"The Hour and the Man" (continued 7)

He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room—he listened at the chamber-door—he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Thérèse well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying—

“Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying—or dead?”

“Indeed, I am not certain,” exclaimed Thérèse, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.

“Here is no pain,” whispered Thérèse. “She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself.”

She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.

“No pain, thank God!” he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.

“Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?”

“Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son.”

“And the other sufferers?”

“My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night.”

“Are there more doomed?” asked Thérèse, faintly.

“There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example. They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master—no retaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned! Let us begone.”

“One moment,” exclaimed Thérèse, in agitation. “You have not told me when—where—”

“He dies on the Place, at sunrise—a military, not an ignominious death. Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Génifrède wakes. Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now.”

Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been assigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming—

“You have come at last! Oh, Génifrède! to have kept me waiting this last night—”

He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.

“You expected Génifrède?” asked Toussaint.

“I did—naturally.”

“She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse.”

“Must not be awakened,” repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone—something of triumph in his countenance.

“Perhaps you think,” said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face, “that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?”

“She has told, then. A curse upon woman’s cowardice and woman’s treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Génifrède loved me? And now, when put to the test—”

“Now, when put to the test,” interrupted Toussaint, “my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superstition—terrified her with spells and charms—”

“You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only—”

“And you wished it—you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost—and now you curse a woman’s cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon. Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Génifrède’s.”

“Stop!” cried Moyse, “I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Génifrède from me? She is mine.”

“Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven’s pardon for your intent towards her.” And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

“Yes,” exclaimed Moyse, “with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together.”

“Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours.” And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.

“You spoke of treachery just now,” said Moyse. “How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”

“Be silent, my poor son,” said Father Laxabon. “Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes.”

“A few minutes’ patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his—he never was severe to me—but on account of a certain awe I felt of him—an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel.”

“It is well,” said Toussaint. “There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment’s darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse.”

“I ask,” said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, “how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”

“Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide. If your father’s heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for— But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy.”

“Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Génifrède? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears—her fears of my ghost—to make her seek refuge with another? Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?”

“Leave us!” said Laxabon to Toussaint. “He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks.”

“Presently, father.—Moyse, what Génifrède hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be assured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory. She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life. When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman’s love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Génifrède inquire concerning you.”

“This is kind—this is generous,” said Moyse, looking wistfully in his uncle’s face.

“And now,” said Toussaint, “I have to ask you to be generous to me. I need and implore your pardon, Moyse. While you were yet weak and wayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you. Too prone to ease and satisfaction, for my child’s sake and my own, I too soon concluded you a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man. Your failure is my condemnation. I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you to throw away your life. All this, and much more, am I answerable for. Whether or not God may have mercy, can you yield me your pardon? I implore it, Moyse.”

Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle’s feet, clinging to his knees, and crying—

“Save me! uncle, save me! You can—you will—”

“No, Moyse, I will not—I cannot,” declared Toussaint, in a voice which silenced even that most piercing of all sounds—the cry for life.

“Not one word!” continued L’Ouverture. “Keep your entreaties for Him who alone can help you. Kneel to Him alone. Rise, Moyse, and only say, if you can say it, that your last prayer for me shall be for pardon.”

The awe of man was not destroyed in Moyse. He looked humbly upon the ground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said—

“My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout. But if you have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is by me! I know of no such wrong.”

“Thank God!” cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast. “This is the temper which will win mercy.”

“Leave us now,” said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he was obeyed.

Chapter Twenty Four.

All Ear.

Thérèse was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the bed on which lay Génifrède. The room was so darkened that nothing was to be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless, unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life were falling fast into ruins around her. It seemed treacherous, cruel, thus to beguile her of that tremendous night—to let those last hours of the only life she prized pass away unused—to deprive her of the last glances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death—of the latest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more. It seemed an irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and to substitute for them a blank and barren sleep. But it was done. It was done to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and she could not now be wakened to any purpose. With sickening heart, Thérèse saw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east. In a few minutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only the gleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life. Brief as was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of light appeared so hasty, so peremptory as now. By the rousing up of the birds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of the flowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretched children, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled. Thérèse resolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lest light and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused too soon.

As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher’s nerves were so stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat, she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wing in the gardens, reached her ear. She heard at intervals the tap of a distant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms—not in a volley from the Place d’Armes, as she had expected, but further off, and mere dropping shot. This occurred so often, that she was satisfied it was not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knew whether to feel relieved or not. The door from the corridor presently opened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from her face. She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could give her news. Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end. When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interrupted her, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.

“Tell me—only tell me,” said she, “whether it is over.”

“Not the principal execution—it is about going forward now. I came away—I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more.”

“You saw L’Ouverture?” said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.

Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relieve his mind as she was eager to hear.

“I saw,” said he, “what I never could have conceived of, and would never have believed upon report. I have seen man as a god among his fellow-men.”

A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines’ face, through its agony.

“It was too touching, too mournful to be endured,” resumed Monsieur Pascal. “The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my dying hour. Never was man idolised like L’Ouverture. For him, men go willingly to their deaths—not in the excitement of a common danger; not for glory or for a bright future—but solitary, in ignominy, in the light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon them. Without protest, without supplication—as it appears, without objection—they stoop to death at his word.”

“I do not know—I do not understand what has been done,” said Thérèse. “But does not every black know that L’Ouverture has no private interests—nothing at heart but the good of us all?”

“That is the spell,” replied Pascal. “This sacrifice of his nephew will confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. These thirteen others—for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for dereliction of duty in the late rising—these thirteen are from the garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbé. All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon the Place. L’Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He told them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to lead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection due to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the primary duty of a liberated race—that of keeping the peace. They knew their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knew that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L’Ouverture walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you, Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant death, there was passionate love in every face.”

“I believe it,” said Thérèse. “And he?”

“He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see. He is ten years older since last night. He spoke aloud the names of the most guilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him, and the committee, of investigation.”

“And no one of the thirteen resisted?”

“Not one. One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humbly before him, and repaired where he pointed—to be shot. There was a spell upon me. I could not come away, though feeling at every moment as if I could endure no more. I did not, however, stay to see General Moyse brought out—”

As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at a distance, followed by a volley of musketry.

“That is it,” cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone. Thérèse sank back upon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head. She desired, in the sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.

She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened. She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon’s soft voice, saying—

“Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is Mademoiselle L’Ouverture?”

“She is asleep,” said Thérèse, rousing herself—“asleep, if indeed she be not dead. If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpet of doom will scarcely reach her soul.”

This last sound had roused Génifrède. She did not recognise it; she was not aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed it night, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with a confused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door to the salon. There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, and looking doubtful whether to advance or go back.

“My daughter—” said Father Laxabon. She came forward with a docile and wistful look. “My daughter,” he continued, “I bring you some comfort.”

“Comfort?” she repeated, doubtingly.

“Not now, Father,” interposed Thérèse. “Spare her.”

“Spare me?” repeated Génifrède in the same tone.

“I bring her comfort,” said the father, turning reprovingly to Madame Dessalines. “His conflict is over, my daughter,” he continued, advancing to Génifrède. “His last moments were composed; and as for his state of mind in confession—”

He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot, and supported himself against the wall. Génifrède rushed back to the chamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Thérèse was there in an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it might be thought, no one could resist—

“Let me in, love! It is Thérèse. No one else shall come. If you love me, let me in.”

There was no answer.

“You have killed her, I believe,” she said to the priest, who was walking up and down in great disturbance—not with himself, but with the faithless creature of passion he had to deal with.

“The windows!” exclaimed Thérèse, vexed not to have thought of this before. She stepped out upon the balcony. One of the chamber-windows was open, and she entered. No one was there. Génifrède must have fled down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Thérèse hastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain, she saw the fluttering of her clothes.

“The reservoir!” thought Thérèse, in despair.

She was not mistaken. Génifrède stood on the brink of the deep and brimming reservoir—her hands were clasped above her head for the plunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistibly back. In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.

“They say,” she screamed, “that every one worships you. Not true now! Never true more! I hate—I curse—”

He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering and muttering.

“That any one should have dared to tell you—that any one should have interfered between me and my poor child!” he said, as if involuntarily, while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her, holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.

“This sod is fresh and green,” said he; “but would we were all lying under it!”

“Do you say so?” murmured Génifrède.

“God forgive me!” he replied. “But we are all wretched.”

“You repent, then?” said Génifrède. “Well you may! There are no more such, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it is too late now.”

“I do not repent, Génifrède; but I mourn, my child.”

“There are no more such,” pursued she. “He was gallant.”

“He was.”

“He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness—he was all life.”

“He was, my child.”

“And such a lover!” she continued, with something of a strange proud smile.

“He was a lover, Génifrède, who made your parents proud.”

“Such a soldier!” she dreamed on. “War was his sport, while I trembled at home. He had a soldier’s heart.”

Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had not appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to her feet.

“You will go home now, Génifrède,” said her father. “With Madame Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister.”

“Home!” she exclaimed with loathing. “Yes, I must go home,” she said, hurriedly. “You love Pongaudin—you call it paradise. I wish you joy of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your paradise!”

She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Thérèse, who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father’s care, now intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint, who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Having acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a life of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where, for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairs of the citizens of Cap. The steadiness of his attention to business was felt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wandering thoughts.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Perch of the Raven.

Euphrosyne’s life in the convent was dull and weary. It would probably have been so anywhere, for some time after the old man’s death: but elsewhere there would have been more to do and to amuse herself with. Every one was kind to her—too kind. She had been accustomed to the voice of chiding during all the years that she had lived with her grandfather; and she did not mind it. It would now have been something of a relief, something welcome and familiar, to have been called “child” and “little fool” at times, instead of being told at every turn that she was an angel and a love, and finding that she was every one’s pet, from the abbess to old Raphael.

The kindness of the household had begun from the moment the poor girl appeared, after having been consoled by Father Gabriel, and visited by Pierre, and the guardian to whose care her grandfather had confided her person and her property. Pierre had engaged to see her daily till the furniture should have been sold, and the house shut up, and he himself about to embark for France, with the savings of his long service. Her guardian, Monsieur Critois, knew but little of young people, and how to talk to them. He had assured her that he mourned extremely the loss of his old acquaintance—the acquaintance of so many years—and so lost. He declared his desire of discharging his office of guardian so as to prove himself worthy of the trust, and his hope that he and his ward should be very good friends. At present, it was his wish that she should remain where she was; and he asked whether she did not find every one very kind to her. Euphrosyne could just say, “Yes;” but she was crying too much to be able to add, that she hoped she should not have to remain in the convent very long. Monsieur Critois saw that she was struggling to say something: but, after waiting a minute, he stroked her hair, promised to come again some day soon, hoped she would cheer up, had no doubt she would be very happy—and was gone, glad to have done with sobbing girls for this day.

When the gates had closed upon him, the petting began. The abbess decreed that Euphrosyne should have the sole charge of her mocking-bird. Sister Angélique, who made the prettiest artificial flowers in the world, invited her to her apartment at all reasonable hours, when she might have a curiosity to see to learn the process. Sister Célestine had invented a new kind of comfit which she begged Euphrosyne to try, leaving a paper of sweetmeats on her table for that purpose. Old Raphael had gained leave to clear a parterre in the garden which was to be wholly hers, and where he would rear such flowers as she particularly admired. Father Gabriel himself, after pointing out to her the uncertainty of life, the sudden surprises of death, and the care with which it becomes social beings to discharge their duties to each other, since they know not how soon they may be parted—the serious Father Gabriel himself recommended her to amuse herself, and to remember how her grandfather had liked to see her gay. She had, no doubt, been a good girl on the whole; and she could not now do better than continue the conduct which had pleased the departed in the days that were gone.

Petted people generally prove perverse; and so, in the opinion of the universal household, did Euphrosyne. There could be no doubt of her love for her grandfather. One need but see the sudden tears that sprang, twenty times in a day, when any remembrance of him was awakened. One need but watch her wistful looks cast up towards his balcony, whenever she was in the garden. Yet, when any one expressed indignation against his murderers, she was silent, or she ran away, or she protested against it. Such was the representation which sister Claire made to her reverend mother, on the first opportunity.

“I was not aware that it was exactly so,” replied the abbess. “It appears to me that she dislikes to hear any parties made answerable for the murder but those by whose hands it was actually done. She—”

The abbess stopped, and sister Claire started, at the sound of musketry.

“Another shot!” said the abbess. “It is a fearful execution. I should have been glad to have removed this poor child out of hearing of these shots; but I had no notice of what was to happen, till the streets were too full for her to appear in them.”

“A piece of L’Ouverture’s haste!” said sister Claire.

“A fresh instance, perhaps, of his wise speed,” observed the abbess. “Events seem to show that he understands the conduct of affairs better than you and I, my daughter.”

“Again! Hark! Oh, mercy!” cried sister Claire, as the sound of a prolonged volley reached them.

“Let us hope it is the last,” said the abbess, with changing colour. “Christ save their sinful souls!”

The door opened, and Euphrosyne entered, in excessive agitation.

“Madame,” she cried, gasping for breath, “do you hear that? Do you know what it is? They have shot General Moyse! Father Gabriel says so.—Oh no, no! L’Ouverture never would do anything so cruel.”

Sister Claire looked at the abbess.

“My daughter,” said the abbess, “L’Ouverture’s duty is to execute justice.”

“Oh, Génifrède! Poor, poor Génifrède! She will die too. I hope she is dead.”

“Hush, my child! Her life is in God’s hands.”

“Oh, how cruel! how cruel!” the girl went on, sobbing.

“What would L’Ouverture say,” interposed sister Claire, “if he knew that you, of all people, called him cruel? Have you to-day put on this?” she continued, calling Euphrosyne’s attention to her new mourning; “and do you call it cruel to execute justice on the rebels and their officers?”

“It is a natural and amiable grief in Euphrosyne,” said the abbess; “and if it is not quite reasonable, we can give her time to reflect. She is among friends, who will not report the words of her hours of sorrow.”

“You may—you may,” cried Euphrosyne. “You may tell the whole world that it is cruel to—to— They were to have been married so very soon!—Afra wrote me all about it.”

The abbess repeated what she had said about L’Ouverture’s office, and the requirements of justice.

“Justice! justice!” exclaimed Euphrosyne. “There has been no justice till now; and so the first act is nothing but cruelty.”

The abbess with a look dismissed sister Claire, who, by her report of Euphrosyne’s rebellion against justice, sent in Father Gabriel.

“Euphrosyne thinks, father,” reported the abbess, “that these negroes, in consideration of their ignorance, and of their anger at having once been slaves, should be excused for whatever they may do now, in revenge.”

“I am surprised,” said Father Gabriel.

So was Euphrosyne when she heard her argument thus stated.

“I only mean,” said she, striving to subdue her sobs; “I only mean that I wish sister Claire, and sister Benoite, and all of them, would not want me to be glad and revengeful.”

“Glad and revengeful!” repeated Father Gabriel. “That would be difficult.”

“It makes me very miserable—it can do no good now—it could not bring grandpapa to life again, if every negro in Limbé were shot,” she continued, as tears rained down her cheeks. “Dear grandpapa never wished any ill to anybody—he never did anybody any harm—”

The priest and the abbess exchanged glances.

“Why do you suppose these wretched blacks killed him, my dear?”

“I do not know why they rose, this one particular time. But I believe they have always risen because the whites have been proud and cruel; because the whites used to put them in chains, and whip them, and part mothers and children. After doing all this, and after bringing them up ignorant and without religion, we expect them to forgive everything that has passed, while we will not forgive them ourselves. But I will—I will forgive them my share. For all that you religious people may say, I will forgive them: and I am not afraid of what grandpapa would think. I hope he is in a place now where there is no question about forgiving those who have injured us. The worst thing is, the thing that I cannot understand is, how L’Ouverture could do anything so cruel.”

“I have a word to say to you, my dear,” said the priest, with a sign to the abbess.

“Oh, father!” replied the abbess, in an imploring tone.

“We must bring her to a right view, reverend sister. Euphrosyne, if your grandfather had not been the kind master you suppose him—if he had been one of the cruel whites you spoke of just now, if his own slaves had always hated him, and—”

“Do stop!” said Euphrosyne, colouring crimson. “I cannot bear to hear you speak so, father.”

“You must bear, my child, to listen to what it is good for you to hear. If he had been disliked by every black in the colony, and they had sought his life out of revenge, would you still be angry that justice was done, and ungrateful that he is avenged?”

“You talk of avenging—you, a Christian priest!” said Euphrosyne. “You talk of justice—you, who slander the dead!”

“Peace, my daughter,” said the abbess, very gently. “Remember where you are, and whom you speak to.”

“Remember where my grandfather is,” cried Euphrosyne. “Remember that he is in his grave, and that I am left to speak for him. However,” she said—and, in these few moments, a thousand confirmations of the priest’s words had rushed upon her memory—a thousand tokens of the mutual fear and hatred of her grandfather and the black race, a thousand signs of his repugnance to visit Le Bosquet—“however,” she resumed, in a milder tone, and with an anxious glance at Father Gabriel’s face, “Father Gabriel only said ‘if’—if all that he described had been so.”

“True, my child,” replied the abbess: “Father Gabriel only said ‘if it had been so.’”

“And if it had,” exclaimed Euphrosyne, who did not wish to hear the father speak again at the moment—“if it had been so, it would have been wicked in the negroes to do that act in revenge; but it could never, never excuse us from forgiving them—from pitying them because they had been made cruel and revengeful. I am sure I wish they had all lived—that they might live many, many years, till they could forget those cruel old times, and, being old men themselves, might feel what it is to touch an old man’s life. This is the kind of punishment I wish them; and I am sure it would be enough.”

“It is indeed said,” observed the abbess, “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

“And oh! poor Génifrède!” pursued Euphrosyne. “She no more wished ill to my parent than I do to hers; and her lover—it was not he that did it: and yet—Oh, Father Gabriel, are you sure that that firing—that last volley—”

“It was certainly the death stroke of Moyse. I perceive how it is, my child. I perceive that your friendships among this new race have blinded your eyes, so that you cannot see that these executions are, indeed, God’s avenging of the murder by which you are made a second time an orphan.”

“Do you think L’Ouverture right, then? I should be glad to believe that he was not cruel—dreadfully cruel.”

“There is no doubt of L’Ouverture’s being wise and right—of his having finally assured the most unwilling of the inhabitants of their security, and his stern justice. There is no doubt that L’Ouverture is right.”

“I could not have believed,” said the abbess, “that my daughter would have required a justification of anything done by L’Ouverture.”

“Nor I,” said Euphrosyne, sighing.

“Under him,” said Father Gabriel, “there is less crime in the colony than, I verily believe, in any other part of the empire. Under him have homes become sacred, children are instructed, and brethren are taught to dwell together in unity.”

“As,” said the abbess, “when he stopped in his journey to greet an old negro of ninety-nine, and reconcile to him two who had offended out of his many children. L’Ouverture is never in so much haste but that he can pause to honour old ago: never too busy for works of mercy. If the peace-makers are blessed, so is he.”

“And where,” continued the father, “where are the poor? We can observe his continual admonition to works of mercy, by nursing the sick, and consoling the afflicted; but we have no longer any poor. By his wisdom, he has won over all to labour. The fields are thronged with labourers: the bays are crowded with ships: the store-houses are overflowing with food and merchandise: and there is a portion for all.”

“And it was the French,” said Euphrosyne, “who made this last commotion. If they had let L’Ouverture alone, how happy we might all have been! Now, Génifrède will never be happy again. If L’Ouverture could only have forgiven this once! But, father, I have no comfort—and never shall have comfort, as long as I think that men have been murdered for injuring us.”

“Pray for comfort, my child. In prayer you will find consolation.”

“I dare not pray, now this has happened. If they were but alive, how I would pray for them!”

“They are alive, my daughter, and where they much need your prayers. Pray for them, and your intercession may be heard.”

Euphrosyne saw that her feelings were not understood; and she said no more. She listened to all the teachings that were offered her, and reserved her doubts and troubles for Afra’s ear. Afra would tell her whether it could be right in such a Christian as L’Ouverture to render violence for violence. As for what the father and the abbess said about the effect of example, and the necessity and the benefit of assuring and conciliating the whites, by sacrificing negro offenders for their sakes, she dissented from it altogether. She had witnessed Toussaint’s power—the power with which his spirit of gentleness and forbearance endowed him; and she believed that, if he would but try, he would find he could govern better by declaring always for the right and against the wrong, and leaving vengeance to God, than by the violent death of all the ignorant and violent men in the island. She would ask Afra. She was pretty sure Afra would think as she did: and, if so, the time might come—it made her breathless to think of it, but she could not help thinking of it every day—the time might come when she might ask Toussaint himself what he thought was exactly meant, in all cases, by forgiving our enemies; and particularly whether this did not extend to forgiving other people’s enemies, and using no vengeance and no violence at all.

This idea of seeing Afra gained strength under all the circumstances of her present life. If Father Gabriel offered her comfort which was no comfort, or reproved her when she did not feel herself wrong; if the abbess praised her for anything she had not designed to be particularly right; if the sisters applauded sayings which she was conscious were not wise; if her heart ached for her grandfather’s voice or countenance; if Monsieur Critois visited her, or Pierre did not; if her lesson in history was hard, or her piece of needle-work dull; if her flowers faded, or her bird sang so finely that she would have been proud for the world to hear it—the passion for seeing Afra was renewed. Afra would explain all she could not understand, would teach her what she wanted to know. Afra would blame her where she was aware she was wrong, instead of bidding her be quit of it with a few prayers, while laying much heavier stress upon something that she could cure much more easily. Afra wrote her a few letters, which were read by the abbess before they were delivered to her; and many more which. Pierre slipped into her hand during their occasional interviews. She herself wrote such prodigiously long letters to Afra, that to read them through would have been too great an addition to the reverend mother’s business. She glanced over the first page and the last; and, seeing that they contained criticisms on Alexander the Great, and pity for Socrates, and questions about flower-painting and embroidery, she skipped all that lay between.

It was not that Euphrosyne did not love and trust the abbess. She loved her so as to open to her all but the inner chambers of her heart; and she trusted her with all but other persons’ concerns. The middle pages of her letters contained speculation chiefly: speculation, in the first place, on Afra’s future destiny, names and events being shrouded under mysterious expressions; and, in the second place, on points of morals, which might be referred to Monsieur Pascal, whose opinion was of great value. Euphrosyne had a strong persuasion, all the while, that she should one day tell her reverend mother the whole. She knew that she should not object to her seeing every line that Afra held of hers. Whatever was clandestine in the correspondence was for the sake of avoiding restraint, and not because she was ashamed of any of her thoughts.

One morning the abbess found her in the garden, listlessly watching the hues of a bright lizard, as it lay panting in the sun. The abbess put her arm round her waist, while stooping to look.

“How it glitters!” said she. “It is a pretty piece of God’s handiwork: but we must leave it now, my dear. This sun is too hot for you. Your chamber, or sister Claire’s room, is the fittest place for you at this hour. You find your chamber cool?”

“Yes, madam.”

“The new ventilator works well?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You find—this way, my dear—this alley is the most shady—you find your little bed comfortable?”

“Yes, madam.”

“And your toilet-cover—sister Marie’s work—is, I think, extremely pretty: and the book-shelf that Father Gabriel gave you very convenient. Your friends here, my dear, are fond of you. They are anxious to make you happy.”

“They are all very kind to me, madam.”

“I am glad you are sensible of it. You are not of an ungrateful nature, we all know.”

“I hope not: but, madam, I cannot stay here always.”

“I was going to say, my dear, that we have not done everything in our power for you yet. We must not forget that we grave women must be dull companions for a girl like you.”

“It is not that, reverend mother. But I cannot stay here always.”

“You will find it a very different thing when you have a companion of your own age, which I hope will be the case very soon. There is a negotiation on foot respecting a sweet girl, every way worthy of being your companion—”

“But, madam, I do not want that—I do not wish for any companion while I am here. I had much rather be alone; but—”

“But you would like to leave us—eh? You would like to be on a plantation, where you could amuse yourself with playing with the little negroes, and driving about the country, and visiting your neighbours two or three times a week?”

Euphrosyne smiled, and plucked a twig to play with.

“You would like,” continued the abbess, “to live with accomplished people—to have a fine library, to lie on a couch and read during the hot hours; and to sing gay songs in the piazza in the evening.”

Euphrosyne smiled again.

“You would like,” the abbess went on, “to dance, night after night, and to make pic-nic parties to the cacao walks, and to the shore. You would like to win over your guardian to let you have your own way in everything: and, to be sure, in comparison with his house, our convent—”

“My guardian!” exclaimed Euphrosyne. “Live at Monsieur Critois’! Oh no!” And she laughed as she went on—

“He would be telling me every day that we should be very good friends. He would be saying all day long that it was his desire fully to discharge his duty to me. I can hardly help shaking off his hand now, when he strokes my hair: and, if it came to his doing it every morning, we should certainly quarrel. They say Madame Critois never speaks; so I suppose she admires his conversation too much to interrupt it. There she and I should never agree.—Live at my guardian’s! Oh no!”

“You were thinking of some other house while I was describing your guardian’s, my dear. What were you thinking of? Where would you live?”

Euphrosyne plucked another twig, having pulled the first to pieces. She smiled again, blushed, and said she would tell her reverend mother very soon what home she was thinking of: she could not tell to-day; but in a little while—

“In the meantime,” said the abbess, with a scrutinising gaze,—“in the meantime, I conclude Father Gabriel knows all that is in your mind.”

“You will know in good time what I am thinking of, madam: everybody will know.”

The abbess was troubled.

“This is beginning early,” she said, as if thinking aloud; “this is beginning early with the mysteries and entanglements of life and the world! How wonderful it is to look on, to be a witness of these things for two or three successive generations! How every young creature thinks her case something wholly new—the emotions of her awakened heart something that God never before witnessed, and that man never conceived of! After all that has been written about love, upon the cavern walls of Hindoo temples, and in the hieroglyphics of old Egypt, and printed over all the mountains and valleys of the world by that deluge which was sent to quench unhallowed love, every young girl believes in her day that something unheard-of has happened when the dream has fallen upon her. My dear child, listen to one who knows more of life than you do—to one who would have you happy, not only in the next world, but in this.”

“Thank you, reverend mother.”

“Love is holy and blessed, my dear, when it comes in its due season—when it enters into a mind disciplined for new duties, and a heart waiting for new affections. In one who has no mother to help and comfort—”

“No mother, it is true,” said Euphrosyne.

“The mother is the parent naturally most missed,” said the abbess, supposing she was reading her pupil’s mind. “Where there is no mother by a young girl’s side, and no brothers and sisters to serve, the fancy and the heart are apt to fix prematurely on some object—too likely, in that case, to be one which will deceive and fail. But, my dear, such a young girl owes duty to herself, if God has seen fit to make her solitary in the world.”

“One cannot say solitary,” interposed Euphrosyne, “or without duties.”

“You are right, my love. No one is, indeed, solitary in life, (blessed be God!) nor without duties. As I was going to say, such a young girl’s business is to apply herself diligently to her education, during the years usually devoted to instruction. This is the work appointed to her youth. If, while her mind is yet ignorant, her judgment inexperienced, and her tastes actually unformed, she indulges any affection or fancy which makes her studies tedious, her companions dull, and her mind and spirits listless, she has fallen into a fearful snare.”

“How long then would you have a girl’s education go on? And if her lover be very particularly wise and learned, do not you think she may learn more from him than in any other way? And if she be not dull and listless, but very happy—”

“Every girl,” interrupted the abbess, with a grave smile, “thinks her lover the wisest man in the world: and no girl in love would exchange her dreams for the gayest activity of the fancy-free.”

“Well, but, as to the age,” persisted Euphrosyne; “how soon—”

“That depends upon circumstances, my dear. But in all cases, I consider sixteen too early.”

“Sixteen! Yes. But nineteen—or, one may say, twenty. Twenty, next month but one.”

“My dear,” said the abbess, stopping short, “you do not mean to say—”

“Indeed, madam,” said Euphrosyne, very earnestly, “Afra will be twenty in two months. I know her ago to a day, and—”

“And you have been speaking of Mademoiselle Raymond all this time! Well, well—”

“And you were thinking of me, I do believe. Oh, madam, how could you! Why, I never saw anybody.”

“I was wondering how it could be,” said the abbess, striving to conceal her amusement and satisfaction. “I was surprised that you should have seen any one yet; and I was going to give you a lecture about half-confidences with Father Gabriel.”

“And I could not conceive what Father Gabriel had to do with Afra’s affairs, or how you came to know anything about it. I have let it out now, however; and I do not know what Afra will say.”

“You have not told me who the gentleman is, you know; so there is not much harm done. No, do not tell me, my dear, till Mademoiselle Raymond desires it.”

“Oh, I may as well, now you know so much. I dare say Afra would have no objection; particularly as you will then understand what I meant about living somewhere else. When you talked of a fine library,” she continued, laughing, “how could I suppose you were thinking of any in the colony but Monsieur Pascal’s?”

“So he is the gentleman,” said the abbess. “How times are changed! A lady of colour may be Madame Pascal now, without reproach.”

“I am glad it is out,” said Euphrosyne, gaily. “I can speak now to somebody about Afra. Oh, madam, you do not know, you cannot imagine, how they love one another.”

“Cannot I?”—and the abbess sighed.

“And I may look forward to living with them. They say I may, madam. They say I must. And surely my guardian will have no objection. Do you think he can, madam?”

“Indeed I do not know. I am acquainted with the parties only by hearsay. Report speaks highly of Monsieur Pascal. Some persons at Paris, and some formerly in office here, are surprised at his unqualified adherence to the Ouverture system; but I never heard anything worse of him than that.”

“And that is nothing but good, as any one would say who really knew all those dear people. L’Ouverture and Monsieur Pascal are almost like father and son. Afra says—”

“My dear,” interposed the abbess, “you wondered how I knew of this affair. You must allow me to wonder how you have gained all this intelligence. Mademoiselle Raymond must have crossed her letters with sympathetic inks, which the warmth of your friendship brought out; for not a syllable of what you have told me have her letters conveyed to me.”

The abbess did not mean to press for an answer; so indulgent was she made by the complacency of discovering that her charge was not entangled in a love affair. While Euphrosyne was blushing, and hunting for a reply which should be true and yet guarded, she was relieved by the rapid approach of sister Benoite.

“Something is amiss,” said the abbess, assuming the look of calmness with which she was wont to await bad news. “What has happened to alarm you, my daughter?”

“There is a message, reverend mother,” said the breathless nun, “from Madame Ogé. She invites herself to our evening repast. If you cannot receive her to-day, she will come to-morrow.”

“She shall be welcome,” said the abbess; without, however, much of the spirit of welcome in her tone.

“So this is our calamity!” said Euphrosyne, laughing.

“There is calamity at hand, assuredly,” sighed sister Benoite. “Nay, nay, my daughter. This is superstition,” said the abbess.

“Whatever it be, reverend mother, do we not all, does not every one quake when Madame Ogé comes abroad?”

“It is but seldom that she does,” said the abbess, “and it is our part to make her welcome.”

“But seldom, indeed, reverend mother. When all goes well—when the crops are fine, and the island all at peace, no one hears of Madame Ogé. She keeps within her coffee-groves—”

“Mourning her sons,” interposed the abbess. “But,” continued the nun, “when any disaster is about to happen, we have notice of it by Madame Ogé coming abroad. She came to this very house the first day of the meeting of the deputies, in that terrible August of ninety-one. She came a day or two before the rising against Hédouville. She came the night before the great hurricane of ninety-seven—”

“That was an accident,” said the abbess, smiling. “Then you think it is not by accident that she always comes out before misfortunes happen?” asked Euphrosyne, trembling as she spoke.

“By no means, my dear. It is easily explained. Madame Ogé looks upon her sons as martyrs in the cause of the mulattoes. When all goes well, as all has done, under L’Ouverture’s rule, with only a few occasional troubles—fewer and slighter than might have been expected during such a change in society as we have witnessed—when all goes well, Madame Ogé feels that her sons are forgotten; and, as my daughter Benoite says, she mourns them alone in the shades of her coffee-groves. She seems, however, to have means of information which persons less interested have not: and when she has reason to believe that troubles will ensue, she hopes that the names of her sons will once more be a watchword, for the humiliation of both blacks and whites; and she comes forth with her hungry maternal heart, and her quick maternal ear, to catch the first echo of the names which are for ever mingled with her prayers.”

“Can she mingle those names with her prayers, and yet not forgive?”

“My child, is it not so with us all? Do we not pray for our enemies, and ask to be forgiven as we forgive, and come out from our closets with ears open to the fresh slanders of the day, and hearts ready to burn at the thought of old injuries? It might be well for us, if we had the excuse of this wretched woman, whose woes have been such as might naturally have shaken her reason, and prostrated her will. If there be any above others with whom God will be long suffering, it is with the mother whose children have been torn from her arms to be tortured and destroyed, and their very names made a term of reproach.”

“You think something is going to happen?”

“As my daughter Benoite says, on one occasion there was a hurricane. To-morrow the sun may rise, or there may be a cloud in the sky.”

“Nay, but—” said sister Benoite.

“Nay, but,” said the abbess, smiling, “I will have nothing said which shall make Euphrosyne look upon my guest as a sorceress, or as the instrument of any evil one. I wish all my daughters to meet Madame Ogé with cheerfulness. It is the best I have to offer her,—the cheerfulness of my family; and that of which she has least at home. You hear, Euphrosyne?”

“Madam, you do not mean that I am to see her. Indeed I cannot,—indeed I dare not. It is no disrespect—quite the contrary. But I could not hold up my head before one who—”

“Poor Madame Ogé, if all said so!” exclaimed the abbess.

“That is true,” said Euphrosyne. “I will be there: but, dear mother, do not speak particularly to me. Do not draw her attention upon me.”

“I will not, my dear.”

“Do you think she will speak angrily of the Ouvertures? I hope she will say nothing about poor General Moyse.”

“You must hear what she says, be it what it may.”

“True. And it is only for one evening. But I wish it was over. I shall be glad when to-morrow morning is come, and I shall be in this alley again.”

“Meantime, my dear, you have been long enough here for this morning. Let us go in.”

The prospect of any guest was in itself acceptable to the sisterhood. It gave them something to do, and afforded one day of variety. The abbess’s parlour and the refectory had to be adorned with fresh flowers. Napkins, of the workmanship of one sister, were laid beside the plates; and on the table were fruits gathered by another, sweetmeats made by a third, and chocolate prepared by the careful hands of a fourth. Even the abbess’s veil looked whiter, and more exactly put on than usual. Everything within the walls was in its nicest order some time before Madame Ogé’s carriage drew up before the gate.

Two or three of the sisters and Euphrosyne were with the abbess in her parlour, when Madame Ogé entered. Euphrosyne had permission to bring in her work; so that she could sit plying her needle, and listening to what went on, without many nervous feelings about being observed by a person whom she could become acquainted with only by stealing glances at her face.

That face, she thought, must in its youth have had much of the beauty common among mulattoes, if not natural to them, in a favourable climate, it was now deeply impressed with sorrow. Every line, every feature, told of sorrow. There was no other painful expression in it. There was great solemnity, but stillness rather than passion;—nothing which warranted, in itself, the superstitious fears which the sisters had of the unhappy lady. She was handsomely dressed, and her manner was quiet.

The conversation turned first upon the state of the coffee and sugar crops, about which little could be said, because the prospect of every kind of produce was excellent. So much regard was everywhere paid to the processes of cultivation; and the practice of ten years, under the vigilant eye of Toussaint and his agents, had so improved the methods of tillage and the habits of the cultivators, that the bounties of the soil and climate were improved instead of being intercepted. Every year, since the revolution, the harvests had been richer; and this was the crowning year.

“Yes,” said Madame Ogé: “we have heard a great deal of all that; and I fancy we have nearly heard the last of it.”

“There must, indeed,” replied the abbess, “be some limit to the fruitfulness of the soil, and to the industry of those who till it: and it does seem as if the earth could yield no more than it is bringing forth this year.”

“Father Gabriel says,” observed sister Claire, “that in his journeys he could almost believe that the fields sing, and the hills rejoice with music, as the Scripture says—the cultivators are so hidden among the corn and the canes, and the groves and the vines, that their songs really seem to come out of the ground.”

“It is in the woods,” added sister Benoite, “as if the very trees shouted—”

She stopped abruptly before the name L’Ouverture, remembering that it would not be acceptable to all the present company.

“I have no doubt,” said Madame Ogé, “that all the monkeys and parrots are taught to shout L’Ouverture. Like his people, they are quick at learning that much. But I imagine there will be something else for Toussaint to do presently, than teaching the birds of the woods to praise him.”

As no one asked what was likely to happen, she reserved for the present the news they trembled to hear; and went on—

“It is grievous to see so good a negro as Toussaint lost and spoiled. I knew him of old, when he was at Breda: and many a time has Monsieur Bayou told me that he was the most faithful, decent, clever, well-mannered negro on the estate.”

“I believe he preserves those qualities still,” observed the abbess, reproving with a glance the laugh which was rising at this description of the Commander-in-chief.

“If those had been masters who ought to have been masters,” pursued Madame Ogé, “Toussaint would, no doubt, have been placed at the head of the negroes: for we knew him well—I and they whom I have lost. Then, without insubordination,—without any being lifted out of their proper places, to put down others—we should have had a vast improvement in the negroes. Toussaint would have been made their model, and perhaps would have been rewarded with his freedom, some day or other, for an example. This would have satisfied all the ambition he had by nature. He would have died a free man, and perhaps have emancipated his family. As it is, they will all die slaves: and they will feel it all the harder for the farce of greatness they have been playing these ten years. I am very sorry for them: and I always was; for I foresaw from the beginning how it would end.”

“Do you really imagine that any one thinks of enslaving this wonderful man again? And what should make him submit to it?”

“He would sooner lay a train to the root of Cibao, and blow up the island,” exclaimed Euphrosyne.

“Are you one of his party, young lady? You look too much as if you were but just landed from France for me to suppose that I was speaking before a friend of L’Ouverture’s. If you really are lately from France, you may know that there is a greater than our poor Toussaint, to whom he must yield at command.”

“I have never been at Paris, madame; and I do not believe that there is a greater than L’Ouverture, there, or anywhere else.”

“You have been a happy child, I see: you have lived so retired from our miserable world as not to have heard of Bonaparte. It was by Bonaparte, my dear, for Bonaparte’s convenience, and (it is my idea) for his amusement, that Toussaint was made what he is, and allowed to gallop about with his trumpeters behind him, for so long. You look as if you did not believe me, my dear. Well: time will show.”

“I thought,” said Euphrosyne, “that Toussaint was the First of the Blacks before Bonaparte was the First of the Whites. I have no doubt, however, that it has been very convenient to Bonaparte, and very surprising to him and everybody, that the colony has been so perfectly well governed by one from whom they could have expected nothing. I hope Bonaparte will be too wise and too grateful to injure him, or even to hurt his feelings; and I feel very sure that Bonaparte is not strong enough, with all the world to help him, to make L’Ouverture and his family slaves again.”

“We shall see. Even I may live to see it; and I have no doubt you will. Bonaparte is going to try; and, if he cannot, as you say, do it by himself, he may now persuade all the world to help him: for he is making peace on all hands.”

“You have that news from France?” inquired the abbess.

“I have it from a sure quarter—never mind how. It will soon be generally known that the preliminaries of peace between France and England are signed: and I happen to know two things more: that Bonaparte has agreed to maintain negro slavery in Martinique, Guadaloupe, and Cayenne: and that—(pray listen, young lady)—he declares to the English that he can do what he pleases in Saint Domingo. I wish he could see that angry blush. Pray look at her, Madame! I see she thinks Bonaparte a very impertinent fellow.”

“I do,” replied Euphrosyne; “and I hope he will know better, and feel better, before he is L’Ouverture’s ago.”

“Ha! he ought to know what disloyal little hearts there are beating against him in this Saint Domingo that he thinks all his own.”

“Perhaps,” observed the abbess, “he used these words when he was not speaking of slavery; but rather from being aware of the loyalty of the Ouverture family; which is, I believe, exemplary.”

“It is,” declared Euphrosyne, looking up with glowing eyes. “He has not only served, but worshipped Bonaparte, all the years that they have both ruled. In his own family, Monsieur Pascal says—”

“What is Monsieur Pascal to do under the changes that are coming?” interrupted Madame Ogé. “He has placed himself in a difficulty, it seems to me. Will he go under the yoke with his father-in-law? (for I suppose, in his devotion, he will be marrying one of Toussaint’s daughters). Will he take the hoe, and go into the field—? You are smiling, my dear young lady.”

Euphrosyne was indeed smiling. She could not but hope that, as Madame Ogé was so ill-informed about the affairs of Monsieur Pascal, and of the Raymonds, who were of her own colour, she might be mistaken about the whole of her news.

“You are smiling,” repeated Madame Ogé. “Though you stoop your head over your work, I see that you have some droll thought.”

“It would be strange, certainly,” replied Euphrosyne, “to see the philosophical Monsieur Pascal hoeing canes, or working at the mill. Yet I believe we may be certain that he will be a slave as soon as Toussaint, or any negro in Saint Domingo.”

“Young people like to be positive,” said Madame Ogé to the abbess. “But it does not much matter, as they have life before them; time enough to see what is true, and what is not. Is it your doctrine, my dear young lady, that God has given over His wrath towards this island; and that it is to be happy henceforth, with the negroes for masters?”

“With the negroes for equals, I think it may be happy. But I never thought of God being wrathful towards us. I thought our miseries had arisen out of men’s wrath with each other.”

“If ever,” said Madame Ogé, in a low tone, but yet so that every word was heard—“if ever there was a place set apart by cursing—if ever there was a hell upon this earth, it is this island. Men can tell us where paradise was—it was not here, whatever Columbus might say. The real paradise where the angels of God kept watch, and let no evil thing enter, was on the other side of the globe: and I say that this place was meant for a hell, as that was for a heaven, upon earth. It looked like heaven to those who first came: but that was the devil’s snare. It was to make lust sweeter, and cruelty safer, that he adorned the place as he did. In a little while, it appeared like what it was. The innocent natives were corrupted; the defenceless were killed; the strong were made slaves. The plains were laid waste, and the valleys and woods were rifled. The very bees ceased to store their honey: and among the wild game there was found no young. Then came the sea-robbers, and haunted the shores: and many a dying wretch screamed at night among the caverns—many a murdered corpse lies buried in our sands. Then the negroes were brought in from over the sea; and from among their chains, from under the lash, grew up the hatred of races. The whites hated the mulattoes, and despised the blacks. The mulattoes hated both the whites and the blacks; and—”

“And,” interposed Euphrosyne, courageously, “the blacks hated neither. They loved where they could; and where they could not love, they forgave; and there lies the proof that this island is not hell.”

“You have proved nothing, my dear, but that you do not know what has happened, even since you were born. Any white will tell you what the negroes did, so late as the year ninety-one—how they killed their masters by inches—how they murdered infants—how they carried off ladies into the woods—”

A sign from the abbess availed to stop Madame Ogé, even in the midst of a subject on which none usually dared to interrupt her. Euphrosyne, in some agitation, replied, “I am aware of all that you say: but every one allows that the most ignorant and cruel of the negroes did over again exactly what they had seen the whites do to their race. But these revengeful blacks were few, very few, in comparison with the numbers who spared their masters, helped and comforted them, and are now working on their estates—friends with all who will be friends with them. The place is not hell where thousands of men forgot the insults of a lifetime, and bind up the wounds of their oppressors.”

“I cannot doubt,” said the abbess, “that ever since there was a Christian in the island, there have been angels of God at hand, to sanctify the evil which they were not commissioned to prevent. Violence is open to the day. Patience is hidden in the heart. Revenge has shouted his battle-cry at noon, while Forgiveness breathes her lowly prayer at midnight. Spirits from hell may have raged along our high roads; but I trust that in the fiercest times, the very temper of Christ may have dwelt in a thousand homes, in a thousand nooks of our valleys and our woods.”

“Besides,” sister Benoite ventured to say, “our worst troubles were so long ago! For ten years now we have been under the holy rule of a devout man; and, for the most part, at peace.”

“Peace!” exclaimed Madame Ogé, contemptuously.

“There have been disputes among the rulers, as Father Gabriel says there are among all the rulers in the world; but he says (and no one knows better than Father Gabriel) that the body of the people have not been troubled by these disputes, and are not even aware of them.”

“Does not Father Gabriel tell you that ten years are but a day in heaven and hell? Yes, in hell—they may be long for suffering; but they are short for revenge. The cruel master, who saw one slave faint under the lash, and let another die in the stocks, and tore the husband from the wife, and the child from the mother, might escape for the time with the destruction of his family, punished for his sake:—he might live safely in the midst of the city, for the ten years you speak of; but, let him venture out for a single day—let him but drive to his own estate and back again, and grey as his head is, he is shot in his own carriage, as soon as it is dark.”

Before the abbess could anticipate what was coming, the words were out. Before she could make a sign, Euphrosyne had rushed from the room.

It was not long before the abbess entered the chamber of her charge. She found her stretched on the bed, not weeping, but shuddering with horror.

“My daughter,” said she, “I grieve that this trial should have come upon you already. If one could have foreseen—”

“But, madam, is it true? She meant him, I know. Tell me faithfully, is it true?”

“It is, my daughter.”

“What, all? Every one of those things?”

“All true. Perhaps it is well that you should know it, that the departed may have the benefit of your prayers. But how differently would I have had you told!”

“Never mind that! Whatever is true, I can and will bear. I will pray for him, madam, day and night—as long as I live will I pray for him: for he was to me—Oh, madam, how he loved me! I will make reparation for him; the reparation that he would make if he could. I will find out who were the poor creatures—I will make them happy for as long as they live, for his sake. You will help me, madam?”

“I will. It is a pious intention.”

“I owe him all that I can do. I ask one favour of you, madam. Let no one speak to me about him—never again. No one can understand what he was to me—what care he took of me—how he used to love me. Oh, madam, is it quite certain—are you quite sure that those things are true?”

“My child, do not give me the pain of explaining more. As you say, let this never again be spoken of.—I propose to you, Euphrosyne, to make a virtuous effort.”

“Not to come down this evening, madam?”

“Yes, my child, to come down this evening. I think it of importance that Madame Ogé should not discover how she has wounded you, and that nothing should occur to fix her attention on the descendant of one who was active in procuring the death of her sons. Trust me, my dear, it is worth an effort to prevent Madame Ogé leaving this house your enemy.”

“I do not care for it, madam. Let her hate me. She is quite welcome.”

“You are thinking only of yourself, Euphrosyne. I am thinking also of her. Consider how sore a heart she carries within her. Consider how wretched her life has been made by the enmities in which she has lived. Will you not save her one more? You have professed to pity her. Now you can show if your pity is real, by saving her from a new enmity.”

“I am willing to do that: but how can I speak to her? How can we know what things she may say?”

“You shall not converse with her again. The table is spread. Go down now, and take your place at the foot, beside sister Claire. When we rise from table, I will dismiss you to your room as in course.”

“I wish that time was come,” sighed Euphrosyne, as she languidly arranged her hair.

The abbess stroked her pale cheek, as she said that in an hour she would be glad the effort was made.

“You can spend the evening in writing to your friend,” said she; “and if you think proper to tell her that I know her secret, you may assure her of my blessing and my prayers. They are due to one who loves my dear charge as she does.”

Euphrosyne’s cheeks were now no longer pale.

“And may I tell her, madam, what Madame Ogé has been declaring about Bonaparte and his threats?”

“It will be needless, my dear. If there be any truth in the matter, Monsieur Pascal, doubtless, knows more than Madame Ogé.”

“In that case there can be no harm in mentioning it.”

Still the abbess thought it would be safer to say nothing about it; and Euphrosyne gave up the point for to-night, remembering that she could perhaps send a private despatch afterwards by the hands of Pierre.

During the meal, while the length of the table was between them, Euphrosyne nearly escaped the notice of Madame Ogé. When it was over, and the sisters rose, while the guest and the abbess passed out to the parlour, the abbess stopped at Euphrosyne, kissed her forehead, and commended her to her studies. Madame Ogé stopped too, and put in an intercession that the young lady might be excused studying this evening, and permitted to return to her pretty fancy-work in the parlour. The colour rushed to Euphrosyne’s temples—a sign of ardent hope of a holiday in Madame Ogé’s eyes. She therefore thought the abbess grievously strict when she replied that her charge would prefer spending the evening in her own chamber.

“As you please,” said Madame Ogé. “It was my wish to do the child a kindness; and perhaps to have the pleasure myself of seeing a young face for an hour or two—the rarest of all sights to me. I seldom go out; and when I do, all the young and cheerful faces seem to have hidden themselves.”

The abbess regulated her invitations for the evening by this speech. Sisters Debora and Marie, one the youngest, and the other the merriest of the family, were requested to bring their work-bags, and join the party in the parlour.

“Good evening, young lady,” said Madame Ogé to Euphrosyne, holding out her hand. “I hoped to have procured you a little freedom, and to have had more conversation about your hero; but—”

“If there are to be great changes in the colony,” observed the abbess—“it may yet be in your power, madam, to show kindness to my charge.”

“If so, command me, my dear. But it is more likely that the changes to come will have the opposite effect. Then pretty young white ladies may have all their own way; while the storm will burst again on the heads of the dark people.”

“If so, command me, madam,” Euphrosyne exerted herself to say. The abbess’s smile made her eyes fill with tears, almost before she had spoken.

“Are your eyes wet for me, my dear?” said Madame Ogé, with surprise. “Let the storm burst upon me; for I am shattered and stricken already, and nothing can hurt me. But I shall remember your offer. Meantime, you may depend upon it, the news I told you is true—the times I warned you of are coming.”

“What news? what warning?” eagerly asked the sisters of Euphrosyne, as soon as the guest was out of hearing.

“That there were hurricanes last November, and there will be more the next,” replied she, escaping to her chamber. Before she slept, she had written all her news and all her thoughts to Afra, leaving it for decision in the morning, whether she should send entire what she had written.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Herald Abroad.

Madame Ogé’s news was too true. Monsieur Pascal had held many an anxious conversation with L’Ouverture on the subject, before Afra showed him her little friend’s letter. In a short time an additional fact became known—that Bonaparte had re-established the slave-trade. His enmity to the race of blacks was now open and declared.

The first intimation which the colony at large had of what had happened, was through the altered demeanour of their chief. From the first bright day of the prolific, gorgeous summer, to that in which the season merged in a fierce autumnal storm, L’Ouverture had been seen to be not less calm and quiet than usual, but depressed and sad. Some ascribed his gloom to the transaction at Cap, and the misery it must needs have introduced into his home. Others, who saw how much the colony had gained in confidence, and Toussaint’s government in strength by that act, looked for a different cause. Some reminded each other that, while no man was more energetic in the hour of proof than their chief, his spirits were wont to droop when others were elated. It seemed as if some boding ghost whispered evil to him most peremptorily when the harvests were ripest before his eyes, when the laugh and the song were loudest in his ear, and when no one dreamed that the bright days of the colony would ever more be overclouded.

It was even so. When Toussaint saw that his race was in peace, it filled him with grief that this peace was not likely to last. When he saw what the true African soul was, when cleansed from blood and anger, and permitted to grow in freedom and in harmony, it was torture to know (as he did too well) that new injuries were preparing for it—that it was certain to be again steeped in passion and slaughter, and all that was savage in it excited afresh. This, even more than the death of Moyse, cast gloom round his soul, during the last of the series of bright and prosperous summers that were to pass under his eye. When autumn came, it might have made him wonder, if he had had leisure to consider himself, to find how his spirits rose, and his heart grew light, exactly when dismay and dread began to overcloud every face about him, but when he saw that suspense and struggle were coming to an end. He perceived perplexity in the countenance of his friend Pascal, even in the presence of his bride. He met sorrow in the mild eyes of Henri; he heard that exultation in the voice of Jacques which always struck like discord upon his ear. He observed that in the bearing of Madame Dessalines which carried back his memory ten years into her past history. He saw Aimée tremble at the approach of any one who might bring news from France; and he heard Margot weeping at her prayers, as she implored of Heaven the safe return of her sons. Yet all this caused to his sympathising heart scarcely a pang; so clear was his path now, so distinct was the issue to which his duty, and the fate of his race was brought.

“Here it ends then,” said he, one day at the council-table, rising as bespoke. “Here ends all possibility of compromise. For the blacks, it is slavery or self-defence. It is so, Monsieur Pascal.”

“It is. The terms of the new peace are proclaimed.”

“And the fact substantiated that Bonaparte has declared that he will do what he pleases with Saint Domingo.”

“Such were certainly his words.”

“Who is surprised?” inquired Dessalines. “I forewarned you of this, long ago: and I said, at the same time, that, if we waited for aggression, we might find it too late for defence.”

“Not a word of fear, Jacques. Our victory is as sure as the justice of Heaven.”

“Perhaps so; but it would have been easier if you had not been training your people, all these years, to love and cherish those whom they are now going to resist.”

“I see and admit our difficulty, Jacques. But if I had governed as you would have had me, we should have been in a worse. I should then have been the chief of a race of savages, instead of soldiers and citizens. If we had been extirpating the whites all this time, we should now have been destroying each other, instead of preparing to go forth to a righteous war.”

“True. Most true,” declared Henri. “We may suffer for a time, and fight with the more difficulty, from our habits of observance towards those whom we must now oppose; but God will not allow the spirit of forgiveness and love to be finally a snare.”

“Never,” said Toussaint. “He has appointed fierce passions for a yoke, and mild affections for freedom. Though Bonaparte betrays and oppresses, the Gospel stands.—It is now time for proclaiming the war throughout the colony.”

“I will prepare the proclamation this night,” said Monsieur Pascal.

“If you will, my friend,” said Toussaint. “But I intend to be my own proclamation. To-morrow morning I set forth for Saint Domingo, to visit my brother in his city. I shall examine every fort, and call together the militia, as I go. The trip would be more effective if I could have my council about me.”

“I will go with you,” said Henri.

“And I,” exclaimed Jacques.

“And I?” said Raymond, inquiringly.

“No, Raymond; stay at Port-au-Prince, to report my proceedings to the legislature. And you, Monsieur Pascal, remain here to receive the despatches which may arrive from France. My brethren-in-arms of the council will be with me. When we have satisfied ourselves, we will let you know whether or not those who would have loved and served France for ever as a guardian angel, can cast her off when she becomes an incubus.”

It was a time of high excitement—that in which L’Ouverture, attended by four of his generals, and a train of inferior officers, traversed the island, to communicate or confirm the intelligence that an expedition was believed to be setting sail from France, for the purpose of wresting from the blacks the freedom which was theirs by the law of the land. Toussaint found, not only that all hearts were ready for the assertion of freedom, but that all eyes were so fixed upon him, all ears so open to his lightest word, that there was every probability of his purposes being fully understood and completely executed. At a word from him, the inhabitants of Cap Français and Port-au-Prince began to remove their property into the fastnesses of the interior, and to prepare to burn those towns at the moment of the French attempting to land. It was useless to think of preventing a landing, so exposed was the greater part of the coast. The more rational hope was so to distress the foe on shore as to make them glad to go on board their ships again. Equally satisfactory was the disposition of the interior. The municipal bodies throughout the colony, previously brought under one system, now acted in concert. Their means of communication had been improved, so that each settlement was no longer like an encampment in the wilderness: on the contrary, every order given by L’Ouverture seemed to have been echoed by the mountain-tops around, so promptly was it transmitted, and so continually did he find his commands anticipated. As he went, his four generals parted off, to examine the forts on either hand, and to inspect and animate the militia. Everywhere the same story was told, and everywhere was it received with the same eagerness and docility. “The French are coming to make slaves of us again; but there shall never more be a slave in Saint Domingo. They are coming; but they are our countrymen till they have struck the first blow. We will demand of them an account of our brethren in Cayenne, in Guadaloupe, and in Martinique. We will ask of them concerning our brethren on the coasts of Africa. If, in return, they throw us chains and the whip, we shall know how to answer. But not a blow must be struck till they have shown whether they are brethren or foes. Our dark skin is no disgrace; but the first drop of a brother’s blood dyes us all in infamy. Let the infamy be theirs who assault us. At this moment our first duty is to our white brethren of this island; in this time of our high excitement, they are full of grief; they are guiltless of this attack upon our liberty; they are as willing as we to live and die under the rule of L’Ouverture: and under the special protection of L’Ouverture, they shall, if they please, live and die. Beware of imputing to them the sins of their colour; protect them from your hearts—defend them with your lives. In the hour of danger, as you invoke the blessing of Heaven, save first the Creole whites, and next your wives and your children.”

Such were the exhortations spoken everywhere by Christophe, La Plume, and Clerveaux. It could not be expected of Dessalines that he should deliver the last clauses with perfect fidelity. The solemnity of the hour had, however its tranquillising effect, even upon his ruling passion. Even his heart, which usually turned to stone at the sight of a white, was moved by the visible distress of the proprietors of that race, who were, with scarcely an exception, in despair. In private, they execrated the spirit and conduct of their former neighbours, now in Paris, whose representations were the chief cause of the expedition now projected. Instead of remaining or returning, to ascertain the real state of things in Saint Domingo—instead of respecting the interests and wishes of those who were entirely satisfied under the government of L’Ouverture, they had prejudiced the mind of the First Consul, and induced him to bring back the ruin and woe which had passed away. The ladies wept and trembled within their houses; their fathers, husbands, and brothers flocked to every point where L’Ouverture halted, to assure him of their good-will to his government, and to remind him of the difficulty and danger of the position in which they were placed. These last carried some comfort home with them. All who had seen Toussaint’s face had met there the gaze of a brother. If there were two or three who went with doubtful minds, prepared to exult at the depression of the blacks, but thinking it well to bespeak protection, in case of the struggle ending the wrong way—if there was a sprinkling of such among the throng of whites who joined the cavalcade from the cross-roads, they shrunk away abashed before the open countenance of the Deliverer, and stole homewards to wait the guidance of events.

If it had not been that the city of Saint Domingo was at the end of this march, Toussaint would have traversed the colony with a higher spirit and a lighter heart than during any of his serener days of power; but the city of his brother’s government was before him, and, at its gate, Paul, whom he had not met since the death of Moyse. He had not been forgetful of his sorrowing brother; he had immediately sent to him Father Laxabon—the best consoler, as the last confidant of the departed. Letter upon letter had Toussaint sent—deed upon deed of kindness had he attempted towards his brother; but still Father Laxabon had written, “Come not yet;” “He must have time;” “Give him time if there is to be peace between you.” Now it had become necessary that they should meet; and far readier was Toussaint to encounter the armies of France than the countenance of his brother. For ever, in the midst of the excitements of the journey, he found himself asking in his own mind where and how Paul would meet him; and whether he had cut off from himself his brother, as well as his brother’s son.

Meantime, the party rode proudly on, through the interior of the island, signs of welcome spreading around them at every step. From the grass-farms, in the wide savannahs, the herdsmen hastened, with promises to drive their flocks up into the mornes, where no enemy should penetrate while a man remained to guard the passes. At each salute from the forts that rose at intervals along the way, the wild cattle rushed towards the steeps; while the parties of hunters turned back from their sports, to offer themselves as scouts and messengers on behalf of the colony. From some glade of the woods appeared the monk, charged with the blessing of his convent; or the grazier, with a string of horses—his gift, for the service of the army. Around the crosses which, half concealed by the long grass of the plains, yet served to mark the road, were gathered groups of women, bearing bags of money, or ornaments of gold and silver, which they would have thrust upon him, to whom they declared that they owed their all; while every settlement displayed its company of armed men, standing in military order, and rending the air with shouts, on the approach of their chief. La Plume and Clerveaux, to whom such demonstrations were less familiar than to the other generals, no longer doubted that all would be well. They pronounced that the colony already showed itself invincible. Toussaint thought that he might have been of the same opinion, if the expected foe had been any other than French. The event must show whether the pains he had taken to unite his race with their fellow-citizens as brethren would now weaken or strengthen his cause—whether it would enhance or mitigate the bitterness of the impending quarrel.

On the morning of the last day of their survey of the interior, the party emerged from the shade of the woods, and, crossing the grassy levels of the Llanos, reached the ferry by which the Ozama was to be crossed near its mouth. On the opposite bank were horsemen, who, on observing the party approaching the ferry, put spurs to their horses, and galloped southwards, in the direction of the city. They need not so have hastened; for the Deliverer was stopped at every fishing hamlet—almost at every hut along the shores of the bay, to receive the loyal homage of the inhabitants—Spanish as well as French. In the midst of these greetings the eye and the soul of the chief were absent—looking to what lay before him. There, at some distance, springing from the level of the plain, rose the cathedral of Saint Domingo, and other lofty buildings, whose outline was distinctly marked against the glittering sea which spread immediately behind. An ungovernable impatience seized him at length, and he broke away, bursting through the throngs upon the road, and resolving not to stop till he should have seen his fate, as a brother, in his brother’s eyes.

A procession of priests was issuing from the city gates as he approached. They were robed, and they bore the Host under a canopy. At the first sound of their chant, the generals and their suite threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves upon the grass. On rising, they perceived that the whole city had come out to meet them. “The whole city,” Toussaint heard his companions say: and his heart throbbed when he strained his sight to see if the Governor of the city was the only one left at home. The procession of priests had now turned, and was preceding him—slowly—so slowly, that he would fain have dispensed with the solemnity. The people crowded round his horse and impeded his way. He strove to be present to the occasion; but all was like a troubled dream—the chanting, the acclamation, the bursts of military music from a distance—all that at other times had fired his soul was now disturbance and perplexity. A few faithless persons in the crowd, on the watch for information with which they might make interest with the French on their arrival, noted the wandering of the eye and the knitting of the brow, and drew thence a portent of the fall of the Deliverer.

At length the gate was reached; and there, in the shadow of the portal, surrounded by his attendants, stood Paul. On the arrival of his brother at the threshold, he took from an officer the velvet cushion on which the keys of the city were deposited, and advancing to the stirrup of the Commander-in-chief, offered them, according to custom. For an instant, Toussaint gazed on the aged, worn, melancholy countenance beside him, and then stooped from his horse, to fling his arms round the neck of his brother, breathing into his ear, “If you are in your duty at such a time as this, who else dare fail me? I thank God! I thank God! We cannot fail.”

Paul withdrew himself, without speaking. His action was sullen. He led the way, however, towards the Governor’s house, evidently expecting to be followed. Not another word passed between them on the way. Through one wide street after another L’Ouverture was led; and from the balconies of whole ranges of fine houses, from the roof of many a church, and the porch of many a convent, was he hailed, before he could catch another glimpse of the countenance of the brother who preceded him. At the gate of the Governor’s house there was a pause; and way was made for the chief to pass in first. He did so; and the next moment turned round in the vestibule, to speak to Paul; but Paul had disappeared. Glancing round, Toussaint saw Father Laxabon awaiting him at the foot of the staircase. Each advanced to the other.

“Father, he is wretched,” whispered Toussaint. “Bring me to him.”

“Follow me,” said the priest; and, instead of mounting the marble staircase, L’Ouverture and the father were seen to enter a passage, into which every one else was forbidden to follow. Father Laxabon tapped softly at a door, and was desired to enter. He opened it, and closed it behind Toussaint, keeping watch outside, that the brothers might not be disturbed.

Paul started to his feet from the conch on which he had thrown himself. He stood waiting. Now was the decisive moment; and Toussaint knew it was. Yet he stood speechless.

“I left my son in your charge,” said Paul, at length.

“You did: and I—”

“And you murdered him.”

“No, Paul! I executed justice upon him. Hear me, brother, once for all. I am heart-broken for you as a brother: but as a magistrate, I will admit no censure. As his father in your stead, I was, as the event has proved, too ambitious for him: but, as a ruler, I did but my duty.”

“Yes! You have been ambitious! You have chosen your duty!”

“My ambition was for him, Paul. As for my duty—remember that I have too a child whom, by that act, I doomed to worse than death.”

“You see what liberty has brought to us. Look at the family of Ouverture—consider what has befallen since your struggle for liberty began; and then, perhaps, you will give over struggling. Welcome the French—go back to Breda—send me home to my hut on the shore, that I may die in such peace as is left to a childless man. Why do you not answer me, Toussaint? Why will you not give us a last chance of peace? I must obey you at the city gate; but I will importune you here. Why will you not do as I say?”

“Because I know that some—and the Ouvertures among them—were not born to live at ease—to pass their days in peace. I feel that some—and the Ouvertures among them—are born to suffer—to struggle and to die for their race. If you would know why, ask their Creator. I myself would fain know why. Meantime, the will of God is so clear, that I have devoted, not myself only, but my children. My sons, you know—”

“And not your children only, but your brother and his child.”

“No. Moyse cast himself away. And, as for you, your hut still stands, as you say. Go to it, if you will; or make friends with the French, if you desire to be a slave again. You have suffered too much by me for me to ask you ever to serve me more. I shall never desire you to dedicate yourself anew to pain, in this crisis. Go and seek for ease. I shall incessantly pray that you may find it.”