Chapter Sixteen.Dreaming Awake.Though the peace of the town was now considered secure, there was little less bustle throughout the day and night than there had been in the morning. The cultivators were all gone home. They poured out of the town almost as fast as they had poured into it, happy to have attained their object, in the defeat of the French authorities, and to be returning without the loss or punishment of a man. As they attained the height behind which they would lose sight of the sea, they turned for one more view of the empty bay, and of the fleet, now disappearing on the horizon. They gave three cheers; and this was the last that was heard of them, except by such as met them in the plain, where they sang, as they walked, the words of their chief’s proclamation. In negro fashion, they had set it to music; and very well it sounded, when sung from the heart.In the town, the soldiers were busy removing the guns, and all signs of warfare, and the inhabitants in preparing for the fête of to-morrow. During the night, the hurry of footsteps never ceased—so many of the citizens were going out into the country, and returning with blossoming shrubs to adorn the churches, and flowers with which to strew the path of the Deliverer. Under cover of these zealous preparations did discontent, like a serpent under the blossoms of the meadow, prepare to fix its poisonous tooth. There were men abroad in the streets who looked upon these preparations for rejoicing with a determination that the rejoicings should never take place.The business of this arduous day being finished, Toussaint had retired early to rest, in a chamber in the south wing of Government-house—the part which had been inhabited by the French functionaries. He would allow no one to occupy any apartments of the north wing (that which was appropriated to the governor of the town), while the daughter of the late governor and her guests remained there. His secretary, who had taken some hours’ rest before, was busy writing, after midnight, in an apartment in the same wing. He was preparing dispatches for the Central Assembly, now sitting in the interior.Monsieur Pascal was far from being on good terms with himself this night. If, in the morning, he had doubted his capacity for being governor of the town, he this night doubted his qualifications for the office of secretary, which he had thus far filled to his own satisfaction. To-night he could not command his ideas—he could not fix his attention. He wrote a paragraph, and then he dreamed; he planned a proposition, and then he forgot it again; and, in despair, started up to pace the floor, and disperse intrusive thoughts by exercise. These thoughts would intrude again, however; and he found himself listlessly watching through the window a waving treetop, or a sinking star, while his pen dried in his hand.These intrusive ideas were of Afra. He had never thought of love, in regard to himself, even enough to despise it, or to resolve against it: and the time was apparently come when love was to revenge himself for this neglect. Perhaps it was this idea, as much as the attractions of Afra herself, that haunted him to-night. He felt that his hour was come; that he was henceforth, like other men, to be divided between two pursuits, to be dependent upon another for his tranquillity. He felt already that he could never again see Mademoiselle Raymond, or hear of her, without emotion. He had never understood love at first sight, and had hardly believed in it:—he now did not understand it; but he could not but believe in it. He felt actually haunted. Every breath of air that whispered in the window brought her voice. Everything that moved in the night breeze made him start as if it was herself. At last, in despair about his task, which must be finished before dawn, he covered his eyes with his hands, as he leaned back in his chair, resolving not to move till he had ascertained what it was that he wanted to write next.A slight noise in the direction of the door, however, made him look up; and he saw, advancing towards the light, no other than Afra herself. It was no wonder that he sat upright in his chair, his pale face paler than usual. In another moment, however, he blushed to the temples on hearing a suppressed laugh from some one who stood behind Afra, and who said, after some vain attempts to speak for laughing—“M. Pascal takes us for ghosts.”“By no means, Mademoiselle Revel. Ghosts do not wrap themselves in shawls from the night air, I believe; nor come in at the door when the shorter way is through the wall; or take a seat when asked, as I hope you will do.” And he placed chairs as he spoke.“We might have frightened you delightfully if we could have looked half as ghost-like as you did, the first moment you saw us. Perhaps it was the lamp—”“Hush! Euphrosyne,” said Afra. “You speak too loud, and waste time. Remember what we came for. Monsieur Pascal,” she said, in a low voice, leaning towards him over the table, and refusing to sit down, “how is L’Ouverture guarded?”“Not at all, I believe. Why?”The girls made a gesture of terror. Both said eagerly—“He is in great danger; indeed, indeed he is.”“Where are the soldiers?” asked Euphrosyne. “Do send for them directly: and ask him to lock himself up in the safest place till they come.”“Tell me what you mean, and then—”“I think he is in danger, now the white rulers are gone, from the people of my colour,” said Afra: “and I fear, this very night.”“Do you mean that they intend to murder him?”“Perhaps so. Perhaps to seize him, and send him to Rigaud;—and that will be only a slower murder.”“But how—”“I will tell you. Euphrosyne and I sat rather late behind the jalousies, in the dark, to see the people bring in flowers and fruit from the country for the morning. I saw many mulattoes in the walk; but none of them had fruit or flowers. I watched them. I know their ways, their countenances, and their gestures. I saw they were gloomy and angry; and I found out that it is with L’Ouverture. They were plotting mischief, I am certain.”“But why so suddenly?—why to-night?”“So we thought at first; and we went to rest, intending to tell L’Ouverture to-morrow. But the more we thought and talked about it, the more uneasy we grew. We were afraid to go to sleep without telling some one in this wing; so we stole along the corridors in the dark, and saw that there was a light in this library, and ventured to look in, hoping it might be L’Ouverture himself.”“He is asleep in a room near. I will waken him. You are not afraid to stay here a few moments, while I am gone?”“Oh, no.”“He may wish to question you himself.”“Tell him,” said Afra, speaking rapidly, “that the mulattoes are jealous of him, because they think he wants to have all the power in his own hands. They say—‘There go the ships! There are no whites in power now. So much the better! But here is Raymond displaced, and L’Ouverture is all in all. We shall have every office filled with blacks; and the only chance for our degraded colour is in the fields or in the removal of this black.’ Tell him this: but oh! be sure you tell him my father and I do not agree in one word of it.”“She would do anything in the world to save him,” said Euphrosyne.“You are dear as a daughter to him,” said Monsieur Pascal, with eyes of love, as he left them.“I wish I was sure of that,” said Afra. “But what can be done, Euphrosyne? He has no guard! And my father is not here, nor any one to help us! I fancy every moment I hear them coming.”“I am not much afraid,” said Euphrosyne, her teeth chattering all the while. “He is so powerful! He never seems to want anybody to protect—scarcely to help him.”“But asleep! After midnight! Think of it! If they should seize him and bind him before he is awake!”This fear was removed by his appearance, dressed, and like himself. He smiled at the girls, offered them each an arm, and said he had a sight to show them, if they would look at it without speaking. He led them in the dark to a window, whence they looked down upon a courtyard, which was full of soldiers, awake and armed. In another moment, Toussaint was conducting them along the corridors, towards their own apartments, “You knew!” whispered Afra. “We need not have come. I believe you always know everything.”“I suspected a plan to prevent the publishing of the amnesty to-morrow, and the filling up the offices of the colony with blacks. I suspected, but was not certain. Your intelligence has confirmed me.”“What will happen?” asked Euphrosyne, trembling. “Will anybody be killed?”“Not to-night, I trust. You may go to rest secure that no blood will be spilled to-night; and to-morrow, you know, is a holy-day. If you hear a step in the corridor of this your wing, do not be alarmed. I am going to send one of my own guard.”He left them at their door, after standing to hear them fasten it inside.The girls kept awake as long as they could, calling each other’s attention to every fancied noise. They could be sure of nothing, however, but of the march of the sentinel along the corridor. They both slept at last, and were wakened in broad daylight by the gouvernante, who entered in great trepidation, to say that there had been a plot against the Commander-in-chief;—that the window of his chamber had been entered at two o’clock by a party of mulattoes, who had all been seized by L’Ouverture’s soldiers. How it came to end so—how soldiers enough happened to be at hand at the right moment—how it was all done without fighting, without noise enough even to break her rest (and she always know if anybody stirred)—the gouvernante could not tell. All she knew was, that L’Ouverture was the most considerate creature in the world. As soon as the eleven mulattoes who had been taken were put into confinement, L’Ouverture had sent one of his own guards into her corridor to prevent her being alarmed for herself and her young charge.
Though the peace of the town was now considered secure, there was little less bustle throughout the day and night than there had been in the morning. The cultivators were all gone home. They poured out of the town almost as fast as they had poured into it, happy to have attained their object, in the defeat of the French authorities, and to be returning without the loss or punishment of a man. As they attained the height behind which they would lose sight of the sea, they turned for one more view of the empty bay, and of the fleet, now disappearing on the horizon. They gave three cheers; and this was the last that was heard of them, except by such as met them in the plain, where they sang, as they walked, the words of their chief’s proclamation. In negro fashion, they had set it to music; and very well it sounded, when sung from the heart.
In the town, the soldiers were busy removing the guns, and all signs of warfare, and the inhabitants in preparing for the fête of to-morrow. During the night, the hurry of footsteps never ceased—so many of the citizens were going out into the country, and returning with blossoming shrubs to adorn the churches, and flowers with which to strew the path of the Deliverer. Under cover of these zealous preparations did discontent, like a serpent under the blossoms of the meadow, prepare to fix its poisonous tooth. There were men abroad in the streets who looked upon these preparations for rejoicing with a determination that the rejoicings should never take place.
The business of this arduous day being finished, Toussaint had retired early to rest, in a chamber in the south wing of Government-house—the part which had been inhabited by the French functionaries. He would allow no one to occupy any apartments of the north wing (that which was appropriated to the governor of the town), while the daughter of the late governor and her guests remained there. His secretary, who had taken some hours’ rest before, was busy writing, after midnight, in an apartment in the same wing. He was preparing dispatches for the Central Assembly, now sitting in the interior.
Monsieur Pascal was far from being on good terms with himself this night. If, in the morning, he had doubted his capacity for being governor of the town, he this night doubted his qualifications for the office of secretary, which he had thus far filled to his own satisfaction. To-night he could not command his ideas—he could not fix his attention. He wrote a paragraph, and then he dreamed; he planned a proposition, and then he forgot it again; and, in despair, started up to pace the floor, and disperse intrusive thoughts by exercise. These thoughts would intrude again, however; and he found himself listlessly watching through the window a waving treetop, or a sinking star, while his pen dried in his hand.
These intrusive ideas were of Afra. He had never thought of love, in regard to himself, even enough to despise it, or to resolve against it: and the time was apparently come when love was to revenge himself for this neglect. Perhaps it was this idea, as much as the attractions of Afra herself, that haunted him to-night. He felt that his hour was come; that he was henceforth, like other men, to be divided between two pursuits, to be dependent upon another for his tranquillity. He felt already that he could never again see Mademoiselle Raymond, or hear of her, without emotion. He had never understood love at first sight, and had hardly believed in it:—he now did not understand it; but he could not but believe in it. He felt actually haunted. Every breath of air that whispered in the window brought her voice. Everything that moved in the night breeze made him start as if it was herself. At last, in despair about his task, which must be finished before dawn, he covered his eyes with his hands, as he leaned back in his chair, resolving not to move till he had ascertained what it was that he wanted to write next.
A slight noise in the direction of the door, however, made him look up; and he saw, advancing towards the light, no other than Afra herself. It was no wonder that he sat upright in his chair, his pale face paler than usual. In another moment, however, he blushed to the temples on hearing a suppressed laugh from some one who stood behind Afra, and who said, after some vain attempts to speak for laughing—
“M. Pascal takes us for ghosts.”
“By no means, Mademoiselle Revel. Ghosts do not wrap themselves in shawls from the night air, I believe; nor come in at the door when the shorter way is through the wall; or take a seat when asked, as I hope you will do.” And he placed chairs as he spoke.
“We might have frightened you delightfully if we could have looked half as ghost-like as you did, the first moment you saw us. Perhaps it was the lamp—”
“Hush! Euphrosyne,” said Afra. “You speak too loud, and waste time. Remember what we came for. Monsieur Pascal,” she said, in a low voice, leaning towards him over the table, and refusing to sit down, “how is L’Ouverture guarded?”
“Not at all, I believe. Why?”
The girls made a gesture of terror. Both said eagerly—
“He is in great danger; indeed, indeed he is.”
“Where are the soldiers?” asked Euphrosyne. “Do send for them directly: and ask him to lock himself up in the safest place till they come.”
“Tell me what you mean, and then—”
“I think he is in danger, now the white rulers are gone, from the people of my colour,” said Afra: “and I fear, this very night.”
“Do you mean that they intend to murder him?”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps to seize him, and send him to Rigaud;—and that will be only a slower murder.”
“But how—”
“I will tell you. Euphrosyne and I sat rather late behind the jalousies, in the dark, to see the people bring in flowers and fruit from the country for the morning. I saw many mulattoes in the walk; but none of them had fruit or flowers. I watched them. I know their ways, their countenances, and their gestures. I saw they were gloomy and angry; and I found out that it is with L’Ouverture. They were plotting mischief, I am certain.”
“But why so suddenly?—why to-night?”
“So we thought at first; and we went to rest, intending to tell L’Ouverture to-morrow. But the more we thought and talked about it, the more uneasy we grew. We were afraid to go to sleep without telling some one in this wing; so we stole along the corridors in the dark, and saw that there was a light in this library, and ventured to look in, hoping it might be L’Ouverture himself.”
“He is asleep in a room near. I will waken him. You are not afraid to stay here a few moments, while I am gone?”
“Oh, no.”
“He may wish to question you himself.”
“Tell him,” said Afra, speaking rapidly, “that the mulattoes are jealous of him, because they think he wants to have all the power in his own hands. They say—‘There go the ships! There are no whites in power now. So much the better! But here is Raymond displaced, and L’Ouverture is all in all. We shall have every office filled with blacks; and the only chance for our degraded colour is in the fields or in the removal of this black.’ Tell him this: but oh! be sure you tell him my father and I do not agree in one word of it.”
“She would do anything in the world to save him,” said Euphrosyne.
“You are dear as a daughter to him,” said Monsieur Pascal, with eyes of love, as he left them.
“I wish I was sure of that,” said Afra. “But what can be done, Euphrosyne? He has no guard! And my father is not here, nor any one to help us! I fancy every moment I hear them coming.”
“I am not much afraid,” said Euphrosyne, her teeth chattering all the while. “He is so powerful! He never seems to want anybody to protect—scarcely to help him.”
“But asleep! After midnight! Think of it! If they should seize him and bind him before he is awake!”
This fear was removed by his appearance, dressed, and like himself. He smiled at the girls, offered them each an arm, and said he had a sight to show them, if they would look at it without speaking. He led them in the dark to a window, whence they looked down upon a courtyard, which was full of soldiers, awake and armed. In another moment, Toussaint was conducting them along the corridors, towards their own apartments, “You knew!” whispered Afra. “We need not have come. I believe you always know everything.”
“I suspected a plan to prevent the publishing of the amnesty to-morrow, and the filling up the offices of the colony with blacks. I suspected, but was not certain. Your intelligence has confirmed me.”
“What will happen?” asked Euphrosyne, trembling. “Will anybody be killed?”
“Not to-night, I trust. You may go to rest secure that no blood will be spilled to-night; and to-morrow, you know, is a holy-day. If you hear a step in the corridor of this your wing, do not be alarmed. I am going to send one of my own guard.”
He left them at their door, after standing to hear them fasten it inside.
The girls kept awake as long as they could, calling each other’s attention to every fancied noise. They could be sure of nothing, however, but of the march of the sentinel along the corridor. They both slept at last, and were wakened in broad daylight by the gouvernante, who entered in great trepidation, to say that there had been a plot against the Commander-in-chief;—that the window of his chamber had been entered at two o’clock by a party of mulattoes, who had all been seized by L’Ouverture’s soldiers. How it came to end so—how soldiers enough happened to be at hand at the right moment—how it was all done without fighting, without noise enough even to break her rest (and she always know if anybody stirred)—the gouvernante could not tell. All she knew was, that L’Ouverture was the most considerate creature in the world. As soon as the eleven mulattoes who had been taken were put into confinement, L’Ouverture had sent one of his own guards into her corridor to prevent her being alarmed for herself and her young charge.
Chapter Seventeen.The Gift at the Altar.Poor Euphrosyne! She was not allowed by her grandfather to go to church this day. Monsieur Revel insisted upon it that it would be an act of treason for one of the French race to attend a thanksgiving for having got rid of the French authorities. In vain did Euphrosyne represent that the thanksgiving was for something very different—for the deliverance of the town and district from war—for the security of white and black inhabitants alike.—Neither Monsieur Revel nor Pierre would hear a word of this. They were quite sure that the faster the dark people thronged to the churches to rejoice, the more fervently should the whites mourn and pray for mercy at home. Her grandfather said Pierre should escort her to the chapel of the convent, where she might go without being seen. That service was a fitting one for her to attend; and he would spare her for a couple of hours, to be so spent, under the eye of the abbess. This, however, Euphrosyne declined. She preferred remaining to see from behind the blind what went on in the Jesuits’ Walk—to see Afra and her gouvernante dressed for church—to see L’Ouverture set forth—to see the soldiers follow, marching in a compact body, each man carrying a green bough, in token of rejoicing. She did not know, any more than the crowd that lined the way, that in the centre of this body of military, and concealed by the green boughs, were the eleven mulatto prisoners.Afra entered quickly to say farewell; and, lifting her veil hastily, she said, “Kiss me, and let me go. L’Ouverture says he shall take us into church himself, as my father is not here. Mademoiselle and I are going with Madame Ducie and her daughters; and L’Ouverture will wait for us at the church, and lead us in. Poor Euphrosyne! I wish you were going!”“I never cared for anything half so much. Will you really walk all through the church to your seat on his arm? And I should have been on the other side, if grandpapa would have let me go! Do not stay, dear. Tell me all about it when you come back.”“I must be gone. There will not be standing-room for one person to spare. You know every one of my colour in Cap is ordered to be in the church as the hour strikes. Farewell.”Euphrosyne had thought she had heard the crier publish this order; and presently Pierre brought her the handbill to the same effect, which was passing from hand to hand. If Euphrosyne and Pierre speculated curiously on what this order might mean, what must have been the anxiety of the mulattoes! Most of them had known of the conspiracy of the day before: all had now heard of its failure. All were anxious to attend the church, as staying away would amount to a confession of disloyalty; but there was not one of them who did not go with fear and trembling, wishing that the day was over, though dreading what it might bring forth.As Afra, and the ladies who attended her, drew near the great church, they found the streets absolutely empty. Loyalty, and the desire to appear loyal, had carried the entire population to the churches; and the houses appeared deserted by all but an aged or sick person, here and there, who looked forth upon the activity he could not share. In the centre of the area before the church were piled the arms of the garrison and of Toussaint’s troops; and on the top of the pile of arms lay the fetters which had just been removed from the mulatto conspirators. L’Ouverture, in giving his orders to this effect, had said that arms should be laid aside in the act of thanksgiving for peace; and bonds, while giving thanks for liberty. When, at length, he gave the signal for the military to enter the church after him, some of the officers looked earnestly to him for orders that a guard might be left with the arms. He understood their thoughts, and replied, with a smile:—“Let every one enter to worship: the arms are safe. There is no one near who would employ them against us.”Afra’s heart beat, and she did not forget Euphrosyne, as she was led to her seat by L’Ouverture, at whose entrance there was a half-suppressed murmur throughout the vast congregation—a murmur which sank into silence at the first breathing of solemn music from the choir. The signs of gratulation for the escape of the Deliverer, first heard in the streets, and now witnessed amidst the worshipping crowd, were too much for the self-command of the conspirators. Their attitude became every moment more downcast—their countenances more sullen and wretched. They had a strong impression that their execution was to seal the thanksgivings of this day; and in every allusion to deliverance from danger, privy conspiracy, and rebellion, they believed that they read their own doom. A tempting idea of escape now and then crossed the imagination of one or other of them. As they sat with their heads upon their breasts, the thought that they were unfettered, and their guards unarmed, made them eager to glance around, and see if there was hope; but whenever they raised their eyes, and whichever way they looked, they encountered eyes seemingly as numerous as the stars of heaven—as many, as penetrating, but not so calm. Eyes which shone with love of L’Ouverture could not look benignly on those who would have kidnapped or murdered him. Nor did the eleven meet with any visible sympathy from the multitude of their own colour who were present. The greater number looked studiously another way, in order to appear to have no connection with them; and the countenances which were turned towards them wore a strong expression of displeasure, as towards men who had ruined the last hopes of a cause. The wretched men gave themselves up, at length, to counting the minutes till the service should be over, and they should be once more retired from this myriad of eyes, when they were roused by a singular suspension of the service.After the prayer for divine pardon, ensuing upon mutual forgiveness, L’Ouverture arose from his knees, stepped from his place, and stood before the altar. He spoke, while all rose to hear.“In this place,” said he, “brethren should be reconciled, or their offering of thanksgiving will not be pure. Will all who feel enmity towards me come to this holy spot, and exchange forgiveness?”He looked towards the conspirators, who gazed upon him with eager eyes, but did not move. They could not believe that tills appeal was intended for them, till he beckoned to them. They advanced with hesitating steps—first one or two—then several—then all; and as they drew nearer they rushed upon him, some kissing his hand, others kneeling and embracing his knees. Bidding these arise, he said gently, but in a voice so penetrating that it was heard in the farthest recess of the building, “I must have offended you, since you have conspired against me; and you are very guilty towards me and your country. May He who looks down with pity on the shameful strifes of men, bear witness to our hearty forgiveness of each other! Can you with truth say Amen?—If not yet with truth, say it not till you have heard me.”“Amen!” they cried, with a cry which was echoed first from the roof of the church, and then by every voice beneath it which was not choked with sobs.“If you had had patience with me,” said Toussaint, “you would have found that I am above partiality in regard to race. When I find men of your colour fit for office, they shall be promoted to office as my friend Raymond was. I entreat you henceforth to give me time; to watch me, though closely, generously; and if I fail to satisfy you, to make your complaints to myself. As for the past, let it be forgotten by all. Go to your homes, and I trust no one will ever speak to you of this day. As for myself, I must go where I am wanted. It may be that I shall have to punish the leader of your colour, if he persists in disturbing the peace of the colony. But fear not that, if you do not share in his offences, I shall impute them to you. It is true that, however far-off, my eye will be upon you, and my arm stretched out over you; but as long as you are faithful, this my presence will be, your protection. After the blessing, the amnesty I have promised will be read. This, my act of forgiveness, is sincere. Show that yours is so, I entreat, by cherishing the peace of the colony. By the sanctity of the place on which we stand, let there be peace among us all, and mutual forgiveness for all time to come!”“Amen!” again resounded, louder than the most joyous strain of the choir that ever rang through the building.L’Ouverture went back to his place, surrounded by the eleven released men, for whom room was made round his person by those who could best read his eye. After the priest had given the blessing, the amnesty was road which declared pardon for all political offences, and all personal offences against the Commander-in-chief, up to that hour. The moment it was concluded, those who had arrived at the church in custody, left it in freedom, though in shame, and sped away to their several homes, as if the death they had anticipated were at their heels. There they told their wonderful tale to their families, turning the desolation of wives and children into joy almost too great to be believed.Afra found, to her satisfaction, that no one had entered to tell Euphrosyne of this act of L’Ouverture. Euphrosyne had been full of perplexity about the mulattoes—almost disposed to think that the whole race must have suddenly gone mad. She had seen them two hours before, flocking to church with faces whose gloom contrasted strangely with their numbers, their holiday dresses, and their eagerness to be in time to secure admittance. She now saw them return, as if intoxicated with joy, cheering, the whole length of the walk, and crying with an enthusiasm, if possible, surpassing that of the blacks, “Long live the Deliverer!”
Poor Euphrosyne! She was not allowed by her grandfather to go to church this day. Monsieur Revel insisted upon it that it would be an act of treason for one of the French race to attend a thanksgiving for having got rid of the French authorities. In vain did Euphrosyne represent that the thanksgiving was for something very different—for the deliverance of the town and district from war—for the security of white and black inhabitants alike.—Neither Monsieur Revel nor Pierre would hear a word of this. They were quite sure that the faster the dark people thronged to the churches to rejoice, the more fervently should the whites mourn and pray for mercy at home. Her grandfather said Pierre should escort her to the chapel of the convent, where she might go without being seen. That service was a fitting one for her to attend; and he would spare her for a couple of hours, to be so spent, under the eye of the abbess. This, however, Euphrosyne declined. She preferred remaining to see from behind the blind what went on in the Jesuits’ Walk—to see Afra and her gouvernante dressed for church—to see L’Ouverture set forth—to see the soldiers follow, marching in a compact body, each man carrying a green bough, in token of rejoicing. She did not know, any more than the crowd that lined the way, that in the centre of this body of military, and concealed by the green boughs, were the eleven mulatto prisoners.
Afra entered quickly to say farewell; and, lifting her veil hastily, she said, “Kiss me, and let me go. L’Ouverture says he shall take us into church himself, as my father is not here. Mademoiselle and I are going with Madame Ducie and her daughters; and L’Ouverture will wait for us at the church, and lead us in. Poor Euphrosyne! I wish you were going!”
“I never cared for anything half so much. Will you really walk all through the church to your seat on his arm? And I should have been on the other side, if grandpapa would have let me go! Do not stay, dear. Tell me all about it when you come back.”
“I must be gone. There will not be standing-room for one person to spare. You know every one of my colour in Cap is ordered to be in the church as the hour strikes. Farewell.”
Euphrosyne had thought she had heard the crier publish this order; and presently Pierre brought her the handbill to the same effect, which was passing from hand to hand. If Euphrosyne and Pierre speculated curiously on what this order might mean, what must have been the anxiety of the mulattoes! Most of them had known of the conspiracy of the day before: all had now heard of its failure. All were anxious to attend the church, as staying away would amount to a confession of disloyalty; but there was not one of them who did not go with fear and trembling, wishing that the day was over, though dreading what it might bring forth.
As Afra, and the ladies who attended her, drew near the great church, they found the streets absolutely empty. Loyalty, and the desire to appear loyal, had carried the entire population to the churches; and the houses appeared deserted by all but an aged or sick person, here and there, who looked forth upon the activity he could not share. In the centre of the area before the church were piled the arms of the garrison and of Toussaint’s troops; and on the top of the pile of arms lay the fetters which had just been removed from the mulatto conspirators. L’Ouverture, in giving his orders to this effect, had said that arms should be laid aside in the act of thanksgiving for peace; and bonds, while giving thanks for liberty. When, at length, he gave the signal for the military to enter the church after him, some of the officers looked earnestly to him for orders that a guard might be left with the arms. He understood their thoughts, and replied, with a smile:—
“Let every one enter to worship: the arms are safe. There is no one near who would employ them against us.”
Afra’s heart beat, and she did not forget Euphrosyne, as she was led to her seat by L’Ouverture, at whose entrance there was a half-suppressed murmur throughout the vast congregation—a murmur which sank into silence at the first breathing of solemn music from the choir. The signs of gratulation for the escape of the Deliverer, first heard in the streets, and now witnessed amidst the worshipping crowd, were too much for the self-command of the conspirators. Their attitude became every moment more downcast—their countenances more sullen and wretched. They had a strong impression that their execution was to seal the thanksgivings of this day; and in every allusion to deliverance from danger, privy conspiracy, and rebellion, they believed that they read their own doom. A tempting idea of escape now and then crossed the imagination of one or other of them. As they sat with their heads upon their breasts, the thought that they were unfettered, and their guards unarmed, made them eager to glance around, and see if there was hope; but whenever they raised their eyes, and whichever way they looked, they encountered eyes seemingly as numerous as the stars of heaven—as many, as penetrating, but not so calm. Eyes which shone with love of L’Ouverture could not look benignly on those who would have kidnapped or murdered him. Nor did the eleven meet with any visible sympathy from the multitude of their own colour who were present. The greater number looked studiously another way, in order to appear to have no connection with them; and the countenances which were turned towards them wore a strong expression of displeasure, as towards men who had ruined the last hopes of a cause. The wretched men gave themselves up, at length, to counting the minutes till the service should be over, and they should be once more retired from this myriad of eyes, when they were roused by a singular suspension of the service.
After the prayer for divine pardon, ensuing upon mutual forgiveness, L’Ouverture arose from his knees, stepped from his place, and stood before the altar. He spoke, while all rose to hear.
“In this place,” said he, “brethren should be reconciled, or their offering of thanksgiving will not be pure. Will all who feel enmity towards me come to this holy spot, and exchange forgiveness?”
He looked towards the conspirators, who gazed upon him with eager eyes, but did not move. They could not believe that tills appeal was intended for them, till he beckoned to them. They advanced with hesitating steps—first one or two—then several—then all; and as they drew nearer they rushed upon him, some kissing his hand, others kneeling and embracing his knees. Bidding these arise, he said gently, but in a voice so penetrating that it was heard in the farthest recess of the building, “I must have offended you, since you have conspired against me; and you are very guilty towards me and your country. May He who looks down with pity on the shameful strifes of men, bear witness to our hearty forgiveness of each other! Can you with truth say Amen?—If not yet with truth, say it not till you have heard me.”
“Amen!” they cried, with a cry which was echoed first from the roof of the church, and then by every voice beneath it which was not choked with sobs.
“If you had had patience with me,” said Toussaint, “you would have found that I am above partiality in regard to race. When I find men of your colour fit for office, they shall be promoted to office as my friend Raymond was. I entreat you henceforth to give me time; to watch me, though closely, generously; and if I fail to satisfy you, to make your complaints to myself. As for the past, let it be forgotten by all. Go to your homes, and I trust no one will ever speak to you of this day. As for myself, I must go where I am wanted. It may be that I shall have to punish the leader of your colour, if he persists in disturbing the peace of the colony. But fear not that, if you do not share in his offences, I shall impute them to you. It is true that, however far-off, my eye will be upon you, and my arm stretched out over you; but as long as you are faithful, this my presence will be, your protection. After the blessing, the amnesty I have promised will be read. This, my act of forgiveness, is sincere. Show that yours is so, I entreat, by cherishing the peace of the colony. By the sanctity of the place on which we stand, let there be peace among us all, and mutual forgiveness for all time to come!”
“Amen!” again resounded, louder than the most joyous strain of the choir that ever rang through the building.
L’Ouverture went back to his place, surrounded by the eleven released men, for whom room was made round his person by those who could best read his eye. After the priest had given the blessing, the amnesty was road which declared pardon for all political offences, and all personal offences against the Commander-in-chief, up to that hour. The moment it was concluded, those who had arrived at the church in custody, left it in freedom, though in shame, and sped away to their several homes, as if the death they had anticipated were at their heels. There they told their wonderful tale to their families, turning the desolation of wives and children into joy almost too great to be believed.
Afra found, to her satisfaction, that no one had entered to tell Euphrosyne of this act of L’Ouverture. Euphrosyne had been full of perplexity about the mulattoes—almost disposed to think that the whole race must have suddenly gone mad. She had seen them two hours before, flocking to church with faces whose gloom contrasted strangely with their numbers, their holiday dresses, and their eagerness to be in time to secure admittance. She now saw them return, as if intoxicated with joy, cheering, the whole length of the walk, and crying with an enthusiasm, if possible, surpassing that of the blacks, “Long live the Deliverer!”
Chapter Eighteen.The Council of Five.A council was held one morning, soon after the events just related, whose aspect would have perplexed an old colonist, if he could have looked forward in vision to that day. In a shady apartment of Toussaint’s house at Pongaudin sat five men, in whose hands lay the fortunes of the colony; and only one of these men was a white.The five came to report well to one another of the fortunes of the colony. Never, in the old days, could any set of counsellors have been gathered together, who could have brought with them such proofs of the welfare and comfort of every class of inhabitants. In former times the colonial legislators were wont to congratulate the Assembly on the good working of their system; which meant that the negroes were quiet, the mulattoes kept under, and the crops promising; but under this “good working” there were the heart-burnings of the men of colour, the woes and the depravity of the slaves, and the domestic fears and discomforts of the masters, arising from this depravity. Now, when there was no oppression and no slavery, the simple system of justice was truly “working well”; not only in the prospect of the crops, and the external quiet of the proprietors, but in the hearts and heads of every class of men—of perhaps every family in the island.Jacques Dessalines had arrived from Saint Marc, near which his estate lay. He had to tell how the handsome crescent of freestone houses behind the quay was extending—how busy were the wharves—how the store-houses were overflowing—how the sea was covered with merchant-ships—and how the cheerful hum of prosperous industry was heard the long day through.Henri Christophe had come from the city of Saint Domingo, quite through the interior of the island. He had to tell how the reinstated whites paid him honour as he passed, on account of his friendship with L’Ouverture; how the voice of song went up from the green valleys, and from the cottage door; how the glorious Artibonite rolled its full tide round the base of mountains which no longer harboured the runaway or the thief, and through, plains adorned with plenty, and smiling with peace.Monsieur Raymond arrived from the sittings of the Central Assembly. What good things he had to report will presently be seen.Toussaint, with Monsieur Pascal, had arrived from Cap, where all was at present quiet, and where he had done the best he could, as he believed, by making Moyse a general, and leaving him in charge of the town and district, till a person could be found fit for the difficult and most anxious office of Governor of Cap. The two most doubtful points of the colony were Port-au-Prince and Cap Français. They had been the great battle-grounds of races; they were the refuge of the discontented whites; and they were open to the operations of factious people from France. L’Ouverture was never sure of the peace and quiet of Cap, as long as French ships came and went; but there was peace in the town at the present moment; and he had left that peace in the temporary charge of one who had done much, under his eye, to establish it—who had shown no small energy and talent, and who had every inducement that could be conceived to go through his brief task well. Great had been Toussaint’s satisfaction in offering to Moyse this honourable opportunity of distinguishing himself; and much had he enjoyed the anticipation of telling Génifrède of this fulfilment of her lover’s ambition, and of the near approach of their union, in consequence. It is true, he had been disappointed by Génifrède’s receiving this news with a shudder, and by none but forced smiles having been seen from her since; but he trusted that this was only a fit of apprehension, natural to one who loved so passionately, and that it would but enhance the bliss that was to succeed.If, as usual, L’Ouverture had to report the situation of Cap Français as precarious, he brought good tidings of the South. An express had met him on his journey homewards, with news of the total defeat of the insurgent mulattoes by Vincent. Rigaud had surrendered his designs, and had actually sailed, with his principal officers, for France. Thus was the last torch of war extinguished in the colony, and matters of peaceful policy alone lay before this Council of Five.The announcement of the entire pacification of the island was the first made by L’Ouverture, when his friends and counsellors looked eagerly to him for what he should say.“Vincent is a fine fellow,” said Dessalines, “and a credit to his colour.”“He has been in the most pressing danger,” observed Toussaint. “God willed that he should escape, when escape appeared impossible.”“What is to be done now with these cowardly devils of mulattoes?” asked Dessalines.Monsieur Pascal glanced at Raymond, to see how he bore this. Raymond chanced to meet his eye, and replied to the glance.“You will not take me for a cowardly mulatto, Monsieur Pascal, if I do not resent Dessaline’s words. He is speaking of the rebels, not of the many mulattoes who, like myself, disapprove and despise all such jealousy of race as leads to the barbarism of aggressive war.”“Yet,” said Christophe, “I wish that we should all avoid such language as provokes jealousy of race.”“In council one must speak plainly,” replied Dessalines. “I hope Monsieur Pascal agrees with me; for doubtless certain affairs of the whites will be in question, with regard to which they may be uncivilly spoken of. I was going to say, for instance (what L’Ouverture’s secretary ought to be able to bear), that if we wish this state of peace to last, we must studiously keep the whites down—exclude them from all situations of power and trust. You all know that, in my opinion, they ought every one to have been done with some time ago. As that was not effected, the next best, policy is to let them die out. One may compute pretty well the time that this will take. If nothing better remains for them here than to live upon their estates, without a chance of distinction, or of employment in public affairs, they will grow tired of the colony; the next generation, at farthest, will be glad to sell their property, and go home; and we shall be rid of them.”“By that time, Jacques,” said Toussaint, “you and I may find ourselves again in the midst of them, in a place whence we cannot drive them out.”Dessalines’ countenance told, as well as words could have done, that heaven would be no heaven to him if the spirits of white men were there. Toussaint well understood it, and resumed, “Better begin here what may be our work there—draw closer, and learn from them the wisdom by which they have been the masters of the world: while they may learn from us, if they will, forgiveness of injuries.”“I am sick of hearing all that, Toussaint. It is for ever in your mouth.”“Because it is for ever in my heart. You will hear it from me, Jacques, till I see that there is no occasion to say it more. As to Vincent, I propose to keep him, in token of honour, near my person; and to request the Central Assembly to decree to him an estate of such value as they shall think proper, to be purchased from the public treasury.”“That is, supposing he should desire to remain among us,” observed Christophe; “but Vincent is fond of France.”“Then his estate shall be in France, Henri. Our friend Raymond will charge himself with this business in the Assembly.”“If I bring it forward in the form of a message from yourself,” replied Raymond, “there is no doubt of its being carried by acclamation. The finances of the colony are flourishing, and the attachment of the Assembly to your person most enthusiastic.”“What of the finances?” asked Toussaint.Raymond gave from his notes a statement which showed that both the customs’ duties and internal taxes had been productive beyond all expectation; that the merchant-ships of almost every nation had visited the ports; and that, after defraying the expenses of the war now closed, there would be a surplus sufficient for the extension of the schools and the formation of some new roads.“What of the attachment of the Assembly to L’Ouverture’s person?” asked Christophe.“Every member of it sees that the prosperity of the island is the consequence of the vigorous prosecution of his system; and that there is no security but in its unquestioned continuance. The Commander-in-chief having been thus proved as eminently fitted for civil as for military government, the Assembly proposes to constitute him president of the colony for life, with power to choose his successor, and to appoint to all offices.”All eyes were now fixed upon Toussaint. He observed that a dark cloud must have hidden France from the eyes of the Assembly, when they framed this proposition of independent sovereignty.Raymond had no doubt that France would agree to have her colony governed in the best possible manner. If there should be a difficulty about the title of president, that of governor might be substituted. The power being the same, there need not be a quarrel about the title. The Assembly would yield that point—probably the only one that France would dispute.Monsieur Pascal believed that France would never yield the power of appointing to offices of importance for life; still less that of choosing a successor.“France ought not to yield such powers,” said Toussaint; “and the Assembly ought not to bring upon me (representative as I am of my race) the imputation of a personal ambition which I abjure and despise. I could tell the Assembly that, if I had chosen to stoop under the yoke of personal ambition, I might have been sovereign of this island without waiting for their call. Yes,” he continued, in answer to the inquiring looks of his friends, “I have in my possession a treaty proposed to me by the British Government, in which the English offer to make me king of this island—in such case to be called by its ancient name of Hayti—on condition of exclusive commerce.”“Is it even so?” exclaimed Christophe.“Even so, Henri. The English believed that I had acted on my own account; and that we, the children of France, should turn against our mother in the day of her perplexity, and join hands with her foes.”“Any other man would have done it,” said Monsieur Pascal.“No, Pascal; no man who was appointed, like me, to redeem his race.”“How do you consider that you will injure your race by accepting the proposal of the Assembly?” asked Monsieur Pascal. “I understand why you would accept nothing from the hands of the English; and also why you would hesitate to assume a power which the government at home would doubtless disallow. But how would your race be injured by honours paid to you?”“You are my friend,” replied Toussaint. “Is it possible that you can fail to understand?”“I call myself your friend too,” said Dessalines, “and I declare I can comprehend nothing of it.”“Your prejudices on one point are strong, Jacques; and prejudice is blind. Monsieur Pascal is singularly unprejudiced: and therefore I believed that he would understand me.”“Perhaps I do: but I wish to hear your reasons from yourself.”“Particularly,” interposed Raymond, “as to whether you believe the blacks (who are, we know, your first object) would be more benefited by continued connection with France or by independence. I believe Monsieur Pascal is unprejudiced enough to bear the discussion of even this point.”“It is that which I wish to understand clearly,” observed Monsieur Pascal.“Whether, if I believed my race would be benefited by the independence of this island, I could answer it to my conscience to separate from France,” said Toussaint, “we need not decide, as I am convinced that, amidst all the errors committed under the orders of government, it is best for us to remain in connection with France. The civilisation of the whites is the greatest educational advantage we could enjoy. Yes, Jacques; and the more we despise it, the more we prove that we need it. The next great reason for remaining faithful is that we owe it to the white inhabitants of the colony not to deprive them of their connection with Paris, on the one hand, nor of their liberty to live and prosper here, on the other. As regards my own peculiar position, I feel that my first duty is to present an example of reverence and affection for my country, and not of a selfish ambition. I may have other personal reasons also, tending to the same conclusion.”“Some favourite passages in Epictetus, perhaps, or in the Bible,” said Jacques: “some reasons confirmed by the whispers of the priests. Nothing short of priestly influence could blind you to such an opportunity as we now have of disembarrassing ourselves of the whites for ever.”“Patience, Jacques!” said Toussaint, smiling.“I believe,” said Christophe, “that there is neither book nor priest in the case. I believe that it is your peculiar feeling towards Bonaparte, Toussaint, which strengthens your affection for France.”Christophe saw, by a glance at his friend’s countenance, that he was right.“I should act as you do,” Henri continued, “if I were certain of a full and generous reciprocity of feeling on the part of the government and of Bonaparte. But I have no such confidence.”“Hear him!” cried Dessalines and Raymond.“You were not wont to doubt Bonaparte, Henri,” observed Toussaint.“Because, till of late, there was no reason to doubt him. I still believe that he was in earnest at the outset, in his professed desire to serve France for the sake of France, and not for his own. But I believe that he has a head less strong than yours; that we shall see him transformed from the pacificator into the aggressor—that, instead of waiting upon his pleasure, we may have to guard against injury from him.”“These words from the generous Henri,” said Toussaint, “are portentous.”“I may be wrong, Toussaint. God grant, for the sake of the liberties of the world, that I may be proved mistaken! But, in the hour of choice between your sovereignty and continued dependence, you must not suppose the sympathy between the First of the Whites and the First of the Blacks to be greater than it is.”Toussaint could have told how Henri’s words only confirmed misgivings as to the public virtues of Bonaparte, which had long troubled his secret soul.“Are you willing,” he asked of Monsieur Pascal, “to tell us your anticipations as to the career of the First Consul? Do not speak, if you prefer to be silent.”“I cannot predict confidently,” replied Pascal; “but I should not be surprised if we see Bonaparte unable to resist the offer of sovereignty. Once crowned, and feeling himself still compelled to speak incessantly of the good of his country, his views of good will become debased. He will invest France with military glory, and sink into ruin by becoming a conqueror;—a vulgar destiny, in this age—a destiny which Alexander himself would probably scorn, if now born again into the world.”“Alas! my poor blacks, if this be indeed Bonaparte!” exclaimed Toussaint. “Their supreme need is of peace; and they may become the subjects of a conqueror.”“And happy if they be no worse than subjects,” said Christophe.“If,” said Toussaint, “Bonaparte respects the liberties of the French no more than to reduce them from being a nation to being an army, he will not respect the liberties of the blacks, and will endeavour to make them once more slaves.”“Ah! you see!” exclaimed Dessalines.“I neither see nor believe, Jacques. We are only speculating. I will be thoroughly faithful to my allegiance, till Bonaparte is unquestionably unfaithful to the principles by which he rose. At the moment, however, when he lifts his finger in menace of the liberties of the blacks, I will declare myself the Champion of Saint Domingo;—not, however, through the offices of the English, but by the desire of those whom I govern.”“Say King of Hayti,” exclaimed Christophe. “This island was Hayti, when it lay blooming in the midst of the ocean, fresh from the will of God, thronged with gentle beings who had never lifted up a hand against each other. It was Hayti when it received, as into a paradise, the first whites who came into our hemisphere, and who saw in our valleys and plains the Eden of the Scripture. It became Saint Domingo when vice crept into it, and oppression turned its music into sighs, and violence laid it waste with famine and the sword. While the blacks and whites yet hate each other, let it be still Saint Domingo: but when you withdraw us from jealousy and bloodshed, let it again be Hayti. While it holds its conquered name there will be heart-burnings. If it became our own Hayti, we might not only forgive, but forget. It would be a noble lot to be King of Hayti!”“If so ordained, Henri. We must wait till it be so. My present clear duty is to cultivate peace, and the friendship of the whites. They must have their due from us, from Bonaparte himself, to the youngest infant in Cap. You may trust me, however, that from the hour that there is a whisper about slavery in the lightest of Bonaparte’s dreams, I will consent to be called by whatever name can best defend our race.”“It will be too late then,” said Dessalines. “Why wait till Bonaparte tells you his dreams? We know, without being told, that all the dreams of all whites are of our slavery.”“You are wrong, Jacques. That is no more true of all whites, than it is true of all blacks that they hate the whites as you do.”“You will find too late that I am not wrong,” said Jacques. “Remember, in the day of our ruin, that my timely advice to you was to send for your sons from Paris, and then avow yourself King of Saint Domingo—or of Hayti, if you like that name better. To me that name tells of another coloured race, whom the whites wantonly oppressed and destroyed. One cannot traverse the island without hearing the ghosts of those poor Indians, from every wood and every hill, calling to us for vengeance on their conquerors.”“Take care how you heed those voices, Dessalines,” said Christophe. “They are not the voices of the gentle Indians that you hear; for the whites who injured them are long ago gone to judgment.”“And if they were still in the midst of us,” said Toussaint, “vengeance is not ours. Jacques knows that my maxim in the field—my order, which may not be transgressed—is, No retaliation! I will have the same rule obeyed in my council-chamber, as we all, I trust, observe it in our prayers. Jacques, you have not now to learn my principle and my command—no retaliation. Have you ever known it infringed, since the hour when you found me at Breda, and made me your chief?”“Never.”“Nor shall you while I am obeyed. If the hour for defence comes we shall be ready. Till then we owe allegiance.”“You will find it too late,” Dessalines said, once more.“The Assembly,” said Toussaint to Raymond, “will withdraw their proposition regarding my being President of this island. I have all needful power as Commander-in-chief of the colony.”“They have already published their request,” said Raymond; “which I do not regret, because—”“I regret it much,” said Toussaint. “It will incense France.”“I do not regret it,” pursued Raymond, “because it renders necessary the publication of your refusal, which cannot but satisfy France.”“On the point of Toussaint’s supposed ambition it may satisfy France,” observed Christophe. “But if Bonaparte be jealous of the influence of the First of the Blacks, this homage of the Assembly will not abate his jealousy.”“Have you more messages for us, Raymond?—No. Then Monsieur Pascal and I will examine these reports, and prepare my replies. This our little council is memorable, friends, for being the first in which we could report of the entire pacification of the colony. May it be only the first of many! My friends, our council is ended.”
A council was held one morning, soon after the events just related, whose aspect would have perplexed an old colonist, if he could have looked forward in vision to that day. In a shady apartment of Toussaint’s house at Pongaudin sat five men, in whose hands lay the fortunes of the colony; and only one of these men was a white.
The five came to report well to one another of the fortunes of the colony. Never, in the old days, could any set of counsellors have been gathered together, who could have brought with them such proofs of the welfare and comfort of every class of inhabitants. In former times the colonial legislators were wont to congratulate the Assembly on the good working of their system; which meant that the negroes were quiet, the mulattoes kept under, and the crops promising; but under this “good working” there were the heart-burnings of the men of colour, the woes and the depravity of the slaves, and the domestic fears and discomforts of the masters, arising from this depravity. Now, when there was no oppression and no slavery, the simple system of justice was truly “working well”; not only in the prospect of the crops, and the external quiet of the proprietors, but in the hearts and heads of every class of men—of perhaps every family in the island.
Jacques Dessalines had arrived from Saint Marc, near which his estate lay. He had to tell how the handsome crescent of freestone houses behind the quay was extending—how busy were the wharves—how the store-houses were overflowing—how the sea was covered with merchant-ships—and how the cheerful hum of prosperous industry was heard the long day through.
Henri Christophe had come from the city of Saint Domingo, quite through the interior of the island. He had to tell how the reinstated whites paid him honour as he passed, on account of his friendship with L’Ouverture; how the voice of song went up from the green valleys, and from the cottage door; how the glorious Artibonite rolled its full tide round the base of mountains which no longer harboured the runaway or the thief, and through, plains adorned with plenty, and smiling with peace.
Monsieur Raymond arrived from the sittings of the Central Assembly. What good things he had to report will presently be seen.
Toussaint, with Monsieur Pascal, had arrived from Cap, where all was at present quiet, and where he had done the best he could, as he believed, by making Moyse a general, and leaving him in charge of the town and district, till a person could be found fit for the difficult and most anxious office of Governor of Cap. The two most doubtful points of the colony were Port-au-Prince and Cap Français. They had been the great battle-grounds of races; they were the refuge of the discontented whites; and they were open to the operations of factious people from France. L’Ouverture was never sure of the peace and quiet of Cap, as long as French ships came and went; but there was peace in the town at the present moment; and he had left that peace in the temporary charge of one who had done much, under his eye, to establish it—who had shown no small energy and talent, and who had every inducement that could be conceived to go through his brief task well. Great had been Toussaint’s satisfaction in offering to Moyse this honourable opportunity of distinguishing himself; and much had he enjoyed the anticipation of telling Génifrède of this fulfilment of her lover’s ambition, and of the near approach of their union, in consequence. It is true, he had been disappointed by Génifrède’s receiving this news with a shudder, and by none but forced smiles having been seen from her since; but he trusted that this was only a fit of apprehension, natural to one who loved so passionately, and that it would but enhance the bliss that was to succeed.
If, as usual, L’Ouverture had to report the situation of Cap Français as precarious, he brought good tidings of the South. An express had met him on his journey homewards, with news of the total defeat of the insurgent mulattoes by Vincent. Rigaud had surrendered his designs, and had actually sailed, with his principal officers, for France. Thus was the last torch of war extinguished in the colony, and matters of peaceful policy alone lay before this Council of Five.
The announcement of the entire pacification of the island was the first made by L’Ouverture, when his friends and counsellors looked eagerly to him for what he should say.
“Vincent is a fine fellow,” said Dessalines, “and a credit to his colour.”
“He has been in the most pressing danger,” observed Toussaint. “God willed that he should escape, when escape appeared impossible.”
“What is to be done now with these cowardly devils of mulattoes?” asked Dessalines.
Monsieur Pascal glanced at Raymond, to see how he bore this. Raymond chanced to meet his eye, and replied to the glance.
“You will not take me for a cowardly mulatto, Monsieur Pascal, if I do not resent Dessaline’s words. He is speaking of the rebels, not of the many mulattoes who, like myself, disapprove and despise all such jealousy of race as leads to the barbarism of aggressive war.”
“Yet,” said Christophe, “I wish that we should all avoid such language as provokes jealousy of race.”
“In council one must speak plainly,” replied Dessalines. “I hope Monsieur Pascal agrees with me; for doubtless certain affairs of the whites will be in question, with regard to which they may be uncivilly spoken of. I was going to say, for instance (what L’Ouverture’s secretary ought to be able to bear), that if we wish this state of peace to last, we must studiously keep the whites down—exclude them from all situations of power and trust. You all know that, in my opinion, they ought every one to have been done with some time ago. As that was not effected, the next best, policy is to let them die out. One may compute pretty well the time that this will take. If nothing better remains for them here than to live upon their estates, without a chance of distinction, or of employment in public affairs, they will grow tired of the colony; the next generation, at farthest, will be glad to sell their property, and go home; and we shall be rid of them.”
“By that time, Jacques,” said Toussaint, “you and I may find ourselves again in the midst of them, in a place whence we cannot drive them out.”
Dessalines’ countenance told, as well as words could have done, that heaven would be no heaven to him if the spirits of white men were there. Toussaint well understood it, and resumed, “Better begin here what may be our work there—draw closer, and learn from them the wisdom by which they have been the masters of the world: while they may learn from us, if they will, forgiveness of injuries.”
“I am sick of hearing all that, Toussaint. It is for ever in your mouth.”
“Because it is for ever in my heart. You will hear it from me, Jacques, till I see that there is no occasion to say it more. As to Vincent, I propose to keep him, in token of honour, near my person; and to request the Central Assembly to decree to him an estate of such value as they shall think proper, to be purchased from the public treasury.”
“That is, supposing he should desire to remain among us,” observed Christophe; “but Vincent is fond of France.”
“Then his estate shall be in France, Henri. Our friend Raymond will charge himself with this business in the Assembly.”
“If I bring it forward in the form of a message from yourself,” replied Raymond, “there is no doubt of its being carried by acclamation. The finances of the colony are flourishing, and the attachment of the Assembly to your person most enthusiastic.”
“What of the finances?” asked Toussaint.
Raymond gave from his notes a statement which showed that both the customs’ duties and internal taxes had been productive beyond all expectation; that the merchant-ships of almost every nation had visited the ports; and that, after defraying the expenses of the war now closed, there would be a surplus sufficient for the extension of the schools and the formation of some new roads.
“What of the attachment of the Assembly to L’Ouverture’s person?” asked Christophe.
“Every member of it sees that the prosperity of the island is the consequence of the vigorous prosecution of his system; and that there is no security but in its unquestioned continuance. The Commander-in-chief having been thus proved as eminently fitted for civil as for military government, the Assembly proposes to constitute him president of the colony for life, with power to choose his successor, and to appoint to all offices.”
All eyes were now fixed upon Toussaint. He observed that a dark cloud must have hidden France from the eyes of the Assembly, when they framed this proposition of independent sovereignty.
Raymond had no doubt that France would agree to have her colony governed in the best possible manner. If there should be a difficulty about the title of president, that of governor might be substituted. The power being the same, there need not be a quarrel about the title. The Assembly would yield that point—probably the only one that France would dispute.
Monsieur Pascal believed that France would never yield the power of appointing to offices of importance for life; still less that of choosing a successor.
“France ought not to yield such powers,” said Toussaint; “and the Assembly ought not to bring upon me (representative as I am of my race) the imputation of a personal ambition which I abjure and despise. I could tell the Assembly that, if I had chosen to stoop under the yoke of personal ambition, I might have been sovereign of this island without waiting for their call. Yes,” he continued, in answer to the inquiring looks of his friends, “I have in my possession a treaty proposed to me by the British Government, in which the English offer to make me king of this island—in such case to be called by its ancient name of Hayti—on condition of exclusive commerce.”
“Is it even so?” exclaimed Christophe.
“Even so, Henri. The English believed that I had acted on my own account; and that we, the children of France, should turn against our mother in the day of her perplexity, and join hands with her foes.”
“Any other man would have done it,” said Monsieur Pascal.
“No, Pascal; no man who was appointed, like me, to redeem his race.”
“How do you consider that you will injure your race by accepting the proposal of the Assembly?” asked Monsieur Pascal. “I understand why you would accept nothing from the hands of the English; and also why you would hesitate to assume a power which the government at home would doubtless disallow. But how would your race be injured by honours paid to you?”
“You are my friend,” replied Toussaint. “Is it possible that you can fail to understand?”
“I call myself your friend too,” said Dessalines, “and I declare I can comprehend nothing of it.”
“Your prejudices on one point are strong, Jacques; and prejudice is blind. Monsieur Pascal is singularly unprejudiced: and therefore I believed that he would understand me.”
“Perhaps I do: but I wish to hear your reasons from yourself.”
“Particularly,” interposed Raymond, “as to whether you believe the blacks (who are, we know, your first object) would be more benefited by continued connection with France or by independence. I believe Monsieur Pascal is unprejudiced enough to bear the discussion of even this point.”
“It is that which I wish to understand clearly,” observed Monsieur Pascal.
“Whether, if I believed my race would be benefited by the independence of this island, I could answer it to my conscience to separate from France,” said Toussaint, “we need not decide, as I am convinced that, amidst all the errors committed under the orders of government, it is best for us to remain in connection with France. The civilisation of the whites is the greatest educational advantage we could enjoy. Yes, Jacques; and the more we despise it, the more we prove that we need it. The next great reason for remaining faithful is that we owe it to the white inhabitants of the colony not to deprive them of their connection with Paris, on the one hand, nor of their liberty to live and prosper here, on the other. As regards my own peculiar position, I feel that my first duty is to present an example of reverence and affection for my country, and not of a selfish ambition. I may have other personal reasons also, tending to the same conclusion.”
“Some favourite passages in Epictetus, perhaps, or in the Bible,” said Jacques: “some reasons confirmed by the whispers of the priests. Nothing short of priestly influence could blind you to such an opportunity as we now have of disembarrassing ourselves of the whites for ever.”
“Patience, Jacques!” said Toussaint, smiling.
“I believe,” said Christophe, “that there is neither book nor priest in the case. I believe that it is your peculiar feeling towards Bonaparte, Toussaint, which strengthens your affection for France.”
Christophe saw, by a glance at his friend’s countenance, that he was right.
“I should act as you do,” Henri continued, “if I were certain of a full and generous reciprocity of feeling on the part of the government and of Bonaparte. But I have no such confidence.”
“Hear him!” cried Dessalines and Raymond.
“You were not wont to doubt Bonaparte, Henri,” observed Toussaint.
“Because, till of late, there was no reason to doubt him. I still believe that he was in earnest at the outset, in his professed desire to serve France for the sake of France, and not for his own. But I believe that he has a head less strong than yours; that we shall see him transformed from the pacificator into the aggressor—that, instead of waiting upon his pleasure, we may have to guard against injury from him.”
“These words from the generous Henri,” said Toussaint, “are portentous.”
“I may be wrong, Toussaint. God grant, for the sake of the liberties of the world, that I may be proved mistaken! But, in the hour of choice between your sovereignty and continued dependence, you must not suppose the sympathy between the First of the Whites and the First of the Blacks to be greater than it is.”
Toussaint could have told how Henri’s words only confirmed misgivings as to the public virtues of Bonaparte, which had long troubled his secret soul.
“Are you willing,” he asked of Monsieur Pascal, “to tell us your anticipations as to the career of the First Consul? Do not speak, if you prefer to be silent.”
“I cannot predict confidently,” replied Pascal; “but I should not be surprised if we see Bonaparte unable to resist the offer of sovereignty. Once crowned, and feeling himself still compelled to speak incessantly of the good of his country, his views of good will become debased. He will invest France with military glory, and sink into ruin by becoming a conqueror;—a vulgar destiny, in this age—a destiny which Alexander himself would probably scorn, if now born again into the world.”
“Alas! my poor blacks, if this be indeed Bonaparte!” exclaimed Toussaint. “Their supreme need is of peace; and they may become the subjects of a conqueror.”
“And happy if they be no worse than subjects,” said Christophe.
“If,” said Toussaint, “Bonaparte respects the liberties of the French no more than to reduce them from being a nation to being an army, he will not respect the liberties of the blacks, and will endeavour to make them once more slaves.”
“Ah! you see!” exclaimed Dessalines.
“I neither see nor believe, Jacques. We are only speculating. I will be thoroughly faithful to my allegiance, till Bonaparte is unquestionably unfaithful to the principles by which he rose. At the moment, however, when he lifts his finger in menace of the liberties of the blacks, I will declare myself the Champion of Saint Domingo;—not, however, through the offices of the English, but by the desire of those whom I govern.”
“Say King of Hayti,” exclaimed Christophe. “This island was Hayti, when it lay blooming in the midst of the ocean, fresh from the will of God, thronged with gentle beings who had never lifted up a hand against each other. It was Hayti when it received, as into a paradise, the first whites who came into our hemisphere, and who saw in our valleys and plains the Eden of the Scripture. It became Saint Domingo when vice crept into it, and oppression turned its music into sighs, and violence laid it waste with famine and the sword. While the blacks and whites yet hate each other, let it be still Saint Domingo: but when you withdraw us from jealousy and bloodshed, let it again be Hayti. While it holds its conquered name there will be heart-burnings. If it became our own Hayti, we might not only forgive, but forget. It would be a noble lot to be King of Hayti!”
“If so ordained, Henri. We must wait till it be so. My present clear duty is to cultivate peace, and the friendship of the whites. They must have their due from us, from Bonaparte himself, to the youngest infant in Cap. You may trust me, however, that from the hour that there is a whisper about slavery in the lightest of Bonaparte’s dreams, I will consent to be called by whatever name can best defend our race.”
“It will be too late then,” said Dessalines. “Why wait till Bonaparte tells you his dreams? We know, without being told, that all the dreams of all whites are of our slavery.”
“You are wrong, Jacques. That is no more true of all whites, than it is true of all blacks that they hate the whites as you do.”
“You will find too late that I am not wrong,” said Jacques. “Remember, in the day of our ruin, that my timely advice to you was to send for your sons from Paris, and then avow yourself King of Saint Domingo—or of Hayti, if you like that name better. To me that name tells of another coloured race, whom the whites wantonly oppressed and destroyed. One cannot traverse the island without hearing the ghosts of those poor Indians, from every wood and every hill, calling to us for vengeance on their conquerors.”
“Take care how you heed those voices, Dessalines,” said Christophe. “They are not the voices of the gentle Indians that you hear; for the whites who injured them are long ago gone to judgment.”
“And if they were still in the midst of us,” said Toussaint, “vengeance is not ours. Jacques knows that my maxim in the field—my order, which may not be transgressed—is, No retaliation! I will have the same rule obeyed in my council-chamber, as we all, I trust, observe it in our prayers. Jacques, you have not now to learn my principle and my command—no retaliation. Have you ever known it infringed, since the hour when you found me at Breda, and made me your chief?”
“Never.”
“Nor shall you while I am obeyed. If the hour for defence comes we shall be ready. Till then we owe allegiance.”
“You will find it too late,” Dessalines said, once more.
“The Assembly,” said Toussaint to Raymond, “will withdraw their proposition regarding my being President of this island. I have all needful power as Commander-in-chief of the colony.”
“They have already published their request,” said Raymond; “which I do not regret, because—”
“I regret it much,” said Toussaint. “It will incense France.”
“I do not regret it,” pursued Raymond, “because it renders necessary the publication of your refusal, which cannot but satisfy France.”
“On the point of Toussaint’s supposed ambition it may satisfy France,” observed Christophe. “But if Bonaparte be jealous of the influence of the First of the Blacks, this homage of the Assembly will not abate his jealousy.”
“Have you more messages for us, Raymond?—No. Then Monsieur Pascal and I will examine these reports, and prepare my replies. This our little council is memorable, friends, for being the first in which we could report of the entire pacification of the colony. May it be only the first of many! My friends, our council is ended.”
Chapter Nineteen.Leisure for once.Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the common pleasures which are strewed over the earth—meant, apparently, for the perpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants. The child gathers flowers in the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds’ nests every spring day. The boy and girl hear the lark in the field and the linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside the growing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of its being a privilege. The sailor beholds the stars every bright night of the year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea. The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain and valley, plain and forest. The citizen, pent up in the centre of a wide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, his evenings for his wife and his friends. But for the statesman, none of these are the pleasures of every day. Week after week, month after month, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure for small affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairs at all. He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from the drawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now and then be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or by the waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree. He may be beguiled by the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by some wandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on the evening cloud. But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sight of the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and months together; and precious in proportion—precious beyond its utmost anticipation—are his hours of holiday when at length they come. He gazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the long morning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before his eyes. He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones, when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket. The whirring of the wild bird’s wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase from cover, the creaking of the harvest wain—the song of the vine-dressers—the laugh of the olive-gatherers—in every land where these sounds are heard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for once have come forth to hear them. Sweeter still is the leisure hour with children in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife or sister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day of liberty. If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toils involve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidays to the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his—after his daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear! In the path of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads should fall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs of heaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase money of toil.The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing eyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, or detained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business lay abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on horseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were his laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of every description, there was no security for the working of his system so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The same love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at home. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.At length, when Hédouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from another—when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain—it seemed to be time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to enjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, to fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the little island of Gonaïves, which was a beautiful object from the windows of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving the south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to enjoy his honours in the presence of L’Ouverture and his family. Madame Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party, Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few hours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul himself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him; and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soon gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at Pongaudin, at ten o’clock. The moon was high, the gardens looked lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys of the shrubbery.“I want to know what you think,” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture, as they emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay, clear and strong—“I want to ask you”—and as she spoke, she looked round to see that no one was at hand—“whether you do not think that General Vincent loves Aimée.”“I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it.”“And are not you glad?”“That partly depends on whether Aimée loves him. I doubt whether Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the matter as you are.”“Aimée is not one who will ever show herself too ready— Aimée is very quiet—”“Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?”“I do not know that she does quite, yet—though I think she likes him very much, too. But surely she will love him—she must love him—so much as he loves her—and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is, in every way!”“You think it so.”“Why, do not you? Consider how many years we have known him, and what confidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris! And now he has done great things in the south. He comes, covered with glory, to ask us for our Aimée. What could be more flattering?”“It was our child’s future happiness that I was thinking of, when I seemed to doubt. Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so wholly French that—”“Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, and employed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra.”“Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black. He is devoted to Bonaparte—”“What of that?” said Madame L’Ouverture, after a pause. “He is devoted to you also. And are you not yourself devoted to France and to Bonaparte? Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?”“Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if I am separated from you by death or otherwise. Pray that such a blessing may rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong to do it. If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven.”“I will,” replied Margot, in a low voice; “but—”She was lost in considering what this might mean.“As for Vincent,” resumed Toussaint, “my doubt is whether, with his views and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man.”“Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love our child as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one so powerful—so full of honours—with so very great a man as you. I would not speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now that the Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony. Consider what Vincent must think of that! And he has travelled so much in the island, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you. He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, and the pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are all honestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays. He has seen how rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, and industrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time. He has seen that all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be your son-in-law.”“Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am a doomed man.”“I thought you said so—I thought I heard that word before,” said Margot, in a trembling voice; “but I could not believe it.”Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency—some almost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and he hastened to explain.“Do not imagine,” said he, solemnly, “do not for a moment suppose that God is not on our side—that He will for a moment forsake us. But it is not always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though their good work prospers in the end. I firmly trust and believe that our Father will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be His will that I and others should fall in defending our freedom.”“But the wars are at an end. Your battles are all over, my love.”“How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what the Assembly has done? Hédouville is on the way home, eager to report of the blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced about their conduct. Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, at the ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy, that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race. How can we say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honour makes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?”“Oh, write to him! Write to him, and tell him how you would have him be a brother to you!”“Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect? I wrote to him to announce the earliest prospect of entire peace. I wrote again, to explain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanction of what I had done. There has been no reply.”“Then write again. Write this very night!”“I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitution framed by the Assembly. I told him that it should be put in force provisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known.”“Oh, then, that must bring an answer.”Toussaint was silent.“He must send some sort of answer to that,” pursued Margot. “What answer do you think it will be?”“You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under the mountains, Margot? Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture, with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?”Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband’s side.“You saw to-day,” he continued, “that troop of gay dolphins, in the smooth sea beyond the island. You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes, opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, and hovered about them.”“But you shot the eagle,” cried Margot; “and Denis wounded the shark.”“Heaven only knows how it may end with us,” said Toussaint; “but we have the shadow of Bonaparte’s jealousy over us, and danger all about us. The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all France down upon us.”“Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?”“I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all go to the account of our former slavery. We negroes are ignorant, and have been made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery. The whites have been made tyrannical and unjust, by being masters. They believe us now ambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder if we were so. All this injustice comes of our former slavery. God forbid that I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due! For nothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte.”“Then you think—Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide and Isaac. Bonaparte is so kind to them! Surely Placide and Isaac can be in no danger!”“There is no fear for their present safety, my love.”Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent daily thought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of these hostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now. He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return which he dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainly excite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks. Not to save his children would L’Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrust of his people.“Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot. And if Vincent should win our Aimée, that will be another security for the lads; for no one doubts his attachment to France.”“I hope Vincent will win her. But when will you send for the boys? They have been gone very long. When will you send?”“As soon as affairs will allow. Do not urge me, Margot. I think of it day and night.”“Then there is some danger. You would not speak so if there were not. Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimée! You say that will be a security.”“We must not forget Aimée herself, my love. If she should hereafter find her heart torn between her lover and her parents—if the hour should come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, and Vincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become of the child of the First of the Blacks? Ought not her parents to have foreseen such a struggle?”“Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?”“Perhaps Génifrède is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looks anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart will be at rest.”“It never will,” said. Margot, mournfully. “I think there is some evil influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. She still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing, except when Moyse is by her side.”“Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.—I was proud of him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, from the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye, when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those old days on the north shore. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another kind. You know what a passionate lover he is.”“Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!”“Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of the hour, whatever it may be.”“Do you mean that he forgets Génifrède, when he is away from her?”“I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in his work. I’m sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about home, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as we once feared he would—if I saw him yielding to his passions—to the prejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be, ‘You forget Génifrède.’ Moyse has yet much to learn—and much to overcome; yet I look upon Génifrède as perhaps the most favoured of our children. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!”“It is indeed the greatest thing.” Margot stopped, as a turn in the walk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandah stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the neighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out a stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of the moon. “This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married, Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed the greatest thing to be loved.”“And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, my Margot?”“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then—in that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the door. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at this beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces—and think of our palace at Port-au-Prince—and think of the girls as they look at church, or in the boat to-day—and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever you go—and how the Assembly consider you—think of all that has happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine—so wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can happen. I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and you shall not make me afraid.”“I would have none be afraid while God reigns, Margot. May you ever say that you will not fear! The blessing of God may be on us now, love; but it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When I lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things I used to think of to say to you when I came home!”“And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and you were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in the evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!”“It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what we are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these shrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this mansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we have been so raised.”“It is pleasant for our children.”“It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants. Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart, remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It is because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble us.”“I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, and wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only fine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court.”“Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of the negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must make sacrifices—perhaps some which you may little dream of, while looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children, worshipped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake of the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow then!”“I wish not to be proud,” said Margot, trembling—“I pray that I may not be proud; but it is difficult—Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turn into this alley.”“Nay,” said Toussaint; “it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted.”“For ever wanted!” exclaimed Margot. “No peace!”“It was not so at Breda,” said Toussaint, smiling. “I was just speaking of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon will shine.—News, Monsieur Pascal?”“News from Cap,” replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. “Bad news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost.”“There is light enough,” said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight fell upon the page.While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L’Ouverture that messengers had brought news of a quarrel at Cap—a quarrel between the races, unhappily, about Hédouville’s proclamation again;—a quarrel in which several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites were crying out for vengeance.“No peace, as you say, Margot,” observed Toussaint, when he had run over the letters. “See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people require! The curse of slavery is still upon us.”“How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?”“I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing,” said Toussaint gloomily. “Monsieur Pascal—”“Your horses are coming round,” said Pascal, “and I shall be there almost as soon as you.”“Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Génifrède. Farewell!”As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Génifrède standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.Again and again Aimée looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture to approach her sister. Once Madame L’Ouverture went to her, and once Thérèse; but she would say nothing but “Leave me!” From her they went to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their consolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moon set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame L’Ouverture went once more to Génifrède, determined to take her to her own chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Génifrède was not there, nor in her chamber. The mother’s terror was great, till a cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L’Ouverture had gone a journey, on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis’s bed was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. They had fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in with Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back. There was another road, however: and by this road Thérèse declared that she would follow.“Yes, yes—go!” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture. “She will heed you, if any one. She thinks you understand her. She says—”“She loves me,” said Thérèse, sighing, “because—I hardly know—but Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!”“She says you hate the whites,” declared Aimée. “If it be so, may indeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see how wretched we are!”“Aimée, do not be hard. We are made to love—my heart inclines to all who are about me:—but if there are some—if one cannot—Oh, Aimée, do not be hard!”“It is those who hate who are hard,” said Aimée, whose tears fell fast, in sympathy with Afra’s. “Is it not so, Afra?”“Well, I will go,” said Thérèse, gently. “One kiss, Aimée, for Génifrède’s sake!”“For your own,” said Aimée, tenderly embracing her. “Bring back poor Génifrède! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her.”“Bring back my child,” said Margot. “Be sure you tell her that there may be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;—he may do great things yet.”These words renewed Afra’s weeping, in the midst of which Thérèse hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.
Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the common pleasures which are strewed over the earth—meant, apparently, for the perpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants. The child gathers flowers in the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds’ nests every spring day. The boy and girl hear the lark in the field and the linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside the growing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of its being a privilege. The sailor beholds the stars every bright night of the year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea. The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain and valley, plain and forest. The citizen, pent up in the centre of a wide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, his evenings for his wife and his friends. But for the statesman, none of these are the pleasures of every day. Week after week, month after month, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure for small affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairs at all. He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from the drawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now and then be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or by the waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree. He may be beguiled by the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by some wandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on the evening cloud. But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sight of the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and months together; and precious in proportion—precious beyond its utmost anticipation—are his hours of holiday when at length they come. He gazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the long morning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before his eyes. He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones, when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket. The whirring of the wild bird’s wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase from cover, the creaking of the harvest wain—the song of the vine-dressers—the laugh of the olive-gatherers—in every land where these sounds are heard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for once have come forth to hear them. Sweeter still is the leisure hour with children in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife or sister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day of liberty. If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toils involve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidays to the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his—after his daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear! In the path of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads should fall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs of heaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase money of toil.
The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing eyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, or detained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business lay abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on horseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were his laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of every description, there was no security for the working of his system so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The same love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at home. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.
At length, when Hédouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from another—when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain—it seemed to be time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to enjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, to fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the little island of Gonaïves, which was a beautiful object from the windows of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.
The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving the south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to enjoy his honours in the presence of L’Ouverture and his family. Madame Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party, Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few hours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul himself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him; and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soon gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at Pongaudin, at ten o’clock. The moon was high, the gardens looked lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys of the shrubbery.
“I want to know what you think,” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture, as they emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay, clear and strong—“I want to ask you”—and as she spoke, she looked round to see that no one was at hand—“whether you do not think that General Vincent loves Aimée.”
“I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it.”
“And are not you glad?”
“That partly depends on whether Aimée loves him. I doubt whether Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the matter as you are.”
“Aimée is not one who will ever show herself too ready— Aimée is very quiet—”
“Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?”
“I do not know that she does quite, yet—though I think she likes him very much, too. But surely she will love him—she must love him—so much as he loves her—and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is, in every way!”
“You think it so.”
“Why, do not you? Consider how many years we have known him, and what confidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris! And now he has done great things in the south. He comes, covered with glory, to ask us for our Aimée. What could be more flattering?”
“It was our child’s future happiness that I was thinking of, when I seemed to doubt. Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so wholly French that—”
“Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, and employed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra.”
“Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black. He is devoted to Bonaparte—”
“What of that?” said Madame L’Ouverture, after a pause. “He is devoted to you also. And are you not yourself devoted to France and to Bonaparte? Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?”
“Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if I am separated from you by death or otherwise. Pray that such a blessing may rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong to do it. If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven.”
“I will,” replied Margot, in a low voice; “but—”
She was lost in considering what this might mean.
“As for Vincent,” resumed Toussaint, “my doubt is whether, with his views and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man.”
“Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love our child as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one so powerful—so full of honours—with so very great a man as you. I would not speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now that the Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony. Consider what Vincent must think of that! And he has travelled so much in the island, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you. He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, and the pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are all honestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays. He has seen how rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, and industrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time. He has seen that all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be your son-in-law.”
“Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am a doomed man.”
“I thought you said so—I thought I heard that word before,” said Margot, in a trembling voice; “but I could not believe it.”
Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency—some almost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and he hastened to explain.
“Do not imagine,” said he, solemnly, “do not for a moment suppose that God is not on our side—that He will for a moment forsake us. But it is not always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though their good work prospers in the end. I firmly trust and believe that our Father will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be His will that I and others should fall in defending our freedom.”
“But the wars are at an end. Your battles are all over, my love.”
“How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what the Assembly has done? Hédouville is on the way home, eager to report of the blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced about their conduct. Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, at the ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy, that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race. How can we say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honour makes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?”
“Oh, write to him! Write to him, and tell him how you would have him be a brother to you!”
“Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect? I wrote to him to announce the earliest prospect of entire peace. I wrote again, to explain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanction of what I had done. There has been no reply.”
“Then write again. Write this very night!”
“I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitution framed by the Assembly. I told him that it should be put in force provisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known.”
“Oh, then, that must bring an answer.”
Toussaint was silent.
“He must send some sort of answer to that,” pursued Margot. “What answer do you think it will be?”
“You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under the mountains, Margot? Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture, with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?”
Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband’s side.
“You saw to-day,” he continued, “that troop of gay dolphins, in the smooth sea beyond the island. You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes, opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, and hovered about them.”
“But you shot the eagle,” cried Margot; “and Denis wounded the shark.”
“Heaven only knows how it may end with us,” said Toussaint; “but we have the shadow of Bonaparte’s jealousy over us, and danger all about us. The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all France down upon us.”
“Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?”
“I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all go to the account of our former slavery. We negroes are ignorant, and have been made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery. The whites have been made tyrannical and unjust, by being masters. They believe us now ambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder if we were so. All this injustice comes of our former slavery. God forbid that I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due! For nothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte.”
“Then you think—Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide and Isaac. Bonaparte is so kind to them! Surely Placide and Isaac can be in no danger!”
“There is no fear for their present safety, my love.”
Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent daily thought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of these hostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now. He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return which he dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainly excite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks. Not to save his children would L’Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrust of his people.
“Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot. And if Vincent should win our Aimée, that will be another security for the lads; for no one doubts his attachment to France.”
“I hope Vincent will win her. But when will you send for the boys? They have been gone very long. When will you send?”
“As soon as affairs will allow. Do not urge me, Margot. I think of it day and night.”
“Then there is some danger. You would not speak so if there were not. Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimée! You say that will be a security.”
“We must not forget Aimée herself, my love. If she should hereafter find her heart torn between her lover and her parents—if the hour should come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, and Vincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become of the child of the First of the Blacks? Ought not her parents to have foreseen such a struggle?”
“Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?”
“Perhaps Génifrède is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looks anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart will be at rest.”
“It never will,” said. Margot, mournfully. “I think there is some evil influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. She still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing, except when Moyse is by her side.”
“Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.—I was proud of him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, from the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye, when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those old days on the north shore. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another kind. You know what a passionate lover he is.”
“Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!”
“Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of the hour, whatever it may be.”
“Do you mean that he forgets Génifrède, when he is away from her?”
“I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in his work. I’m sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about home, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as we once feared he would—if I saw him yielding to his passions—to the prejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be, ‘You forget Génifrède.’ Moyse has yet much to learn—and much to overcome; yet I look upon Génifrède as perhaps the most favoured of our children. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!”
“It is indeed the greatest thing.” Margot stopped, as a turn in the walk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandah stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the neighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out a stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of the moon. “This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married, Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed the greatest thing to be loved.”
“And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, my Margot?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then—in that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the door. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at this beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces—and think of our palace at Port-au-Prince—and think of the girls as they look at church, or in the boat to-day—and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever you go—and how the Assembly consider you—think of all that has happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine—so wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can happen. I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and you shall not make me afraid.”
“I would have none be afraid while God reigns, Margot. May you ever say that you will not fear! The blessing of God may be on us now, love; but it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When I lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things I used to think of to say to you when I came home!”
“And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and you were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in the evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!”
“It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what we are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these shrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this mansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we have been so raised.”
“It is pleasant for our children.”
“It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants. Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart, remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It is because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble us.”
“I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, and wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only fine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court.”
“Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of the negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must make sacrifices—perhaps some which you may little dream of, while looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children, worshipped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake of the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow then!”
“I wish not to be proud,” said Margot, trembling—“I pray that I may not be proud; but it is difficult—Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turn into this alley.”
“Nay,” said Toussaint; “it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted.”
“For ever wanted!” exclaimed Margot. “No peace!”
“It was not so at Breda,” said Toussaint, smiling. “I was just speaking of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon will shine.—News, Monsieur Pascal?”
“News from Cap,” replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. “Bad news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost.”
“There is light enough,” said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight fell upon the page.
While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L’Ouverture that messengers had brought news of a quarrel at Cap—a quarrel between the races, unhappily, about Hédouville’s proclamation again;—a quarrel in which several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites were crying out for vengeance.
“No peace, as you say, Margot,” observed Toussaint, when he had run over the letters. “See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people require! The curse of slavery is still upon us.”
“How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?”
“I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing,” said Toussaint gloomily. “Monsieur Pascal—”
“Your horses are coming round,” said Pascal, “and I shall be there almost as soon as you.”
“Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Génifrède. Farewell!”
As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Génifrède standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.
Again and again Aimée looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture to approach her sister. Once Madame L’Ouverture went to her, and once Thérèse; but she would say nothing but “Leave me!” From her they went to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their consolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moon set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame L’Ouverture went once more to Génifrède, determined to take her to her own chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Génifrède was not there, nor in her chamber. The mother’s terror was great, till a cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L’Ouverture had gone a journey, on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis’s bed was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. They had fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in with Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back. There was another road, however: and by this road Thérèse declared that she would follow.
“Yes, yes—go!” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture. “She will heed you, if any one. She thinks you understand her. She says—”
“She loves me,” said Thérèse, sighing, “because—I hardly know—but Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!”
“She says you hate the whites,” declared Aimée. “If it be so, may indeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see how wretched we are!”
“Aimée, do not be hard. We are made to love—my heart inclines to all who are about me:—but if there are some—if one cannot—Oh, Aimée, do not be hard!”
“It is those who hate who are hard,” said Aimée, whose tears fell fast, in sympathy with Afra’s. “Is it not so, Afra?”
“Well, I will go,” said Thérèse, gently. “One kiss, Aimée, for Génifrède’s sake!”
“For your own,” said Aimée, tenderly embracing her. “Bring back poor Génifrède! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her.”
“Bring back my child,” said Margot. “Be sure you tell her that there may be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;—he may do great things yet.”
These words renewed Afra’s weeping, in the midst of which Thérèse hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.