had no answer for me. He said only that the times are most confusing, and one is certain of little now.
My heart is beating so as I hold Sylvette. “Maman,” I whisper, waking her. “How can there be fine dwellings in such a place? Perhaps they are taking us to some prison, just as they took the Queen to la Conciergerie!”
Maman shakes her head a little and stares at the river. Finally she whispers, “No, Eugenie. This is America. We have been promised refuge, remember?”
“But in such a wilderness? Why could we not have remained in Philadelphia? Philadelphia is America, too, is it not?”
“Eugenie, you well know why. Yellow fever has swept through there these past months, and now it is a city struggling against lawlessness and near anarchy. Did we flee the chaos and anarchy and terrible dangers in France only to endanger ourselves here? Of course not. Also, there are many Americans who favor the French rebels and would happily see us imprisoned or, worse, sent back to France—a death sentence for us! I wish to hear no more talk of returning to Philadelphia.”
“But the Vicomte de Noailles was there, Maman.”
“Oui, to arrange our passage and, earlier, to negotiate on our behalf. But you can be certain he will not remain. Even President George Washington has left for his home in Virginia. Far better for all of us to be some distance away, in a protected area, as Talon promises.”
“Promises,” I cannot refrain from saying.
“And as for the yellow fever, I am thus reminded.” She takes two cloves of roasted garlic from her reticule, one for each of us.
“But Maman, the taste lingers, and my breath becomes foul. Besides, has there not been a frost? It is said that when the frosts come, the danger of fever is no—”
“Frost or not, eat it, Eugenie. The garlic cannot hurt, and it may help, still. Or would you rather douse your redingote and gown with vinegar as the slaves have been doing this week past?”
“And so have the slaves’ master and his family. Well, what can it matter, those daughters being so long of face and foot. Gowns soused in vinegar will hardly make any difference for them.”
Maman watches as I put the clove on my tongue. “You must swallow it now, Eugenie.”
Reluctantly, I obey. “Those slaves, Maman. They endanger us as much as Philadelphia might. Are they not from the Caribbean, supposedly the source of the yellow fever? Why must they travel with us? It is beyond insulting. And remember how we heard they are from a rebellious area? What if their loyalty to Rouleau isn’t so assured? How safe shall we be then? By allowing Rouleau and his slaves, the marquis has doubly betrayed us.”
“Eugenie. We know not whether the marquis has betrayed us at all. And why should he not offer sanctuary to Rouleau? We cannot begrudge the man. He, too, has suffered. Besides, there are but four slaves and those, by all accounts, loyal. You have seen the scars on that one. It is said he tried to put out the fire in Rouleau’s maison, a fire set by other slaves.”
“Well, but Rouleau is not nobility, though he pretends to be. A pompous little tyrant, ingratiating to us, but quite mean to his supposedly loyal slaves. No wonder the others rebelled, and perhaps these shall too. Maman, the Rouleau family cannot stay with us. Either they must go elsewhere or we must.”
“Eugenie, we have no choice in this matter.”
“But the stink of them! Dousing themselves in vinegar!”
“Lower your voice, please.”
“Well, but we agree, do we not?”
“Your speech is too direct. It is not seemly.”
“Yet it is the truth.”
“The truth must be better clothed.”
“Well, how can one better say that they are a threat to our lives? How can we best clothe that truth, Maman?”
“We could tell the marquis that we prefer not to have Caribbean slaves and commoners at the settlement. Better that they find more suitable accommodation elsewhere.”
“But that hardly makes the point.”
“It will express our displeasure.”
“Surely we wish to express more than that.”
Maman is silent.
“Well, I shall not douse Sylvette with vinegar. Nor my gowns.”
“Of course not, my dear. Nor shall—”
Maman lurches against me as our longboat spins backward and into the prow of the boat behind us. Water sloshes in, wetting my suede shoes, redingote, and gown. Maman and I right ourselves, and there is the Rouleaux’s youngest slave in the boat alongside us. Her cotton gown is sopping to the waist, her eyes wide with fright. The pole is useless in her hands.
“Idiots!” Rouleau shouts. I think he means us until he adds, “Look what you have done to the noble ladies and gentlemen! You shall be punished! Now, away from their boat!”
The younger of the male slaves pushes hard against his pole, his scarred face trembling with exertion. But the current is holding us locked fast, and both boats are losing hard-won distance.
“My fault, monsieur,” Papa calls. “Do not punish them, I beg of you. I lost the bottom again. They are blameless.”
“Nevertheless, comte, they should have steered clear in time.”
I bow my head to hide tears. Papa, poling with slaves and savage-looking rivermen in deerskin jackets and fringed trousers stained black with tobacco juice. Papa making apology to Rouleau.
“Mademoiselle,” Florentine du Vallier calls out. “Perhaps the lances on your family crest are in fact poles, do you think?” Florentine is sixteen and believes he is a great wit. He is also thin and pimply and, when not attempting jests, surly.
Still, the nobles in our boat laugh. Maman and I ignore them. But then elderly Duc d’Aversille, usually a kind and most generous man, addresses Papa, saying, “La Roque, had you remained in France, you might be wearing the revolutionists’ red cap and tricolor cockade by now.”
How dare he. I turn to stare at him and hope that Papa will come up with some sharp rejoinder, but Papa merely laughs along with everyone and then says, “If you knew what pleasure I derive from getting this boat to move in one direction or another, Duc, you would be vying for this work, I assure you.”
“Not I, Philippe. I am far too old for such sport.”
Everyone laughs again, but the Comtesse de Sevigy first gives us a falsely sympathetic look. Hypocrite! Supposedly, she is Maman’s friend. Oh, I can just hear her. Madame Queen, we have the most delightful little story to tell you about our river journey here. It seems that Comte de La Roque has kept his true talent hidden until now . . .
It will ruin us.
But an even greater fear is that the events of these past months have overburdened Papa’s mind.
The
