Caribbean (72 page)

“See,” he said shyly, “she’s very pretty,” but an aunt, holding the paper close to her eyes, pointed out: “She is black,” and Père Emile explained that all silhouettes were cut from black paper and pasted onto white: “Gives the required clean outline.”

As that particular discussion dragged to a conclusion, no one offered the argument that would have been made in nearby England, that Paul was a white man and therefore the possessor of blood too precious to be melded with black. Not one Frenchman hammered at him: “But such a marriage would be unthinkable. You’d be ostracized from the best society, and your friends and their wives would cut you dead.” Even Uncle Méderic, who had pointed out the disadvantages a man might suffer if he brought his black wife to Paris, retreated: “Come to think of it, there was that fellow on the road to Marseilles. Brought back a wife he’d met in Turkey or Algeria. Remarkably dark, but no one seemed to care. If this Solange is as attractive as you say, and you’re to make your home in the islands …” And in the days that followed he stopped pressing the charms of Brigitte, but he did repeat the warning he had once issued: “Seriously, my son, any man who’s in love with two girls at the same time and in the same town …” He pressed his hands against his head: “Trouble, trouble.”

But then the revolution erupted and Cousin Paul’s problems were forgotten, for a local man who had gone to Paris to test his fortune had returned breathless with news: “They’ve forced a new form of government on the king. He tried to flee the country …”

“He what?” astonished townsmen cried, and their onetime neighbor said: “Yes, disguised as a woman, they say.”

“What happened?” a woman cried. “Was he caught?”

“Yes. Hauled him back to Paris, made him agree to a new form of government they call the Legislative Assembly. King has no power anymore. The rabble runs everything. When I left, the country roads were filled with men and women of quality fleeing Paris.”

Avid for news of changes that might affect life in Barcelonnette, the townsmen sent messengers scurrying about, but the news with which they returned was fragmentary: “Paris is in turmoil. No one knows what will happen to our beloved king.”

“Is it as serious as that?” Uncle Méderic asked gravely, recalling the praise he had heaped upon the king in his report to the Etats-General, and one of the newsgatherers replied: “Who knows? No one can really say what’s happening in Paris.”

Clothed in this shadowy uncertainty, Paul Lanzerac left Barcelonnette in the fall of 1791, his heart filled with an understanding and a love for France, and for this benevolent group of Lanzeracs in their mountain town who had made his life there so pleasant and so rewarding: “I shall never forget you. And each of you will have a home in Guadeloupe if you ever choose to come.” As he was about to climb into the cart that would start him on his way to a ship at Bordeaux, Brigitte rushed up to him, embraced him, and whispered: “Please come back, Paul. And do take care.” It was Père Emile, priest and schoolmaster, who gave the benediction of the entire town, for he said as he ran beside the cart for a short distance: “Paul, you’re a young man with a strong education and a strong character. Make something of yourself as a tribute to this town and to France.” And the young man, boy no more, rode down the mountain road with a determination to do as the priest instructed.

For a young man of intelligence and promise to cross all of southern France from the Italian border to the Atlantic coast in the closing months of 1791 was to acquire an education in contemporary realities. Along country roads he saw the impoverishment of a once-rich land, and in small villages he was greeted with looks of resentment and even hatred. One stagecoach driver warned: “Young fellow, take off that jacket. It betrays you as one to be despised,” and Paul stuffed into his bag the lace-touched jacket his Uncle Méderic had given him as a parting present.

On the ferry which took him across the Rhone, a peasant with twitching hands told a terrible story of what had happened at Lyons just up the river: “It started quiet. People like me askin’ for bread. Police said: ‘You can’t go there,’ but we went. Arrests. Heads busted. Turmoil in the streets. Then prisoners led from the jails. Well dressed. They could read and write, you supposed. Sixteen at a time lined up against a wall by ordinary men, not in uniform, with muskets. Then a bang. And down go the sixteen, but one not dead. A pistol was shot right through his face as he was lookin’ up pleadin’ for mercy. Horrible.”

West of the Rhone conditions worsened, and at the entrance to one village a man moderately well dressed halted the stagecoach: “Don’t go in there. They’re going mad,” and everyone in the coach, including the two drivers, were well content to make a wide detour. Even so, that afternoon they entered another village where their horses were stopped by boys of twelve or thirteen, who shouted to their elders: “Nobles fleeing the country!” and there were tense moments when it looked as if the coach might be emptied and its passengers shot, but the drivers, rough countrymen, convinced the mob that these were ordinary folk, some of them headed for the sugar colonies via Bordeaux, and after one dreadful moment in which Paul was afraid that the young rascals who had halted the coach might search his luggage and find the jacket, the stagecoach was waved on. As they passed through the village they could see pockmarks on the walls where victims had been shot.

When they were free of this ugly place smelling of death, Paul asked the man seated next to him: “What’s happening to France?” and the man said: “Old scores being settled.”

At Bordeaux, just as Paul was about to board the ship heading for Guadeloupe to pick up a cargo of much-needed sugar, he heard astonishing rumors: “The king has been arrested and is in jail. Hundreds of his supporters arrested, so if you’re a king’s man, keep your mouth shut. Massacres everywhere, and the Prussian army is trying to invade to protect the king, but our brave men are fighting them off.” And it was with such inconclusive intelligence that Paul left his homeland, with Père Emile’s counsel ringing in his confused ears: “Make something of yourself as a tribute to this town and to France.” The achievement of such a goal had already become immensely difficult.

The long trip across the Atlantic was a time of reflection and peace, except for one ominous afternoon when a sail was sighted and the lookout called: “British ship to starboard,” causing all passengers to breathe deeply, but the French captain hoisted more sail until the distance between the ships lengthened. At supper that night it was generally agreed that the British were a poor lot, little better than the pirates who used to prey upon these waters, and such horrible tales were told of Captain Kidd and L’Ollonais and Henry Morgan that one lady passenger spoke for the others when she said: “I’ll be afraid to go to bed tonight.”

In February 1792 the ship reached Basse-Terre, main port of the island on the western wing of the butterfly island called Guadeloupe,
without incident, and there several passengers heading for Point-à-Pitre on the eastern wing of the butterfly debated the practicality of hiring coaches to take them directly there. They were soon disabused of this preposterous plan: “Do you know how high the mountains are between here and there? Goats couldn’t negotiate them,” and one resident of Basse-Terre said simply: “Coach roads? There are no roads of any stripe,” so the people headed eastward had to wait while they took aboard the sugar cargo.

But while the ship stayed in port, several smaller craft whisked around to the eastern wing, carrying exciting news to Paul’s hometown: “Ship in from Bordeaux. Lanzerac’s aboard. All France in an uproar. King’s fate uncertain.” So by the time the cargo ship had made its way to Point-à-Pitre, the townsfolk were eager for a sight of their returning son and the news that he would be bringing, and they crowded the dock to greet his arrival.

When he appeared at the railing of the ship they saw a fine-looking young man of twenty-one, with erect posture, light hair edging down toward his left eyebrow and a reserved countenance which was capable of breaking into a warm smile, but the lasting impression he created was one of dignity and capability. Many a mother seeing him about to land felt he was the kind of young man she would appreciate having visit her kitchen for a friendly chat and a supper with her daughter.

In the last moments, as the ship eased its way to the dock, Paul could see the two dear friends who stood side by side in the waiting area below, Eugénie Mornaix and Solange Vauclain, and he was struck by what beautiful young women they had become, each in her own way. Eugénie, the smaller and fairer of the two, was a little jewel with a delicate figure totally appropriate to her size, and a lovely smile which she flashed at Paul as he waved. Solange was taller, slimmer and more provocative as she stared at him with her dark, handsome face tilted slightly to one side. She was, he thought, like a Caribbean volcano waiting to explode.

Behind them he saw his patient father, who had provided the money for his stay in France, and to him he shouted special greetings, but when the passengers were allowed to disembark it was to the two girls that he rushed, and for several dazzling moments there on the dock the citizens watched with admiration the tableau of these three handsome young creoles: the white daughter of a respected banker recently demised, the sinewy, dark-skinned child of a well-regarded
planter, and between them the reserved son of the apothecary, home from France with a diploma of honor from a French école. It was a moment of restrained elegance that many would remember during the terrible days that awaited.

The troubles revealed themselves gradually. Paul laughed when his father warned: “Two restless young women out there waiting for you, son.” He was intent only on reestablishing his warm relationships with his family, and reported twice each item of news from Barcelonnette.

“I met some wonderful girls in France,” he said, describing Brigitte and explaining to his parents what family she was related to.

“I know them!” Mme. Lanzerac cried. “Oh, why didn’t you bring her home with you?” He said: “I could never get the girls of Point-à-Pitre out of my mind,” and forthwith he began his serious dual courtship, with the town aware of what was happening.

Jocular bets were made as to which of the lovely creoles would land Paul in her net, and sometimes the talk grew serious. A woman observant of island life reflected as she sat with a neighbor on a bench in the sun-filled square: “It’s such a mysterious moment. Three lives in suspension. A golden moment, really. A choice made that determines a lifetime.” The older listener, who was staring at the cargo ships preparing for the run to the offshore islands, nodded: “And most often we choose wrong.”

As the first delightful days of reacquaintance passed, the young people became aware that they must get on with their lives. The girls knew they had reached the age of bearing children; Paul knew he was eager to start a family, had, indeed, been ready that last year in Barcelonnette, so the process of choosing became more intense.

He did not cast up the comparative virtues of the two women, with points for this or that, but he was aware of the great basic differences that had existed since his earliest days with Eugénie and Solange: the former was the perfect mate, the latter a woman who exploded the heart, and when he was alone with either he was content. But as the pressure increased he tended to show sympathy for Eugénie, who had lost her father, and then preference, and when this was perceived by everyone in Point-à-Pitre, Solange did something she would later regret. She confronted her friends and said accusingly: “If I’d been white …” and she fled to her father’s plantation, refusing to participate in the wedding she had foreseen, nor was she present when the young couple set up housekeeping in the House of Lace.

When the excitement over Paul’s choice abated, the citizens resumed serious discussion of events in France, and on one memorable evening M. Lanzerac said firmly: “If our king is in danger, he can certainly count on our support,” and so much applause greeted this affirmation of loyalty that an informal party of Royalists was founded on the spot. Priests, plantation owners, sugar factors, men who owned trading ships in partnership with others, petty merchants, all loudly voiced their support for the king and the good old ways, while a few men of mean spirit took secret note of their names.

Each new ship arriving at Basse-Terre brought more shocking revelations about the discord that was shattering the homeland—abolition of the monarchy, installation of radical new agencies of government, war against external enemies—and finally the gruesomeness that shocked the island into sullen silence: “King Louis has been executed. All is in turmoil.”

In the following days the French island of Guadeloupe reacted precisely as the English island of Barbados had done one hundred and forty-four years before when British revolutionaries had chopped off the head of their king: everyone in any position of dignity declared himself to be an adherent of their dead king and an opponent of radical new patterns, and no one was more committed to this lost cause than Paul and Eugénie. Because they sensed intuitively that the chaos in France must ultimately reach Guadeloupe, with disruptions that could not be defined, they decided, in preparation for the storm, to restore their friendship with Solange. So together they rode out to the plantation, where she greeted them among her wealth of flowers. “Come back with us,” Eugénie pleaded. “We’re destined to be friends forever,” and after gathering bouquets to liven up her room in Point-à-Pitre, Solange saddled her horse and joined them on the return trip.

Her reappearance as a close friend of the Lanzeracs was an embarrassment to no one: she loved Paul, as she had from the age of nine, but after his marriage to Eugénie she seemed to have stored that part of her former life in a closet, with every apparent intention of keeping it there. Both Paul and Eugénie realized that Solange adored him, but they agreed that so long as emotions were kept under control, no one was the loser in the present arrangement, and husband and wife took serious steps to find the beautiful Solange a husband.