Charite winced, ready to burst into tears in fear of lifelong exile on their most remote and meanest plantation, a feebleminded exile confined to the garret to spare them embarrassment; there to turn old and cronish and desperately lonely, with only slaves for keepers. The rest of her life? She could not bear it! Dare they risk her with the Ursuline nuns, under a vow of silence? A convent might be better, but only just. New Orleans didn't have a proper mad-house, but… what sort of "care" did he mean?
"She must leave New Orleans," Papa gloomily intoned. "She must leave Louisiana, sorry to say, Marie. We lose yet another child."
"Leave Louisiana?" Charite dared wail in consternation. "Where must I then go? Papa, please!"
"Hush, you ungrateful girl!" Maman spat, stamping a dainty foot. "No matter how evil you turned out to be, still, we are your parents, and we love you despite… Trust us to do what little we can in the best interests of our family name, your sisters' futures. And in your own good, though you don't-"
Papa shushed her mother and crossed the room to flair his coattails, take a seat beside her, and pat Maman's hand. Charite knew she was completely doomed, seeing where his sympathy lay.
"Docteur Robicheaux suggests that there are several colleagues from his university days," Papa said, squirming a little and unable to look his daughter in the eyes, not completely. "Progressive and clever gentlemen who are achieving marvellous results with the, ah… deranged, Charite. In France."
"In France ?" Charite gasped. Her fear of lonely exile fled her soul in a twinkling, and her mouth fell open in utter surprise.
A second later came a blossoming, blissful joy! She would go to France ? The very centre of the entire civilised world? The birthplace of the glorious revolution that she'd wished to emulate? A smile of wonder took her features, one she strove hard to disguise but could not quell completely; one she fervently hoped her parents interpreted as one of thanks for saving her life, out of their so-called love for her. Secretly, though, Charite was marvellously pleased, ready to leap to her feet and dance with glee, snap her fingers in their faces in elation!
"A Swedish ship is in port and will soon depart," Papa intoned. "We have booked you a cabin aboard her, and Docteur Robicheaux wrote a letter explaining your condition, and how you must be kept in isolation and at rest. A neutral ship, which the British will not dare to board. You will not be disturbed on-passage, n'est-ce pas? You will be safe, all the way to L'Orient. Then…"
"But… where will I go in France, Papa?" Charite cried aloud. France did have mad-houses, and even if the Revolution had conquered the Catholic Church, there still were convents! "I mean… who will care for me, Papa? Maman?" she fearfully asked, play-acting as if she feared being separated from them forever more. "Will you really have me… committed to… "
She bit her lower lip and sham-trembled like a chastised puppy
But, France! Yes! she thought.
"We have distant relations," Papa told her, squirming a little more as he crossed his legs and put an arm about the back of Maman's chair. "Your mother's kin, the Lemerciers. They live in a very nice little village, a peaceful and bucolic place called Rambouillet."
Ghastly! Charite thought, shivering for real.
"… not too far from Paris, really, to the west, I think."
Paris ? Yes, Paris, too! She would finally see Paris!
"… people of the strictest morals and rectitude…"
Boring! Charite almost giggled aloud. She'd find a way to free herself!
"… a sober example that might, in time, restore you to proper behaviour, near to one of Docteur Robicheaux's colleagues who will…"
Doubt it! Charite almost whooped in wicked glee; not with the fabulous city of Paris but a hop, skip, and a jump away.
"… do not mend your ways, Robicheaux's colleague will indeed commit you, Charite…" Papa sternly warned her.
"If you upset the Lemerciers in any way, you willful girl!" her mother threatened, and Charite's galloping imaginings came to a hoof-skidding halt, making her cringe for real, and gulp. If she did anything to displease her dull-sounding relations, they'd have leave to sling her into the mad-house? Eu, merde!
"We will, of course, provide you with a small remittance," her calmer Papa explained. "A letter goes to them, explaining how you've been, ah… bereft and driven witless. That we wish them to spend no more on you, and kerb your former extravagance, too. Once assured that your mind is clearer, they might go so far as to introduce you to some local lads of modest but upright nature or, that failing, settle you in some genteel circumstances, as a housekeeper, or… "
"We only wish the best for you, cherie," Maman insincerely and over-sweetly assured her, ready to tear up over her youngest girl's departure, her potentially lifelong absence.
Marry a village dullard? A cobbler? Charite bleakly thought, cringing with revulsion; Be a housemaid, a matron's… servant? Burp her infants and empty night-jars? Ugh!
"I beg you, Maman," Charite pleaded. "Must I really end…"
"It is settled," Papa snapped. "It is the only solution," he concluded, once again badly mistaking her dread of dullity for dread of parting, her grimace of disgust at paid servitude or worse for the loss of her family's love!
Who are these people? Charite had to ask herself; Did I really ever know them? Paris, though!
Once in France, did she dissemble well and play up humble, she could make her way to Paris, get her well-meaning relatives to show her the famous sights where the Revolution had taken place! Once there, she could ditch them long enough to seek out men in the Assembly or the Senate, even an august member of the powerful Directory! Press for Louisiana 's liberation, tell them what she'd done, had suffered, in the cause of Revolution and its worldwide spread. Some powerful man would sponsor her, surely, free her from the threat of commitment and the certain dullness of her rustic relatives! Who knew better than a Creole girl how to cajole, flirt, and beguile, after all? Choose well, and she might end up touted as a heroine of France herself, her story a cause celebre, invited to the best salons!
She would obey her parents… for a time. She would mind her behaviour aboard ship, and convince her docteur-minder that she was as sane as he, cruelly and unjustly exiled. She would convince her relations of it, too, force herself to be helpful, meekly obedient to their strictures, and sunnily sweet; once her grief had waned of course. Or would a lingering wan-ness suit better? No matter!
She would win her freedom and get to Paris, where anything was possible; win support for her cause, for her upkeep. Even marry, if a powerful and clever man wished it. She would still give anything for Louisiana… and for France!
Mrs. Tobias Hosier, Mrs. Toby Jugg, toiled her stony sugarcane field in the hot Barbadan sun, despairing that their poor plot seemed to produce more stones and weeds than cane stalks this season.