Matthieu only repeated hoarsely: “Too late.”
“It’s not! I’ll help you?—”
“Not sorry.”
“Youmust, Matthieu! If you don’t?—”
“Only sorry— My fault. Our sons…”
Marguerite pressed her face into his neck, willing away the images. If he didn’t know, she couldn’t tell him.
“Safer in France,” he muttered.
Hedidknow. Merciful God—mercilessGod, had the fiends made Matthieuwatchwhile they…
“Forgive me,m’amour.”
“Of course I do; but?—”
“Find Delphine,” he whispered fiercely, “and our grandson.”
Did he mean the child yet to be born?
“Please.” He was shivering in the heat.
“I will; after?—”
“His eyes—remarkable.”
Whose eyes? But she stumbled then beneath Matthieu’s weight; he felt heavier suddenly. She planted her feet, struggled, stood with him, admitted: “Matthieu, I don’t understand.” She held her breath, waited for him to reply. He must be gathering strength. “Matthieu?”
Nothing.
“I’ll go to Delphine, but what did you mean, about…”
He was so still.
Gingerly Marguerite slid her fingertips over his lips, felt for breath. She felt nothing, but surely it was only weak, surely he’d only passed out again. She was trembling too much to tell. She closed her eyes and kissed him, clung to him.
Only their daughter remained. Almost Matthieu’s last words:“Find Delphine.”
“I love you,” she whispered into his ear. She let go and turned without looking back. She only stooped to retrieve the pistol.
She glanced toward the stables, but they were blackened ruins. She would have to walk, in spite of her burned knee and her sore ankle. She was grateful for Étienne’s boots.
In the ditch beside the road, tall grass grew wild, making the way more difficult but offering her shelter while she made sure no one was coming. Job’s Tears, the grass was called. She almost laughed. Job had been lucky.
She darted across the road into the banana field on the back of Guillaume’s land. The long leaves waved above her like thick green feathers, in welcome or in warning. She smelled burnt flesh butfound only a wild pig collapsed in the dirt. Her empty stomach begged her to stop, but she went on.
Between the banana leaves appeared the orange tiles and blue shutters of Guillaume and Delphine’s belvedere. Still intact. Thank God. Marguerite limped faster. At the center of the enclosed gallery, the front doors yawned wide, but they were left that way, night or day, for the breeze.
“Delphine?” Marguerite did not see the chairs till she entered the gallery, and her voice gave out. The caning of the seats had been stamped through. The negroes had been here after all. Marguerite gripped her pistol more tightly and swallowed, still tasting bile.
Inside, the sphere of Guillaume’s globe greeted her first, loose from its base and upside down on the floor. Nearby, one of his model ships lay sunken in debris next to the dining table: shattered crystal and china, papayas oozing their shocking black seeds. On the walls, crooked portraits of Guillaume’s mother and father were slashed through, decapitated.
Marguerite shuffled through the destruction to the side gallery and the foot of the staircase. Guillaume lay face down on the landing in his night-shirt, blood and brains dripping down the steps. No matter. Delphine was better off without him.
Marguerite waded back to the smashed papayas, knelt, and ate like a watchful animal. The soft pink flesh soon alleviated her hunger and her thirst. In the beginning, she used her fingernails to claw out the guts, the peppery seeds inside their gelatinous sacs. Then, she chewed a few purposefully and grimaced at the strength of their bitterness; but the taste of vomit remained in her mouth.
