68 The Magic of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “This is Philippe,” Rose-Marie said eagerly.

  The boy looked up to smile at her.

  “Have you my doll ready for me, Philippe?” she asked.

  He nodded and, picking up something lying on his other side, held it out.

  It was, Melita saw, an extremely attractive doll, about eighteen inches high and apparently dressed in the most exquisitely coloured gown.

  Rose-Marie took it with a cry of delight.

  “That is pretty – very pretty, Philippe. Even prettier than the last one you made me. I like it very much.”

  She took it in both her hands and then held it out to Melita.

  “Look,” she said, “a new doll! What shall I call her?”

  Melita looked at the doll closely and to her astonishment she found that the gown was made of leaves and so was the headdress.

  “Leaves!” she exclaimed. “What a clever idea! How do you do it, Philippe?”

  Philippe did not reply.

  He only smiled and Rose-Marie explained,

  “Philippe is dumb, he cannot speak, but he understands everything you say to him.”

  She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but for a moment Melita found it difficult to know what to say.

  She looked down at what Philippe had in his hands and realised that he was making another doll.

  “Will you show me how you do it?” she asked. “It is very clever of you!”

  “He is clever!” Rose-Marie said proudly. “Look, mademoiselle, the face is a leaf! When he makes a doll like me, he uses a white leaf and when it is like himself, he finds a brown leaf just the same colour.”

  ‘The doll is really quite uncanny,’ Melita thought.

  Then, as if Philippe realised that she was waiting to see how he worked, he showed her first the young coconuts from which he carved the head, then the bust and finally the lower part of the body.

  He fastened them all together with a long skewer, which looked to Melita rather like a steel knitting needle.

  Then swiftly he took the leaves that lay beside him and began to smooth them over the doll’s body, twisting them round the head and over the shoulders and holding them in place with small pins.

  “I got Philippe the pins,” Rose-Marie said proudly. “I asked Papa for them and he bought them in St. Pierre.”

  Melita thought it fascinating the way the boy’s dark fingers worked so skilfully and so sensitively.

  The head of the doll was decorated with a leaf that looked like the brightly coloured handkerchiefs the black women wore round their heads.

  Then the shoulders were draped with leaves that were green shot with red and the waist had a sash that looked like scarlet silk.

  The arms were fashioned also of twisted leaves and then the full skirt was made of leaf upon leaf, like the many petticoats Melita herself wore under her muslin gown.

  Philippe was so skilful and so quick with his hands that almost before it seemed possible the doll was finished and Rose-Marie gave a cry of delight.

  “She’s beautiful, Philippe! Is that one for me too?”

  Philippe shook his head.

  “No?” she pouted.

  “You have one new doll,” Melita said. “I think if Philippe has promised this one to someone else, it would be greedy to expect two presents in one day.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rose-Marie agreed, “and thank you, Philippe. I love my doll, very much. I will think of a special name for her.”

  She looked up at Melita.

  “One day, mademoiselle, perhaps Philippe will make a doll that looks like you. Then we can call her ‘Melita’. This one is dark, so she could not be you, could she?”

  “I should be delighted if Philippe will make a doll like me,” Melita replied.

  She smiled at the boy and then, with Rose-Marie cuddling her new possession in her arms, they walked back the way they had come.

  “How long will the doll last?” Melita asked. “The leaves must fade.”

  “Sometimes two weeks, sometimes three,” Rose-Marie answered. “When it gets dried up and rather smelly, Philippe will make me another one.”

  “Do you ever give Philippe a present?” Melita asked, thinking of the bare quarters where the boy lived and the lack of possessions in it.

  Rose-Marie shook her head.

  “Cousin Josephine will not let me,” she answered. “I wanted to give the slave children some of my toys, the ones I no longer play with, but she said ‘no’. They are slaves and I must not spoil them.”

  That was just what she would think Melita prevented herself from saying aloud.

  It was too soon, she told herself, to contradict Madame Boisset or try to change the orders she had given Rose-Marie.

  She could understand now what the Comte had meant when he had said that there were many things he had accepted even though he knew they were wrong.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ she thought to herself.

  She felt suddenly afraid of Madame Boisset with her aggressive voice and hard suspicious eyes.

  “Now I will show you the sugar,” Rose-Marie was saying.

  They walked from the slave quarters across the grass to a tall building that stood just in front of the waterwheel, which ground the sugar cane.

  There appeared to be a great deal of activity going on inside and, when Melita followed Rose-Marie in through the open doorway, she knew that she was seeing the big copper vats in which the juice of the sugar cane was boiled.

  There were slaves, naked to the waist, stirring the vats. There was a strong smell of sugar, while the heat from the fires over which the vats stood made the place intolerably hot.

  There was the noise of many men talking to each other and continual movement that left Melita bewildered until a voice beside her said,

  “Are you interested in seeing the enormous amount of work that has to be done before a piece of sugar reaches your lips?”

  It was the Comte who spoke to her and Melita heard a mocking note in his voice, as if he was amused at how surprised and bewildered she was by everything she saw.

  “Please explain it to me,” she said simply.

  He paused for a moment as he looked at the slaves tending the great copper vats.

  Then he said,

  “Sugar is the curse that afflicted the Caribbean with slavery. I expect you know that Christopher Columbus brought the sugar cane to Santo Domingo on his second voyage in 1493?”

  “Yes, I did know that,” Melita answered, nodding slowly.

  “It was a success and the cultivation spread to Cuba and all the other islands. But it was a Spanish Priest who, since there was not enough local labour, conceived the idea of buying black people from the Portuguese in Africa and shipping them to the West Indies as slaves.”

  “A Priest!” Melita murmured beneath her breath.

  She remembered the tales of cruelty, privation and torture when she had heard about the treatment of the slaves. Her father had told her how much they suffered at the hands of the traders who carried them from their own country.

  “It was the Dutch,” the Comte went on, “who first taught the British cane planters in Barbados how to build the big mills to crush the cane and to boil the juice in copper vats, like these you see here, to crystallise it.”

  “Is it difficult to do?” Melita asked.

  “Not really,” the Comte replied, “but the cane must be processed soon after it is cut.”

  Melita watched the men at work for some moments.

  Then she said almost beneath her breath,

  “So much suffering over the years just to make a sweet substance to put in our tea or to make jam!”

  “That is true,” the Comte said in a serious voice, “and it says a great deal for the spirit of these people that after centuries of hardship they can still laugh, sing, dance and hope.”

  “For freedom?” Melita asked. “Even a freedom that will not restore them to their native land.”

  “That is true,” the Comte ag
reed.

  At that moment as if to illustrate his words the men at work on the copper vats began to sing.

  The sound they made with their deep voices was exactly, Melita thought, what she expected to hear from Negroes.

  Through the steam rising from the vats and the heat in the great building, she could see their white teeth gleaming and the sweat pouring from their naked chests and arms.

  But their song was infectious and soon almost everybody was joining in and it seemed to rise up into the very roof.

  Then, almost as if someone had slammed a shutter over the sunlight, the song ceased abruptly.

  One after the other the Overseers bawled out orders and cracked their whips ominously.

  Melita looked at the Comte in surprise for explanation. Then she realised that behind them in the doorway stood Madame Boisset!

  She was wearing a red gown, a straw hat on her dark head.

  “Are you encouraging these people to waste their time in singing when they should be working, Étienne?” she asked in her harsh tone.

  “On the contrary,” the Comte said coolly, “I have always believed that men who are happy work better and quicker than those who do it sullenly and in silence.”

  “That may be your opinion, but it is not mine,” snapped Madame Boisset contemptuously.

  She walked towards one of the Overseers. Melita heard her speaking to him sharply and she thought that the slaves near her seemed almost to wince away as if already they felt the whip across their shoulders.

  The Comte turned abruptly on his heels and walked out of the building.

  There was a moment or so before Rose-Marie realised that he had gone. Then she turned too and ran after him and Melita followed.

  But they were too late.

  As they left the building, they saw the Comte about fifty yards away swing himself into the saddle of a horse that was being held by a young Negro boy.

  “Papa! Papa!” Rose-Marie called. “Wait for me! But already the Comte was riding away and the hooves of his horse threw up behind him a cloud of dust and there was no doubt that he was in a hurry to be gone.

  ‘And who shall blame him?’ Melita asked herself.

  She could understand how frustrating it was for him to have everything he said and did queried by his wife’s cousin.

  Why did he allow it? Surely, since he was the Comte de Vesonne, the plantation belonged to him?

  She found herself puzzling over the Comte as Rose-Marie took her first to look at the waterwheel, then into the long storehouse that she had seen on arrival.

  There the sugar that had been processed was packed in barrels ready to be carried to ships in the harbour of St. Pierre from where they would sail to markets all over the world.

  “What time do the slaves start work?” Melita asked an Overseer who was supervising the slaves moving the barrels.

  “At six in the morning, m’mselle, promptly,” he replied.

  “And at what time do they stop?”

  “At dusk.”

  “It’s a very long day,” Melita remarked.

  She wondered how many fell ill from overwork, but was too shy to ask more questions.

  She remembered her father telling her of the terrible mortality among the slaves being carried from the coast of Africa to Brazil, the Spanish Colonies, the Caribbean and North America.

  Known in the trade as ‘the middle passage’, no one will ever know how many died or committed suicide on the voyage.

  “A slave had no more than five feet six inches in length to lie on,” Sir Edward had said. “The men were chained, two by two, by their hands and feet to ringbolts fastened to the deck.”

  “How cruel, Papa!” Melita exclaimed.

  “They were usually below decks for two or three days at a time. Some died of suffocation and the mortality was ten in a hundred.”

  *

  There was a great deal more to see including a monkey in a cage, which Rose-Marie fed with bananas and nuts, and an aviary of parrots that Melita learnt had been caught in the forests. Their brilliant plumage, their long tails and their shrewd unwinking eyes were fascinating.

  When they had walked a little way round the large garden, Melita realised that it was noon already and time for luncheon.

  She took Rose-Marie back to the house and all the while she talked to the child she could not help wondering where the Comte had gone and if he would return for the midday meal.

  They had in fact finished the first course when he came in.

  He apologised to Madame Boisset, who said sharply,

  “I hope you have not wasted your morning, Étienne, in the same manner as your daughter has. I should have thought that, after all the expense and trouble of conveying a Governess here, she might have settled down to working out a proper curriculum for Rose-Marie!”

  Melita determined not to reply, but Rose-Marie piped up,

  “I have learnt a lot of English words this morning – sugar – doll – and – parrot!”

  “Very good!” the Comte said. “That is excellent, Rose-Marie! Do you think you will remember them by tomorrow morning?”

  “I shall know lots more by then,” Rose-Marie replied confidently.

  Madame Boisset did not comment, merely looking at them both disagreeably. And, as if she was determined to provoke the Comte, she said after he had helped himself to the food the servants brought him,

  “May I enquire, or is it indiscreet, how long we shall be honoured by your presence? As your housekeeper, if for no other reason, I am interested to know your plans.”

  “Quite frankly I have none at the moment,” the Comte answered. “I have been looking round the estate. Did you realise that a number of the roofs in the slave quarters are in a disgraceful condition? They are no protection against the rain and they should be repaired immediately.”

  Madame Boisset gave him a smile that was full of malice.

  “Have you considered how much these repairs will cost and where the money is to come from?”

  “I believe, although I have not seen the figures, that the crops we have already sold this year show a good profit.”

  “But we had a large deficit to make up,” Madame Boisset replied, “or had you forgotten to take that into account?”

  “I should like to study the books.”

  Madame Boisset raised her eyebrows,

  “Why this sudden interest? Your attitude is certainly different from what it has been this past year.”

  “I realise that,” the Comte answered, “and I am now prepared to make up for my negligence.”

  “How delightful!” Madame Boisset sneered. “We must study the accounts together – side by side – and of course I shall appreciate your help and support, as I have always appreciated it, if it has ever been offered to me.”

  Her voice was not only sarcastic, it was also full of innuendo and Melita, looking at Rose-Marie, realised that the child had stopped eating and had gone rather pale.

  This verbal duelling between Madame Boisset and the Comte was, Melita felt, having a harmful effect on her and it should not continue. She made up her mind that she would speak to the Comte about it.

  Surely he could prevent Madame from being rude and disrespectful to him – at least in front of his daughter?

  “As Rose-Marie has finished, madame,” she said, putting down her own spoon and fork, “and as she has had a long morning, I think she should go upstairs and rest.”

  “That is the most sensible thing I have heard you say, mademoiselle,” Madame Boisset replied. “Let me point out that, if Rose-Marie had been in the schoolroom this morning, where she should have been, she would not be so tired.”

  Her voice sharpened as she went on,

  “I hope that, when she has had her siesta, you will give her some proper lessons. I shall be interested to hear what she learns.”

  Melita did not reply, she merely made Madame a small curtsey and helped Rose-Marie down from her chair.

  The child ran imp
ulsively towards her father and put her arms around his neck.

  “I love you, Papa!” she cried. “I love you! Please stay with us.”

  The Comte kissed his daughter, but he did not reply to her plea.

  When Melita and Rose-Marie were outside the room, the child said,

  “I want Papa to stay here. It is Cousin Josephine who drives him away! She quarrels with him, then Papa gets angry and goes to St. Pierre and I am always afraid he will not come back.”

  “He will always come back to you, Rose-Marie,” Melita said soothingly.

  “I want him to stay with me,” Rose-Marie said almost stubbornly.

  “I think he means to stay, for the moment at any rate,” Melita said, “so don’t worry about it. Try to sleep.”

  She took Rose-Marie into her bedroom, which was next door to her own.

  It was a large airy room, beautifully furnished, and Melita noticed that over the child’s bed there was an oil painting of a young woman not unlike Rose-Marie herself.

  “Is that your mother?” she asked.

  Rose-Marie nodded and said petulantly,

  “God took her away from us. I hate God! He was cruel to take Mama when I wanted her.”

  “You must tell me all about it another time,” Melita said. “You are tired now.”

  Eugénie appeared and started to undress Rose-Marie and Melita looked at the picture.

  There was no doubt that the Comtesse had a very sweet face. The picture, she thought, must have been painted when she was very young, for she looked child-like and little older than Rose-Marie herself.

  Her eyes were wide and trusting, and she had been portrayed by the artist in a white gown with a wide lace bertha, which revealed her sloping shoulders, while her skirts billowed out from a tiny waist.

  Her hair was not black, but dark brown, similar in colour to her daughter’s and curled against her oval face. Her eyes were brown too.

  Melita’s attention was recalled from the picture by hearing Rose-Marie say plaintively,

  “I am tired – I am very tired.”

  “You go to sleep, ma petite,” Eugénie said. “When you wake up, you will want to play with your toys.”

  “I want my doll, the doll Philippe made for me.”