Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [357]
A few minutes after the rain had stopped, Cyprien came in whistling and announced that they were bidden to an evening chez Isabelle Cigny.
“I won’t go,” Daspir said gloomily.
“What? Don’t sulk,” Cyprien said. “You don’t want to rust all night in barracks.”
Daspir shrugged and stared at the floor. He felt a scratch in the back of his throat; no doubt he’d take cold from the wetting he’d got. Cyprien sat down beside him and shook him by the shoulder.
“She asked for you particularly,” he said.
“She did?” Daspir looked up.
“She did indeed,” said Paltre, who had come in with Cyprien and was now doing his best to clean the front of his coat with a wet handkerchief. “And we’re told it’s not a favor to ignore.”
Pauline flinched as the parakeet stepped from a fold of the tunic she sported onto the bare curve of her shoulder; she made a moue of exaggerated pain. The tall, cool mulattress Nanon went to her and stroked a finger down the bird’s legs; it took a backward step to this new perch.
“Comme tu es belle,” the parakeet said, turning the bead of its eye on Nanon.
“Faithless—betrayer!” Pauline chided the bird, then shifted her attention back to Xavier Tocquet. “Do tell us more about La Tortue.”
Daspir inspected Tocquet with a certain interest. He reclined in his chair with the air of a crocodile basking in shallow water, completely at ease but not especially responsive. A shadow of suspicion had passed over him, for he was thought to have been one of Toussaint’s arms suppliers, and yet more recently he had been of great service to the expedition in putting down the late rebellion at La Tortue.
“It is as pleasant an isle as you imagine, Madame,” Tocquet informed her.
“Oh!” said Pauline. “I do so want to see it.”
Tocquet smiled on her lazily, distantly. “No doubt a visit can be arranged,” he said. Daspir saw how Pauline was piqued at his indifference to her.
“I have heard the island might be a good situation for a hospital,” Leclerc said.
Tocquet put his fingertips together and rolled his head indolently toward the Captain-General. “It well might be,” he said. “For convalescents, certainly.”
“But it is a most agreeable place for people in the best of health!” Isabelle began telling a tale of her excursions to La Tortue—edenic idylls she had passed there as a child. The blonde, Elise Tocquet, put in a word or two as well, for Isabelle had taken her there at a later time. In season, one might find quantities of turtle eggs in the sands of the beach—the island took its name from the numbers of big sea turtles in the waters surrounding it, and the meat of the turtle was also delectable if properly prepared. There was wild fruit aplenty on La Tortue, and wild pigs and goats loosed on the island by filibusters generations gone, which could be succulently roasted on the boucan . . . and meanwhile one’s slaves prepared a bower where one might pass a night under the stars. Of course, that had been a more innocent time, before the present troubles had begun . . .
Daspir watched Isabelle, less engaged by her vivid descriptions of delicacies than by her movements, the snap of her dark eyes, the shape of her lips which were so full (though her mouth was small), the wing-like gestures of her hands. Had she really asked for him especially? Cyprien might have deceived him on that point, only to cheer him, and to assure his company at this evening’s entertainment. Both Cyprien and Paltre were now rather drunk, having dipped heavily into their rum gourds before presenting themselves here. Daspir had partaken more cautiously, on the chance that Cyprien’s hint might be true.
But Isabelle did not make him a particular target of her conversation— indeed she was more flirtatious with almost any other man in the room— Tocquet excepted, but Leclerc especially. And if her eyes did sometimes seem to linger on Daspir