Curled into a ball on the seat of her carriage, Maryse wept out of helplessness and rage. For the first time ever, she felt like a stranger in her own city. She felt an urgent need to hear a kind voice, feel the warmth of a caress. Crying convulsively, declaring her love amid sobs, she surprised Portelance in his nightshirt, who, as he held her tight, had absolutely no idea just how close he’d come to losing her.
When Portelance and Maryse arrived in Brest, they learned that the port authorities had prohibited all passengers bound overseas from boarding the ship. It was a preventative measure: the previous night, a special messenger dispatched by the Convention had delivered news of the events of the 9th of Thermidor, namely, that Robespierre and Saint-Just had been sentenced to death. On the way back to Paris, Portelance was stopped and interrogated about his mission and his relationship with the Committee of Public Safety, and, in particular, with Robespierre. His response was clear and direct: “For many years my sole objective has been to restore human dignity to the people of color of Saint-Domingue. If that constitutes a crime, then I am guilty.” As there were only suspicions, but no serious accusations lodged against him, he was assured that the interrogation had been merely a formality and that he should not be concerned. “Calmly return home. You’ll be contacted soon,” he was told.
But months passed, and no one sought out his services. It was true that the new Government, in altering the radical course that the Revolution had been following, now faced problems far more serious and immediate than the chaotic war in the Antilles—prices were going up, currency was being devalued, people were hungry and rebelling and the Jacobins were perpetually plotting—but it was no less true that, in the new political circles, Portelance was generally mistrusted.
However, the moment finally arrived for Saint-Domingue to return to the stage. In the wake of a series of decisive victories, the Republican armies had occupied Belgium, the United Provinces, and the German territories to the west of the Rhine. From this position of power, France had negotiated a deal with Spain: France would return the occupied territories on the other side of the Pyrenees in exchange for Spain’s ceding the colony of Santo Domingo, which bordered Saint-Domingue.
“A wise move by the Directorate. Now the entire island is Saint-Domingue. This means that colonial issues have regained importance,” said Portelance, showing the newspaper to Maryse. “If only the Directorate would consult with me. Who better than I to recommend a political course of action there?”
“My darling. I want you to know, above all, that I am perfectly happy with you and am ready and willing to follow you wherever you choose to go. But I’m concerned about your health. You don’t eat well, you sleep poorly and you spend your days waiting for them to contact you. I have promised not to interfere in your affairs, but there’s a limit to everything. I’m afraid for you, Portelance. If you continue like this, you’re going to go mad. You must do something to escape this situation.”
“Such as renounce my principles and go to live in Spain? Isn’t that right?” he said bitterly.
“It wouldn’t be all bad, but it would make you unhappy,” said Maryse, without losing her composure. “What I propose has everything to do with precisely that: your principles. You have waited more than patiently and you now run the risk of being forgotten. Why don’t you write a letter detailing what should be done in Saint-Domingue and send it to Barras or to any other member of the Directorate? Or better yet, why not request an interview?”
“Maryse, Maryse, how little you know me! I have already written three proposals and the answer is always the same: ‘We are grateful to citoyen Portelance for his Discourse on Fomenting Peace and Industry in the Colony of Saint-Domingue, which we have forwarded to the corresponding office of the Minister of the Navy and Colonies.’ And I have asked to see each one of the members of the Directorate not once, but twice. The truth is . . .”
“Then why do you continue to torture yourself?” interrupted Maryse. “If they don’t want to listen to you, it’s their loss.”
“No, it’s Saint-Domingue’s loss. France’s loss. I must keep trying, especially now that the entire island is French.”
“What are you going to do? You can’t go on like this.”
“I’m thinking of writing a book. That way I could express my political and economic ideas as fully as they require. But above all, I’ll write about Toussaint Louverture, the only man capable of pacifying and reconstructing Saint-Domingue. A black man, an ex-slave, who has proved himself an excellent military man and a capable administrator. The territories under his control are peaceful, orderly and industrious. What’s more, he’s the only one who truly understands the futility of racial wars. He knows that the only way to reestablish the island’s production of coffee and sugar is through cooperation among whites, blacks, and mulatos. I have this all from a reliable source. My brother Claude represents his business interests in Philadelphia. If our plantations were once the wealthiest in the world, there is absolutely no reason that they shouldn’t be again, especially now that slave labor is a thing of the past. But power must be in Louverture’s hands. He and he alone should be the next Captain General and Governor of the island. And when I say ‘the island,’ I am no longer referring to a colony, but rather to an overseas province with sufficient autonomy to govern itself and trade freely. If it fails to follow this course,” concluded Portelance, “France will lose Saint-Domingue.”
Maryse, moved by Portelance’s unshakeable perseverance, offered to help in any way possible: “I’ll stop taking voice lessons and cancel my commitments. Just tell me how I can be of use to you.”
They worked tirelessly for four solid months. While Portelance wrote, Maryse went to the library and copied the documents and articles he requested. But they were also in love like never before, united, for the first time, by a common purpose. When the book was finished, Portelance took it to the printer, paying twice the established rate so that it would be published immediately—the Directorate had yet to name the new Commissioners who would take charge of Saint-Domingue, and Portelance hoped that his ideas, once in print, would spur them to bring him on as an advisor.
When the book was published, Portelance followed Maryse’s advice and invited a group of friends, politicians, and journalists to a grand dinner. Only a very few accepted, all of them Jacobins. At that moment, he realized that his dealings with Robespierre, limited though they had been to issues concerning Saint-Domingue, had been misinterpreted. “They take me for a Jacobin, plain and simple, a spy for Robespierre,” he told Maryse bitterly. “Now I know the reason they have marginalized me. No one will read my book. All our work has been in vain.”
A few weeks later, the newspapers published the names that would comprise the Commission to Saint-Domingue: Sonthonax and Roume, on the civil side; Rochambeau, on the military. There were also members of lower rank. Upon reading the name Julian Raymond, his old ally from back in the days of the Amis des Noirs, Portelance commented sarcastically: “At least they named a mulatto.”
“Listen, love,” said Maryse, bound and determined. “What’s stopping us from boarding the same ship as the Commission and traveling to Saint-Domingue of our own accord? Don’t you own property there?”
“It would be pointless. I have no official title to back me. If I meddle in their politics, they’ll turn against me. No, my love, now is not the moment to travel. But mark my words,” he added, smiling, “that day will come.”
And, in time, the day did come: through his brother, Portelance would receive the incredible news that Louverture had learned of his book and wanted him at his side without further delay.
6
AFTER OUR SHOW CLOSED IN the city of Karlsruhe, our traveling theater headed south. It felt rather odd to find myself, once again, in Aunt Margot’s sturdy carriage, dressed in mourning, with Pierre in the coach-box while Françoise, seated to my left, read a volume of plays by Beaumarchais, moving her lips and tracing