Victoire Read Online Free PDF

nothing but lamentations. People who had never been exactly fond of the somewhat brusque and discourteous Caldonia, who had scarcely given her the time of day, were sobbing their hearts out as if they had lost a loved one. Whereas Félix, Chrysostome, and Lourdes manifested their grief as was customary, Victoire remained standing, dry-eyed. Paralyzed, she did not approach the bed where the deceased lay. Beside the bed Oraison lay prostrate, moaning and enumerating the merits of his companion. Oh no, this was by no means the day for making whoopee. But that didn’t prevent him several weeks later from moving in with Isadora Quidal, to whom he gave six more children. At the age of eighty, he apparently fornicated like a young colt.
    The undertakers didn’t immediately seal the coffin and waited for those coming from Goyave, who had been notified by cablegram from the post office that opened in Grand Bourg at the end of 1880. At six in the morning, the day after his mother’s death, Elie stepped off the sailboat
Plaît à Dieu,
totally stunned, for he had adored Caldonia. She hadn’t exactly returned the favor, since according to her, he looked too much like Oraison and gave her bad memories.
    “What is death?” Victoire kept asking.
    There was nobody to answer her.
    “Yesterday she kissed me. Today she’s gone. Where did she go?”
    Under the three o’clock sun, the funeral cortege set off. The choirboys sang in their high-pitched voices: “I believe in thee, my Lord.” The priest, a fair-haired young man newly arrived from Cahors, stumbled in the searing heat, like Jesus on the road to Calvary.
    After the funeral, they went back to La Treille to empty what was left of the Père Labat rum in the demijohns and patch up memories of the deceased. It only took one demijohn for them to metamorphose her into a first-class clairvoyant with her heart on her sleeve. Hadn’t she elucidated hundreds and hundreds of dreams for the distressed? Hadn’t she, one Lent, taken in a wounded dog who was dragging herself along on three legs, whom everyone took for a neighbor transformed by magic and shouted “Shoo!” at? Above all, hadn’t she showered with affection this “worthless dreg,” this hard-hearted Victoire who hadn’t shed a tear over Caldonia’s dead body?
    All in all, it was a wonderful wake. When the inhabitants of La Treille split up at dawn, the men emptying their bursting bladders against the trees and bawling
“Faro dans les bois,”
they had the conviction of having accomplished that duty owed to each and every one of us at the end of our lives.
    F ROM THAT DAY on Victoire slept in town at the Jovials.
    A mattress stuffed with vetiver was thrown down in the attic. As a result, she practically never went back to La Treille, where, except for Lourdes, nobody regretted her absence. From time to time Lourdes called in to inquire about her health and reel off tittle-tattle of very little interest. Who had given a belly to whom. Who had left whom for whom. Who had beaten whom. Who had dropped dead. Who had been born. And born with a caul, that one, a genuine net tight over his forehead. And consequently, capable of deciphering what the future held.
    On Sundays, after mass, when Victoire could have enjoyed a little rest, Fulgence entertained his guests. All whom Guadeloupe counted in the way of socialist politicians braved the stretch of water to sit at his table. These receptions were a constant subject of discord with Gaëtane, whose Christian austerity was shocked by all this opulence. During their forty years of life together, it wasn’t their only bone of contention, mind you. As a loyal follower of Légitimus, Fulgence liked to think of himself as a free thinker, member of the Sons of Voltaire Society, whereas Gaëtane was a religious nut, if you’ll pardon the expression. These meals lasted virtually all day. In his shirtsleeves, Fulgence uncorked bottle after bottle of Saint-Emilion, Château Lafite,