It was during the month of May that Sister Tonine fell ill. That year the rainy season had been so wet that the region, accustomed, however, to soaking up water, was transformed into a quagmire. The villagers were up to their knees in mud. If you didn’t watch out, you risked being sucked under. Frogs, toads, and snakes emerged from every hole and wallowed in the thick sludge. Sister Tonine disregarded Father Albertini’s advice. Come rain or shine she continued to carry the word of God to those who needed it. Not surprisingly, she caught a chill. She had never been very sturdy. All at once she seemed to shrink, shrivel, grow stooped, and become as gossamery as an angel. Her complexion was blemished by ashen streaks. A dry, persistent cough tore at her chest. Sometimes she spat blood. But she refused to take infusions or apply lotions and poultices and repeated to those who begged her to take care of herself that if the Good Lord had decided her time had come, she should not have the audacity to disobey Him. Soon she could no longer feed herself. In a panic the women sent one of their boys to fetch the doctor in Saint-Esprit. Alas, he was slowed down by the spongy terrain, the buttress roots, the weeds, and the undergrowth that had sprung up from the rain. He had barely reached the pass of La Mulatière when Sister Tonine passed away.
At that time there were no cards announcing the funeral. Yet the news spread by word of mouth like wildfire. People came from every town, from every village, from every hamlet and every locality, weeping as if they had lost their mama. Before leaving those who had loved her so dearly, Sister Tonine sprinkled a few last miracles. She thus made a present of a son to Mama Célariée, who hadn’t seen her blood for ten years and hadn’t been with a man either during the same period of time. People were surprised at first, almost in shock. Then they recalled the affair of the Virgin Mary and said among themselves that the Holy Ghost blows wherever he likes.
When the women fell silent, Celanire, her face in tears, turned to ask Elissa:
“What do you think of all that?”
Elissa shrugged her shoulders. Not much; she didn’t think much of the same old story she had heard a hundred times before. In Guadeloupe you could find a dozen stories, each one more surprising than the next, where ignorance, religion, and magic bickered with each other. At Vieux-Habitants a girl who had given birth to a baby boy on December 25 demanded he be called Jesus. At Calvaire, another preached with the voice of Our Lord Jesus Christ and was supposed to work miracles. She was said to have restored sight to a blind man and speech to a mute. A load of nonsense!
“But this woman really was a saint, don’t you think?” Celanire insisted, trembling with emotion.
Elissa burst out laughing. A crackpot who thought she was Jesus Christ in person! Listening to this caustic answer, Celanire pulled a sour face. She seemed to think twice about letting her in on a secret and, turning to the women, began conversing with them in a low voice. They listened to her in raptures while Elissa tapped her foot in exasperation. Finally the group broke up.
Meanwhile the night had deepened. The tallow candles and oil lamps glowed in the huts, where the women served a thin soup to the children. In the rum shops, the men slapped down their dominos with such force, it sounded as though they wanted to smash the wooden tables. Elissa tried to keep up with Celanire’s hurried strides. She sensed she had deeply hurt her, but she couldn’t understand why. What had she said? What had she done? Surely, knowing her as well as she did, Celanire couldn’t possibly hold it against her that she had not swallowed the gullible women’s tale and their ramblings about Sister Tonine’s sainthood.
They arrived back at the widow Poirier’s, where a hearty dinner was waiting for them. Celanire lingered in the dining room to chat with the widow Poirier while Elissa went to bed, tortured by troublesome thoughts. She had alienated her friend. But why? Emboldened by the dark, the rain was now stamping angrily on the zinc roof. The smell of humus and leaves from deep in the woods and the moans of wild animals in heat seeped in through the shutters. Suddenly the wind veered toward Montserrat.
Two days later in Basse-Terre, Celanire turned her back on Elissa. Both the doors to the governor’s residence and the Gai Rossignol were closed to her. The letters pleading for an explanation went unanswered. Up till then Elissa had never been abandoned, and had never been disappointed in love. Her epistles therefore were tinged with anger and hurt pride. She would perhaps have accepted matters if another had taken her place in Celanire’s favors. But her spies were adamant. The only person she saw in a tête-à-tête was Bishop Chabot. To find out what was going on, therefore, Elissa defiantly turned up at the Gai Rossignol and, catching Celanire unawares, locked herself up with her in her office for four long hours. What the two friends talked about never leaked out. Some pupils claimed they heard Elissa crying. What we do know for sure is that as a result of this conversation, the two friends were reconciled, and from that moment on Elissa attended every meeting with Bishop Chabot. The three of them studied plans for a mausoleum that Celanire wanted for Sister Tonine. As bold as ever, she had drawn an edifice of white marble inspired by the Taj Mahal. Bishop Chabot, however, had little liking for these pagan monuments. He preferred the tombs of the kings of France in the basilica at Saint-Denis. As for Elissa, she had no opinion. Celanire, Bishop Chabot, and Elissa, however, all agreed on the cathedral that should replace the humble log church at Ravine-Vilaine. The stones for the facade would come from the banks of the river Moustique. The high altar would be designed by a wrought-iron craftsman from Grande-Anse. The frescoes would be painted by a cousin of Elissa’s, a mulatto from Capesterre with the looks of an Inca. All this was to be financed by donations. Alas, despite the public display of devotion for Sister Tonine, this was not enough. Then something extraordinary happened: the governor levied a special “solidarity” tax that allowed the work to begin.