Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [413]
Leclerc turned to Toussaint and said, “Tell me, General, if you had chosen to continue the struggle, how would you have procured your arms and ammunition?”
Toussaint turned and smiled more naturally than Placide had seen him do since he left the church at Marmelade that morning. “Why,” he said. “I would have taken them from you.”
At the far end of the table, Daspir was doing what he could, which was not much, to dissuade Paltre from a stupid jape he kept trying on Christophe. Paltre had filled Christophe’s glass with wine, but the black general did not want it. As often as Christophe poured it back into the bottle, Paltre refilled the glass and, with a fixed grin, set it again before him. Paltre was already drunk, Daspir saw, and certainly on something stronger and rougher than this wine, and no one, least of all Christophe, was in any humor for this teasing. Robillard and the other black captains who sat with him, especially that one with the terrible scars, had all gone very silent and grave. But Paltre would not notice Daspir’s nudging.
At the fifth reprise, Christophe crushed the balloon of the wine glass with a quick movement of his large hand, then held out his palm, full of wine and blood mingled, under Paltre’s nose.
“You desire to see me drink?” he said, in a grating tone that carried from one end of the room to the other. “Before today, I have drunk blood from the skulls of little white men like you. Insist, and one day I will drink a toast from yours.”
For one grisly instant the whole room fell silent; even the ringing of silverware stopped. Leclerc and the others at the head of the table must certainly have heard what Christophe had said, and yet they affected not to, until Pauline shrilled out some pleasantry which Isabelle took up and extended. Daspir yearned toward Isabelle, hopelessly since she was many places distant from him. Christophe wiped his palm clean with a napkin and squeezed it in his hand to stop the bleeding, lowering the balled cloth to his knees. With his left hand he spooned up a morsel of his food, and Robillard and the others started some semblance of conversation.
Only Paltre remained immobile, pale and staring, as if Christophe’s words had transfixed him physically. A yellow sweat gathered on the fine hairs at his temple and in the creases of his broken nose. It had just occurred to Daspir that Paltre must really be unwell (not merely drunk as usual), when Paltre flopped out of his seat to the floor—as he fell, a great quantity of black vomit rolled out of his mouth as if poured from a bowl. Daspir started up and back before the vile-smelling stuff could reach his shoes—he looked for Doctor Hébert, who was already hurrying down toward them.
“What’s the matter with him?” Guizot said uneasily.
The doctor looked up from where he’d squatted by Paltre’s head, to take a pulse from his limp arm. “Mal de Siam,” he said shortly. “The yellow fever. Come on, we’ve got to get him out of here.”
Another pall of silence had fallen over the room. Daspir reached down to get a grip, but Guizot had already raised Paltre’s shoulders and two of the black guardsmen, the scarred one and the one they called Riau, had taken his feet. Empty-handed and feeling quite useless, Daspir followed them toward the door. A servant had come to mop up the vomit. As they left the room, the babble of festivity was gradually renewed.
“Fatigué?” The little boy’s voice held more curiosity than concern. Tired? And truly, Elise felt so exhausted she could scarcely turn her head to look at him. Little Dieufait—child of Marie-Noelle and Moustique. He looked at her round-eyed, pleasantly smiling.
“Pa