The Ghost of Sergeant DuBois Speaks of Radical Chic

Burney 17 Katherine Soniat The Ghost of Sergeant DuBois Speaks of Radical Chic From within the Illinois country in the summer of 1720, my commander decided we should teach these savages something of the source of vanity and couth—the sort made of rosewater perfume and iced drinks of absinthe sipped behind slatted Venetian blinds. Let them see how true culture maintains a powdered wig, even in summer. In this backwoods the only semblance of talc was a marauding puff of gunpowder. We launched our small band of twelve warriors and a chief's daughter, and down the Mississippi we floated past the thuggish waters of New Orleans and on across the ocean so they might take that leap past the Father of Waters to the Great French Father across the water— that little pagan princess brought to court to see the King, the court treated to Indian au naturel. And indeed, each of our Indians became Versailles's darlings of display, like dolls to dress and comb. Even the Bois du Boulougne seemed to darken and sparkle at the aspect of that spectacularly savage hunt—the day the red men and the stags squared off as near-perfect animal match, while inside the grande matrons clucked over their Indian princess, made her over with lace and paid her final tribute by soft-shoeing their made-up Indian dances on the floor of L'Opera. Then as a finishing touch, they purified her down to a Christian. I could do nothing but wonder at her small brown figure, out of time and place, genuflecting 18 the minnesota review at the altar of the saved. But Notre Dame's pale saints seemed to nod at the mere idea of conversion. The Princess, by then fully Parisienne and Christian, proceeded to become my wife in the great nave while her warriors, all twelve, stood by in ruffles and cocked hats. We danced all night to the bows pulling sweet song from the chamber violins and then we headed out, back to Illinois where my Madame-Princess, bored with crucifix and corset, took her candle to the woods and brought her people back into our enclave for one final sacrifice. Only the next day would see how they savaged me and my whole garrison of French men. Finished with their fling at civilization, it was the Chief's daughter who stepped lightly across my body, gunpowder and cries rising from her newly laid-out court. ...