“Your coffee’s going to get cold, my love.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he said, and downed it in one gulp.
“You’re preoccupied. Has something happened?”
“Something that had to happen,” sighed Portelance and, laying his finger atop the broken red seal on a letter lying next to his plate, he added: “From my brother Claude, with news from France. The Directorate no longer exists. A general has taken over control, General Bonaparte. A coup d’état. He has proclaimed himself First Consul.”
“Consul? A Roman title? How ridiculous . . . so nouveau riche!” exclaimed Maryse, as Portelance lit a cigar. “But wait! Bonaparte is married to a Creole from Martinique. This is good, my love. Surely he’ll take an interest in Saint-Domingue.”
“That’s precisely what worries me.”
“But everything’s going well here. There’s peace and order and greater prosperity by the day. I don’t see what harm Bonaparte can do to us. To the contrary, I think he’ll take Louverture’s Government as an example of how to reform colonial politics, don’t you agree? At least that’s what logic would suggest.”
“Politics is not logic, Maryse. Politics is politics,” said Portelance, tapping an inch of ash onto his plate.
“I know what politics is. It’s here that I’ve come to understand it. Politics is nothing; it’s like the smoke from your cigar. What matters are the men behind the politics. Louverture is a good man, a virtuous man, therefore his politics must necessarily be good and just.”
“You say that because you’re on his side. But just ask the enemies he’s defeated; ask Rigaud, for example. Even more, ask those who conspire from within his own ranks. I’ve seen him order the execution of a hundred men who had won many battles for him. And I don’t criticize him for it either; it’s how politics works.”
“But, my dear, doesn’t God punish the wicked with damnation? Why must you complicate matters when everything may be reduced to a conflict between good and evil? There are heroes and there are villains, just like in the great operas and tragedies, and that is that.”
“My love, the world is not a stage and life is not an opera. Yes, there are heroes and villains, but consider that there are villains who become heroes and heroes who end up as villains. And this occurs because all of us have both a hero and a villain within us, and we ourselves don’t know when we might behave as one or the other.”
“You’ll never convince me that a villain hides inside you, my love. But, very well, I think I understand you. You think that Bonaparte, the hero of Italy, has revealed dangerous ambitions in staging a coup d’état. In other words, he may have switched from the category of hero to that of villain. Am I right?”
“It’s what I fear. But the truth is, what worries me the most is that Louverture has asked me to work on a constitution. I must warn you that this is a secret project, and it must stay that way, between you and me.”
“Say no more, Portelance,” Maryse said, her brow furrowed. “You know that I’ve never told anyone the things you tell me. Go on. . . .”
“A few months ago, when the government of France was weak, such a constitution would have enjoyed much better prospects than it does now, with Bonaparte in power. Further, I know very well what kind of constitution Louverture wants; I myself have contributed greatly to his ideas. You know them well: they’re in my book.”
“But, my dear, those are your principles. It’s a fact that what you were able to see before anyone else has indeed occurred. That should fill you with satisfaction.”
“Except that the autonomy that Louverture wants for Saint-Domingue is more radical than I think prudent: practically speaking, it’s independence. Furthermore, Louverture intends to remain in power as Commander in Chief and Governor for Life. No matter how hard I think about it, I still cannot see which is the best political path to follow. It is, of course, easy to say that dictatorships are abhorrent, that they set a bad precedent, but, what chance does Saint-Domingue have to move forward under any government other than Louverture’s? And so, what course am I to recommend? And finally, of course, is the question of how Bonaparte, a general with autocratic ambitions, would respond to an ex-slave, a black man who, ten years ago, didn’t know how to read or write and who believed in voodoo spirits, proposing himself as the constitutional dictator of France’s wealthiest colony. Do you suppose he’d tolerate him? I seriously doubt it. What’s more, Bonaparte has the support of all those who’ve gotten rich off the war industry, hundreds of contractors and businessmen who also harbor visions of grandeur. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were to revoke the abolition of slavery and attempt a return to how things were before.”
“But, my love, even if he did revoke it, who could force so many people who’ve tasted liberty back into servitude?”
“He could try, Maryse, he could try. Didn’t he invade Egypt with thirty thousand men?”
Maryse remained quiet for several minutes. She knew that Portelance had confided all of this to her because he needed to be able to discuss the situation with someone he could trust. And yet she couldn’t find the words to continue the conversation. But there he sat, the love of her life, waiting for her, pretending to study the way the breeze dissipated the column of smoke from his cigar.
“Portelance,” she said at last, “do not take on Louverture’s burden, much less Bonaparte’s. May each of them act in accordance with his own conscience and interests. It will be as God wills it. You are only an advisor and, as such, your duty does not extend beyond suggesting to Louverture the constitutional project you deem most viable for Saint-Domingue. That is, open your heart to him, and tell him of your concerns. He knows better than anyone that anything you say is guided by the best of intentions.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” repeated Portelance, dropping the cigar in his coffee cup. “Now let’s speak of another matter, something that affects you and me, and even Justine,” he said gravely.
“My goodness, Portelance!” exclaimed Maryse, alarmed.
“The letter I received was not written by Claude, but rather by his wife, Sophie; Claude has suffered an embolism that has left him paralyzed on the right side of his body.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry!”
“He is very weak and has asked me to travel to Philadelphia. We have never divided up our inheritance. Fearing the worst, he’s decided that it is time to do so. He wants to prepare his will and the situation is complicated. First, there are his wife and children; we also have two older sisters who emigrated to Cuba, and, of course, Madame Portelance and my son Jean-Charles. And then there are you, Justine, and me. In addition to the lands, houses and plantations that we have here, Claude has invested a great deal of money in various North American companies, and my sisters, both widows with children, have bought sugar mills in Cuba. In any case, it’s not an easy matter to sort out; we need to decide how to divide everything up among ourselves and our beneficiaries. My sisters will travel to Philadelphia with their account books and their lawyers, and I should go as well.”
“And if you should have difficulty returning?” protested Maryse. “How vexing this is, Portelance, when you and I are so happy! How could you think that your absence wouldn’t affect me? Don’t you know that every day I spend without you causes me to suffer? And Justine, who adores you as though you were her guardian angel, have you even considered her?”
“I’d assumed that you and Justine would go with me,” said Portelance, surprised.
“Go with you? But what would Justine and I do there, with your wife and son? Claude knows about me, but what about your sisters in Cuba, and their children, Justine’s cousins? We would not be welcome, Portelance. We’d be undesirable presences, illegitimate. No, no,” Maryse said emphatically. “This is something that concerns you alone. As for