacroix paid his respects in a genuinely respectful manner, so he followed that example. It was plain that Paul Lafrance was appreciating this decorum. Riau was easier with the girls, and perhaps he had known them from before, for he thought of something to whisper to Marie-Odette that made her bridle and swirl away, the whites of her eyes flashing, the grace of her movement such that Maillart’s breath caught for a moment in his throat.
“Gentlemen, you must come to my house,” Paul Lafrance was saying. “Only for a moment—it is quite near, and there you may escape the heat and find something to refresh you.”
“With pleasure,” Lacroix said, and Maillart fell into step with him as they walked where the old brigadier led them. The house was just a block away from where they’d stood. Paul Lafrance rattled the bars of the gate, and a servant came out quickly to unchain it. The small dooryard was choked by two large hibiscus bushes; their lurid blooms brushed over Maillart’s sleeves as they passed through.
Within it seemed quite dark, as the windows were blinded, but cool as Paul Lafrance had promised. Maillart squinted into the shadows. The room seemed sparsely furnished: a low carved table, a few wooden chairs. There was a flash of light as a door opened in the rear, and the women filed through it, going off to prepare lemonade. Riau trailed them, still bantering