Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [327]
“Paul,” she said, after studying him briefly. “It is Paul, I think. The son of Nanon.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “Nanon is my mother.”
“And your father is that blanc doctor,” the woman said. “A strange man. I remember him.”
Paul nodded. For a moment he wondered if the mention of his father would allow the djab to recover his trail. But his mind remained tranquil as he looked up at this tall colored woman.
“I am Madame Fortier,” she said. “And here is my husband, Fortier, who has no conversation. You were at our house in Dondon with your mother, long ago. You were much smaller then, but still I know you.” She stretched down her hand. “Come up here where I can talk to you.”
Paul took her hand and pulled himself up onto the wagon. Madame Fortier sat down on the box, tucking in her skirt to make room for him.
“Do you know what is happening out there on the water?” she said.
“No,” said Paul. He looked at the shallop, which was again under way for La Cornélie.
“General Rigaud is on that ship,” Madame Fortier said. “The blanc Leclerc has had him arrested on some pretext and now he will be deported to France. That little boat has all the goods which Madame Rigaud brought out to start her life here again with her family. Those blanc sailors have pretended to capsize the boat so they can say that the goods were lost under the sea, but in reality they have already stolen them.”
Madame Fortier took a deep breath while Paul considered this information. “Rigaud and his family will go to France as paupers now. That is how the blancs are, always. They pile trickery onto their treachery, and then more betrayals on top of that. And do not think that they are finished. No, they have only just begun.”
“You talk too much to a little boy,” Fortier said, without turning to look at them. His gaze was still centered between the ears of the mule.
“He is small, but he has intelligence,” Madame Fortier said. “His father has very much intelligence, however peculiar he may be, and his mother . . . no fool. You would see it in his face if you looked at him.”
“So much the worse,” Fortier said, without turning his head. Instead of hostility, Paul heard a dry hint of amusement in his voice. And he liked how Madame Fortier spoke of his father in the present tense. It made him feel that Maman Maig’ ’s prediction would work out favorably.
“We took no part in the quarrel between Rigaud and Toussaint,” Madame Fortier said. “But it is difficult not to become entangled in such complications.”
In his mind, Paul was fretting over a few unclear memories aroused by her mention of a house at Dondon. He could remember coffee trees, on a steep terrace. The freckled man had brought them there, he thought.
“There is no peace in our mountains now,” Madame Fortier said. “Not at Dondon and not at Vallière. Neither the blancs nor Toussaint’s people seem to be able to hold either one of those places for more than a week. First it is Sans-Souci, and then the blancs climb up from Fort Liberté, and then perhaps it is Christophe and then more blancs coming out from Le Cap . . . well, it is very troublesome.” She waved her hand. “Most of our workers have gone off with Sans-Souci, and the rest have been frightened away by the blancs, or conscripted by them, one or the other . . .”
“Sans-Souci will never give in to them,” Fortier said unexpectedly.
“No,” said Madame Fortier. “He won’t. But Sans-Souci does not know how many blancs there are in France. If enough of them are willing to come here, they may kill him.”
“Toussaint did not know how many blancs there were in France either,” Fortier said.
“No, he didn’t,” Madame Fortier said. “But now who is putting too many words in the ears of this little boy? I don’t think I have ever heard you talk so much, before company.”
She turned to Paul again. “I have not been to France myself, but one of my sons was there. Jean-Michel, though more likely you knew him as Choufleur—I can’t think that you remember him