Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [16]
“A cat may look at a king, they say,” Howarth muttered to the doctor as they shuffled out. “He asks the hard questions, your Governor.”
What do you think of a nigger republic now? the doctor thought, but it would have been spiteful to say it aloud. It was not the first time he’d witnessed such conversions. People under Toussaint’s scrutiny would blurt out things about themselves they didn’t know they knew.
“I thought he’d drill me through the wall with that examination on the slave trade.”
“He wanted to know the prices, I think,” Doctor Hébert said. “There is a clause in his constitution which authorizes the importation of slaves.”
“You’re joking.”
“Oh no,” said the doctor. “The object is to reinforce the army, I believe. It is not yet much practiced so far as I know, but there it is written in plain black and white—I have copied out those lines myself.”
In the large reception hall the musicians went on playing merrily. Isabelle inserted herself into the doctor’s arms and waltzed him away from Captain Howarth’s astonished face. He was an indifferent dancer as a rule, but Isabelle had skill and verve enough for both of them. She led him so easily that the doctor forgot to worry about his feet and began to enjoy the music, which was very accomplished, despite the odd combination of instruments. Sometimes the Government House evenings were attended by a more orthodox orchestra, drawn from the military bands, but this evening’s troubadours, as they were styled, were making the most of their occasion. The violinist shot an occasional glance of resentment at the two trumpeters, though both had their instruments muted with rags.
The doctor glanced about the room for his acquaintances as he danced. Most were still present, but Guiaou and Riau, he noticed, were no longer to be seen. On a violin crescendo, he saw his sister drop backward almost as if fainting, giving the full weight of her shoulders to Colonel Sans-Souci’s crooked arm. She had undone the handkerchief from her bodice (probably as soon as Toussaint had retreated with his inner circle of the evening) and it now trailed from her right wrist, a flag, a signal, sweeping the dance floor at the end of her limp arm as her body turned with Sans-Souci’s expert pirouette, the white of his grin turning on the same axis above her upturned face. With her head thrown back and her free arm trailing, the blue veins beneath her jaw and on the pale underside of her free arm were brought helplessly near to the skin. The doctor was struck by that effect, in the moment before Sans-Souci’s tightening spin brought her upright again, into his embrace, flushed and excited and laughing . . . Others, too, observed them from the edges of the dance floor, General Christophe slowly stroking his chin as he studied the steps of Sans-Souci.
“There has been a letter from the First Consul, I have heard,” Isabelle whispered discreetly in his ear.
“Oh indeed.” Doctor Hébert returned his attention to his partner. One source of trepidation intruded on the other. Elise had been dancing only with Sans-Souci for more than an hour, or so it appeared. It amounted to making a public declaration. That was not the first time Elise had made some stroke of scandalous boldness. Nor was she the only white woman to consort with the black officers in these latter days. Yet with Tocquet expected any moment now, it was a little unnerving. One did not trifle with Xavier Tocquet, in any matter serious to him.
“But you are distracted,” Isabelle breathed in his ear.
The doctor returned to the moment: her small, light, bird-boned body, the steely strength he knew it hid. She laid her dark head on his collarbone.
“There is to be an expedition,” she murmured. “He sends his sister, that famous belle, Pauline.”
“In command of the expedition?”
Isabelle laughed and rapped a finger on his forearm as they waltzed around. “Oh no, of course not, but her husband . . . I forget