Free All Souls' Rising by Madison Smartt Bell Page B

we’ll come to that—it’s not what brought me here.”
    The Sieur Maltrot sat straight again and withdrew a tiny silver snuffbox, embossed with a fleur-de-lis, from his vest pocket. He sniffed a pinch, sneezed hugely into a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and put away his apparatus.
    “Never mind les gens de couleur ,” he said. “The mulattoes are not the problem. It’s the Pompons Rouges …the petit blancs in general.”
    “But the petit blancs hate the mulattoes more than anyone,” Arnaud said.
    “Of course they do,” Maltrot said. “Well that they should. Those parties will have their chance to undo each other, cela s’arrange . But at the moment they seem to hate us just as much, the petit blancs . And that must stop. Our towns have become a breeding ground for Jacobinism and freethinking. Ideas are like diseases, Arnaud, you understand that perfectly.”
    “You confuse me,” said Bayon de Libertat.
    “My apologies,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “It’s entirely simple. At the finish of it, everyone must cleave to his own skin. Must and will. It’s natural law. The petit blancs have forgotten this, however. They need a demonstration.”
    “Of what character?” said Arnaud.
    “Imagine,” said the Sieur Maltrot, “an insurrection on the northern plain.”
    “The worst catastrophe anyone ever dreamed of.”
    “Exactly,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “Exactly. Everyone would have to pull together then. No more squabbling with the Pompons Rouges when they understand their skins are only safe with us. No more troop mutinies, the soldiers fall back into line, and even the mulattoes would line up behind us where they belong, because after all they own slaves too.”
    Arnaud passed a hand over his eyes; the cane rolled off his knees and clattered on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and straightened with a shaky laugh. “It’s bold,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
    “You mean—” said Bayon de Libertat. “You can’t mean that.”
    “Oh, but I do,” said the Sieur Maltrot. “It wouldn’t be a dangerous insurrection but, between ourselves, a nice imposture. The secret is good commandeurs , the strong and loyal ones—I think that you know such a one.” He nodded at Bayon de Libertat. “Let them lead the ateliers into the mountains for a few weeks, no more. Possibly burn a couple of cane fields.” Maltrot smiled in the direction of the rows of ratoons that lay beyond Arnaud’s compound. “The ones that aren’t producing well, those only. And there you have it in your hand. Let the Pompons Rouges have a glimpse of the black face of freedom and you’ll see the end of politics.”
    “That’s throwing a coal in the powder keg,” said Bayon de Libertat.
    “We’ll damp it out,” said Maltrot. “Remember Ogé. And nothing venture, nothing gain. The situation is precarious and our party is small. If we do not use our power while we have it, we may indeed lose everything.”
    “And Blanchelande?” said Arnaud.
    “Well, he could hardly show his hand in this,” Maltrot said. “But tacitly?” He waved his hand. “It will go forward, you must know. Someone’s already visited most of the habitations here about. The only question is whether or not you’re for us.”
    Arnaud swung his head and gazed over the gallery railing, clicking his tongue softly. Above them, the fan creaked on its wooden axle, flogging slow, sodden air. The little Negress pumped the rope mechanically, her face turned toward the house wall.
    “ Bien ,” said Arnaud. “ Pourquoi pas .”
    Maltrot turned his eyes toward Bayon de Libertat.
    “I’m for king and country,” said the older man.
    “For the king, to be sure,” Maltrot said in a near whisper. “But at the end, what country will it be?”
    Again it was silent but for the fan, which had found an excruciating friction point, squealing painfully with every revolution now. Arnaud had dropped his head and cocked it to one side, as though listening. A gigantic