"Have you seen him?" asked Euphrosyne eagerly of her friend, the moment they met.

"Oh yes. You shall see him too, from my window, if they will but talk on till we get there. He and the Commissary, and some of the Commissary's officers, are in the rose-garden under my window. Make haste, or they may be gone."

"We must see grandpapa settled first."

"Oh yes; but I am so afraid they may be gone! They have been pacing the alley between the rose-trees this hour nearly—talking and arguing all the time. I am sure they were arguing; for they stopped every now and then, and the Commissary made such gestures! He looked so impatient and so vexed!"

"And did he look vexed, too?"

"Not in the least angry, but severe. So quiet, so majestic he looked, as he listened to all they said! and when he answered them—Oh, I would not, for all the island, have his eyes so set upon me!"

"Oh dear, let us make haste, or they will be gone!" cried Euphrosyne.

While Euphrosyne was endeavouring to make her grandfather feel himself at home and comfortable in the apartment appointed for him by the Governor, Afra ran to her window, to see if the potentates of the island were still at their conference. The rose-garden was empty; and she came back sorrowfully to say so. As she entered the apartment of her guests, she heard Monsieur Revel sending a message of compliments to the Commissary, with a request of an audience of a few minutes. The servants gave as much intimation as they dared of the Commissary being so particularly engaged, that they had rather be excused carrying this message. The girls looked at one another, nodded agreement, and Euphrosyne spoke.

"Suppose, grandpapa, you ask to see the Commander-in-chief. He never refuses anything that is asked of him: and he can do everything he wishes. I dare say he will come at once, if you desire it, and if we do not detain him too long. If he had been in this room once with us, how safe we should feel!"

"Oh, if we could see him once in this room!" cried Afra.

"Do you suppose I will beg a favour of that ambitious black?" cried Monsieur Revel. "Do you think I will crave an audience of a fellow who, for aught I know, may have driven his master's carriage to my door in the old days?—no, if I cannot see Hedouville, I will take my chance. Go, fellow! and carry my message," he cried to Pierre.

Pierre returned with the answer which might have been anticipated. The Commissary was so engaged, there was so much bustle and confusion throughout his establishment, that no one of his people would deliver the message.

"That would not have been the answer if—" whispered Euphrosyne to her friend.

"Shall I venture?—yes, I will—shall I? At least, I will keep upon the watch," said Afra, as she withdrew.

She presently sent in, with the tray of fruit, a basket of flowers, which Euphrosyne occupied herself in dressing, exactly as she did at home, humming the while the airs her grandfather heard her sing every day. Her devices answered very well. He presently occupied himself in pointing out, exactly as he always did, that there was too much green in this bouquet, and not enough in that.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SPOILING SPORT.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the Commissary on seeing Toussaint this morning. Hedouville was amusing himself, before the sun was high, alternately with three or four of his officers, in duetting with a parrot, which had shown its gaudy plumage among the dark foliage of a tamarind-tree in the garden. At every pause in the bird's chatter, one of the gentlemen chattered in reply; and thus kept up the discord, to the great amusement of the party. Hedouville was just declaring that he had obtained the best answer—the loudest and most hideous—when he heard the swing of a gate, and, turning round, saw Toussaint entering from the barrack-yard.

"The ape!" exclaimed one of the officers, in a whisper.

"Who—who is it?" eagerly asked a naval captain, lately arrived.

"Who should it be but the black chief? No other of his race is fond enough of us to be for ever thrusting himself upon us. He is confoundedly fond of the whites."

"We only ask him," said Delon, another officer, "to like us no better than we like him, and leave us to manage our business our own way."

"Say the word, Commissary," whispered the first, "and he shall not go hence so easily as he came."

"I should beg pardon, Commissary," said Toussaint, as he approached, "for presenting myself thus—for entering by a back-way—if it were not necessary. The crisis requires that we should agree upon our plan of operations, before we are seen in the streets. It is most important that we should appear to act in concert. It is the last chance for the public safety."

"Crisis!—public safety!—seen in the streets!" exclaimed Hedouville. "I assure you, General, I have no thoughts of going abroad till evening. It will be a scorching day. Is the crisis you speak of that of the heats?"

"No trifling, Commissary! Gentlemen," said he, turning to the officers, who happened to be laughing, "no levity! The occasion is too serious for mirth or for loss of time. Shall we speak alone, Commissary?"

"By no means," said Hedouville. "These gentlemen would not for the world miss hearing your news. Has a fresh insurrection been contrived already? or has any Frenchman forgotten himself, and kissed Psyche, or cuffed Agamemnon?"

"A new insurrection has been contrived; and by you. The cultivators are marching over the plain; and in four hours the town will be sacked, if you, Monsieur Hedouville, who have given the provocation, do not withdraw it. You must sign this proclamation. It is the opposite of your own now waiting for jubilation. But you must sign and issue it— and that within this hour. I hear what you say, gentlemen. You say that I have raised the cultivators. I have not. There is not a negro in the plain who does not at this moment believe that I am in the south. I come to put them down; but I will not go out with the sword in one hand, if I do not carry justice in the other."

"What do you mean about justice, General? What injustice has been done?"

"Here is the draft of your proclamation—"

"How came you by that paper—by the particulars of my intention?" asked Hedouville. "My proclamation is yet locked up in my own desk."

"Its contents are nevertheless known throughout the colony. When a Commissary, lightly and incidentally (and therefore the more offensively) settles, without understanding them, the most important points of difference between two unreconciled races, the very winds stoop in their flight, to snatch up the tidings, and drop them as they fly. See here! See how you pronounce on the terms of field-service— and here, on the partition of unclaimed estates—and here, on the claims of the emigrants! The blacks must be indeed as stupid as you hold them to be, if they did not spread the alarm that you are about to enslave them again."

"I protest I never dreamed of such a thing."

"I believe you. And that you did not so dream, shows that you are blind to the effects of your own measures—that the cultivators of the plain understand your proceedings better than you do yourself. Here is the proclamation which must be issued."

And he offered a paper, which Hedouville took, but tore in pieces, trampling them under foot, and saying, that he had never before been so insulted in his function.

"That is a childish act," observed Toussaint, as he looked down upon the fragments of the document. "And a useless one," he continued; "for my secretary is getting it printed off by this time."

"Are you going to dare to put my name to a proclamation I have not seen?"

"Certainly not. My name will suffice, if you compel me to dispense with yours. This proclamation grants—"

Hedouville here gave whispered directions to Delon, who hastened towards the house; and to another, who made for the barrack-yard.

"From every quarter," said Toussaint, "you will have confirmation of the news I brought. I will speak presently of what must be done. This proclamation," pointing to the torn paper, "grants an amnesty to all engaged in former conflicts of race, and declares that there are no 'returned emigrants' in the island—that they are all considered native proprietors—that all now absent shall be welcome again, and shall be protected—that the blacks are free citizens, and will so remain; but that they shall continue for five years to till the estates on which they live, for one-fourth of the produce."

"I do not see the grounds of your disgust with my proclamation," said Hedouville. "I think your anger absurd."

"I have no doubt you do. This proves, with a multitude of other circumstances, that you must go."

"Admirable! And leave the colony to your government!"

"Just so. If you ask the whites of the island, they will tell you, almost to a man, that I can govern the whites; while events daily show that you cannot rule the blacks. While you have held the title of Commissary, you know that you have ruled only by my permission— sometimes strengthened by my approbation—oftener spared by my forbearance. I am aware that these gentlemen are not of that opinion," he continued, his voice assuming the mildness which always distinguished it when he spoke of his personal injuries. "They believe that if two or three brigands could be got to seize in his camp the ape with the Madras on his head, all would be well. But they are mistaken. They may play the brigand, and seize me now; but then the town will be burning before night."

"You should not believe all the saucy things that are told you—you should not care for the impertinence of young soldiers," said Hedouville, who suspected that his affairs were reality in a critical state, and had now resumed his usual smoothness of manner. He led the way up the alley between the rose-trees, that the torn proclamation might be no longer in sight.

"No doubt," observed an officer, gravely, "the Commissary will report to the First Consul (if you really persist in sending the Commissary away)—he will doubtless report to the First Consul the prodigious power you hold here, and how great a rival Bonaparte has on this side the water."

"And how willing a servant," added Toussaint—"how willing to bear the burden of government for the good of France."

"Burden!" exclaimed all.

"Yes," replied Toussaint: "where is there a heavier burden? Do you suppose that men choose their own office in life? If so, should I have chosen such a one as mine? Was the pleasure of Heaven ever more clearly revealed than in my case? Ask the First Consul whether it was possible for me to be other than I am. The revolution of Saint Domingo proceeded without any interference from me—a negro slave. I saw that the dominion of the whites could not last, divided as they were among themselves, and lost in the numbers of their foes. I was glad that I was a black. The time came when I was compelled to act. I associated myself with the Spaniards, who were the allies of my king, and who had extended protection to the loyal troops of my colour. But this protection served no end. The republic proclaimed the general liberty of the blacks. An unerring voice told me that my allegiance was thenceforward due to the republic. The blacks in their new condition wanted a leader. They chose me to lead them—to be the chief predicted by Raynal, as General Laveaux declared. Inspired by this call, I entered into the service of France. The services that I have rendered prove that it was indeed the voice of God that called me. Why do I tell you this?—Because I owe an account of my life to you? No, indeed!—I tell you all this that you may render my account to the First Consul, whom, it appears, I cannot reach by letter. I charge you, by your fidelity to the mother-country, to repeat to Bonaparte what I have said."

"You could do it more accurately and forcibly yourself," observed Hedouville. "Let me advise that you go instead of me."

"You know," replied Toussaint, "who it was that said that I am the Bonaparte of Saint Domingo, and that the colony could not exist without me. It was your brother functionaries who said it; and never did they say anything more true."

The naval captain, Meronet, observed that his ship, now in the roads, happened to be that which had conveyed the Commissary; and that it would greatly flatter him, after having brought out Commissary Hedouville, to carry back General Toussaint L'Ouverture.

"Your ship, sir," replied Toussaint, "will not contain a man like me—a man laden with the destinies of a race."

"But you speak of the burden of your office," observed one of the aides. "It must be great; and all men need occasional repose. Suppose you retire to France for an interval of repose?"

"Perhaps I may," replied Toussaint, "when this shrub," pointing to the sucker of a logwood tree, "shall be large enough to make a ship to take me there."

"You could devolve your cares upon your friend Raymond, General, if you do not wish fully to trust the whites. Be persuaded to visit your brother in destiny and glory, as you call Bonaparte."

"Raymond is my friend, as you say, and a good man; but he is not called to be arbiter of the fate of the colony. See! Here are your messengers, Commissary."

The officers entered from the barracks, with news that the plain was really in a state of commotion, and that no adequate defences appeared to be provided by the authorities of the town.

"I charge myself with the defence of the town," said Toussaint. "Your part, Commissary, is to sign the new proclamation instantly; and to prepare to sail for France, with as many persons as desire to accompany you. On your promise to do this, I will guarantee the public peace. In this case, you incur no further dishonour than that of not understanding the temper and the affairs of the blacks. If you refuse to go, I shall arrest you here, and denounce you to the government of France, as the cause of the insurrection which will undoubtedly ensue. You will not choose to incur this infamy. Therefore," he continued, turning to Captain Meronet, "you will have the goodness to return to your ship, and prepare it for the reception of the Commissary. He will probably join you in the course of this day."

Again addressing the astonished functionary, he continued, "You shall be protected to the latest possible moment, for the convenience of making your arrangements. When I can protect you no longer, I will cause the alarm gun on the height behind the barracks to be fired. At that signal, you will hasten to the boats, and be gone. Assure yourself of my justice, and render me an equal measure at the court of France. Farewell!"

As he entered Government-house, the officers looked at each other in consternation.

"What is to be done?" asked more than one.

"It is true enough," said Hedouville, "that neither I nor any one else understand these people. The danger is really pressing Delon."

"Most pressing, there is no doubt."

"Then I have done with this mongrel colony; and I am not sorry. At home I shall find means to vindicate my honour."

"You mean to depart, then, Commissary?"

"When we hear the alarm gun. Not sooner. It is possible that it may be a mere threat."

"If so, it will be the first mere threat in which this black has been detected."

"That is true. He usually acts first, and speaks afterwards. Gentlemen, we shall have to go. I must first see about this proclamation, and discover whether anything else can be done. If not, Captain, au revoir!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

GO OR STAY?

The Commander-in-chief was not long closeted with Governor Raymond: for this was a day when minutes were precious. It was observed that there was a sudden activity among the messengers of the Governor, among the soldiers, and among the citizens; and every one felt that the voice of Toussaint was giving orders in every corner of the town, before he had yet come forth. The report spread that Moyse L'Ouverture was come; and he was soon seen, superintending the placing of cannon in the streets, and the mustering of soldiers in the squares. The presence of the young man inspired an enthusiasm inferior only to that which waited on the steps of his uncle. Its influence on Moyse was seen in the fire of his eye, the quickness of his movements, and the hilarity of his air. He appeared to notice every one who cheered, or waved hat or handkerchief to him, and to overhear all that was said as he passed along. In one instance he stopped to reply.

"I little thought," he heard an old negro merchant say to a neighbour—"I little thought ever to see an Ouverture planting cannon against his own colour."

"Nor do you see it now, friend," said Moyse. "The insurgents in the plain are of all colours—almost as many whites as blacks are discontented with the Commissary, and—"

"Turn your guns upon the Commissary, then, young soldier!"

"There is no need, friend. We shall be rid of the Commissary by an easier method; and these guns will be wheeled home, as harmless as they came. My belief is that not a drop of negro blood will be shed; and to that end do we plant our cannon. If we tranquillise the whites of the town, and empty Government-house of the French, the negroes of the plain will find none but friends when they arrive."

"Oh, ay! That is your policy, is it?"

"That is L'Ouverture's policy. Tell it everywhere. He is the best friend of the blacks who best makes it known."

The explanation passed from mouth to mouth; and the new proclamation, signed by Toussaint and Hedouville, from hand to hand. The proclamation was posted in the corners of the streets; it was read aloud in the squares; it was sent, by messengers of every colour, among the insurgents in the plain. The effect of this, connected with the report, which every moment gained strength, that the Commissary was about to quit the colony was so evident, that Toussaint's wishes seemed likely to be accomplished. The insurgents did not, indeed, disband: they had been too often deceived by the Commissary's bland promises to do that before they had gained their point: but there was every reason to believe that they would march upon the town, only to secure the departure of Hedouville and his adherents, and the fidelity of the government to the terms of the proclamation.

When Toussaint came forth from his conference with Raymond, Afra and Euphrosyne were awaiting him in the corridor. He would have passed them with a smile; but he saw that Afra was urging Euphrosyne to speak, and that the blushing Euphrosyne dared not do so. He therefore stopped to tell Afra that his daughters had sent their love to her; that she was going to Pongaudin in a day or two; and that her friends there would be very glad to see her.

"Am I really going? Does my father say that I may?"

"He is going too: he will be there before you."

"My poor Euphrosyne, what will you do?" exclaimed Afra. "This is Euphrosyne Revel," she continued to Toussaint; "and—"

"Revel!" he said. "Have not you an aged relative in this town, my dear?"

"In that room," hastily answered Afra. "He is very old, and much alarmed to-day; and he cannot believe that he and Euphrosyne are safe, even here. If you will only assure Euphrosyne that there is no danger— if she could tell him that you say so—"

"I will tell him myself," said Toussaint. "He is in that apartment, you say?"

"Oh! but please your Excellency," exclaimed Afra, "he may not like—he may not wish—Euphrosyne is as much devoted to you as we are, but—"

Toussaint was well aware that Monsieur Revel might not like, would not wish, to see him, or any black. Among all the hatreds which had deformed the colony, none more fierce had existed than that between Monsieur Revel and the negro race. He had been a cruel master; hence his incessant terrors now. He had been marked out for vengeance at the time of the revolution, and his family had perished for his crimes; and hence the detestation in which, as the survivor of these victims, he was regarded by most who knew the story. Euphrosyne knew nothing of it; nor did her young companion. There was no one to tell them uselessly so painful a tale; and there was nothing in Monsieur Revel's present conduct to awaken a suspicion of the truth. He rarely saw a black: and the tenderness which lies in some corner of the hardest hearts was by him lavished upon his only remaining descendant. Little did she suppose now, how much better her grandfather was known by Toussaint than by herself.

"Trust me!" said Toussaint, smiling. "I will not annoy Monsieur Revel. I will merely reassure him, and tell him a little good news; and then leave him to his repose."

"Yes, Afra," interposed Euphrosyne. "Oh yes, please your Excellency, do go! I will tell him you are coming."

She flew along the corridor, and, with joyous smiles, prepared Monsieur Revel for some great honour and pleasure, when Toussaint entered, and bowed low, as it had ever been his custom to do before grey hairs.

"I come," said he to the old man, who seemed at a loss whether to rise or not, but who would not ask his visitor to sit down, "I come to encourage you to dismiss all fears. By the resolution of the Commissary to sail for France this day all further disputes are obviated. We have strong hopes that peace will not be disturbed."

"The Commissary going home. Who, then, is to govern us? What is to become of the whites in the colony?"

"I will take care of them. Those who are unwilling to remain, in the absence of the Commissary, can depart with him. There is shipping enough for more than will wish to go."

Euphrosyne glanced apprehensively at her grandfather, and then said, "Grandpapa is too old to go upon the sea any more; and I am not afraid of anything here. I do not believe there is anything to be afraid of here; is there?"

"Indeed, I believe not."

"Besides," said Afra, "my father will not allow any harm to happen to his best friends. My father—"

"Your father, my dear, will not be here," said Toussaint. "He is appointed to the legislature, in the interior. I protect this town till a new governor is appointed. I told you we hoped to see you at Pongaudin. You will pass your time there, with my family, while Monsieur Raymond attends his duties in the legislature. I go, sir, to provide for the peace of the town. If I can be of service to you, you have only to send to me. I entreat you to rely upon my protection."

And he went out.

"Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Euphrosyne, sighing.

"My dears, I hope I was not rude to him. I know that he meant kindly by coming: and I would not be otherwise than civil. I hope I was not rude to the Commander-in-chief."

Neither of his companions spoke, to give him comfort on this head. He grew angry. He declared that he did not understand all these changes and troubles, and he would go out of the way of them. He would sail with Hedouville; and so should Euphrosyne, and so should Pierre. He knew he should die before they had been a week at sea; but he would not stay to see everything turned topsy-turvy by the blacks.

Afra gently said that she understood it was Hedouville who had endeavoured to turn everything topsy-turvy, and those who understood the affairs of the colony better, who hoped to keep them straight. Euphrosyne protested that it was impossible to get home, to pack up their goods: and even if they were at home, there was no time to do it properly. When she found all her objections of this class unavailing, she gravely said that she fully believed what her grandfather had just declared—that he would die before they had been a week at sea; and nothing, therefore, should make her consent to go. A compromise was at length agreed upon. Euphrosyne promised to enter the convent, if her grandfather should desire it: and on this promise, he consented to say no more about going to sea.

As Toussaint went forth from Monsieur Revel's apartment, he met Monsieur Pascal, with his portfolio in his hand.

"Monsieur Pascal here already! I am gratified—I am grateful!" said Toussaint, grasping his hand. "You are weary—you must be very weary; but can you work a little before going to rest?"

"Willingly. No doubt. Most willingly."

Toussaint desired that fruit and wine should be sent to the governor's private room, and that the reports of messengers from the city should be brought instantly to him there. Monsieur Pascal and he then sat down beside a table, with pen, ink, and paper before them.

"Monsieur Pascal," Toussaint began, "the Commissary sails for France this day, with as many as desire to accompany him. You know the reasons which compel me to advise his departure. You came out as his secretary. Do you desire to return with him?"

"I do not. With your permission, I will remain with you."

"With what view?"

"My own satisfaction, and the wish to serve the colony. My attachment to yourself is strong. I also perceive that you govern wisely and well; and I desire to aid in so important a work."

"Good. But you are not aware of the danger of attaching yourself thus exclusively to me. Till to-day, if I fell, your way to France, your way in France, was open. After to-day, it will no longer be so. I am so surrounded with dangers, that I can scarcely escape ruin or death. The mulattoes conspire against my power and my life. The blacks, for whom I have made myself responsible, are yet full of passion, and not to be relied on in the present infancy of their education. The French officials are so many malignant spies—excepting yourself, indeed," he added, with a smile. "Bonaparte, who rules everywhere, is surrounded by our emigrants, who attribute their sufferings to the blacks; and he is jealous of me. I would rather say he distrusts me. Now you see my position. I ask no white to share its perils. If you go with Hedouville, you shall carry with you my friendly farewell."

"I will stay with you."

"Thank God! Then we are friends indeed! Now to business. In the pressing affairs of to-day, we must not overlook the future security of the colony. The story which Hedouville will tell at home must be met and illustrated by our statement. Write so fully to the First Consul as that he may clearly see that it is to Hedouville's ignorance and presumption that the present disturbances are owing."

"It is a clear case."

"It is to us. Make it so to him. One word first. Will you undertake the office of governor of this town?"

"Instead of Raymond?"

"Instead of Raymond. He is a good man; but I erred in appointing him. He is fit for deliberation, but not for action. But for my early arrival, this town would have been burned to-day, for want of even a show of defence. He is setting out now for the legislature, to which I have appointed him, and where he will be valuable. Will you assume his office?"

"By no means. I desire to remain beside you, and study your mode of government, before I attempt myself to govern."

"I have no fixed mode of governing. I merely act as seems to me good at the time."

"Inspired by a generous love, ever," said Pascal.

"Enough of this. It would be an advantage to me, and to the colony, that you should undertake this office. There is no other white, there is no mulatto fit for it! and the mulattoes need conciliation. If they see the office bestowed on a black, or occupied by me, in the interim they will feel themselves injured by Raymond's removal. You see the advantages of your filling the office."

"I see yet more plainly the disadvantages, unfit as I am. I cannot accept it."

"Very well. While you are writing, I will ascertain how the provisioning of the ships goes on, and will give you as much time as possible. But there is not a moment to lose. I will return presently to sign."

Toussaint walked up and down the corridor, receiving reports, and issuing orders every moment. He found that the harbour was covered with boats carrying out hogs, fowls, vegetables, and water, according to his orders: but no baggage had been sent down from the quarters of the French officials, though porters had been waiting for two hours past. Scouts had come in, with news of the approach of the insurgents. This information was communicated to Hedouville, with a hint that the ships were nearly provisioned; but no answer was returned. Moyse sent word that the preparations in the town were nearly complete, and the spirit of the inhabitants improving every hour, if only the Commissary would make haste and be gone. Toussaint found the moment was coming for him to give the word to fire the alarm gun.

"Are the despatches nearly ready?" he asked of Pascal, entering the secretary's apartment.

"Quite ready for signature," replied Pascal, drying the ink of the last sheet.

"Excellent!" cried Toussaint, when he had read them. "True and clear!"

He signed and sealed them, and introduced the officer who was to be responsible for their delivery, assuring him that he would be welcome back to the honours which would follow the faithful discharge of his trust. He did not forget to request Monsieur Pascal to go to rest. There might be no rest for either of them this night.

As Euphrosyne sat beside Monsieur Revel, who was sleeping on a couch, after the fatigues of the morning, old Pierre beckoned her softly out, sending in Euphrosyne's maid, and saying, as he shut the door, "She will stay with my master fill he wakes. Mademoiselle Afra has sent for you, mademoiselle, to see from the upper gallery what is going on. The harbour is so crowded with boats, that they can hardly move; and it is time they were moving pretty fast; for the battle is beginning at the other end of the town; and the Commissary is not off yet, though the gun was fired half-an-hour since. You heard the gun, mademoiselle?"

"Yes. I am glad it was only a signal. You are sure it was only a signal?"

"So they say everywhere. This is the way, mademoiselle. Monsieur Pascal is up here—the secretary, you know—and Mademoiselle Raymond, and her gouvernante, and several more, who have nothing to do with the fighting."

"But I do not want to see any fighting," said Euphrosyne, turning upon the stairs to descend. "Tell Mademoiselle Raymond that I cannot bear to see fighting."

"There is no fighting yet, mademoiselle, indeed: and many say there will not be any. Indeed you must see such a fine sight as this. You can see the Commander-in-chief galloping about the square, with his two trompettes at his heels."

Euphrosyne turned again, and ran up to the top, without once stopping. There she was hastily introduced to Monsieur Pascal, and placed by the gouvernante where she could see everything.

By this time it had become a question whether the Commissary and his suite could get away. They were making every effort to do so; but it was clear that their road would have been blockaded if the Commander-in-chief and his trompettes had not ridden round and round the party of soldiers which escorted them, clearing a passage by the power of a voice and a presence which always prevailed. Meantime, a huge body of people, which filled all the streets in the northern quarter, was gaining ground, pressing forwards against the peaceable opposition of the town's-people, and the soldiers, commanded by Moyse. The clamour of voices from that quarter was prodigious, but there were no shots. The wharves were covered with gentlemen, ladies, children, servants, and baggage, all being precipitated by degrees into boats, and rowed away, while more were perpetually arriving.

"Is not this admirable?" said Monsieur Pascal. "The secret has actually been kept that the Commissary is on his way to the water side. See! the cultivators are pressing on in this direction. They think he is here. If they knew where he was, they might catch him. As it is, I believe he will escape."

"Oh! are they coming here? Oh, my poor grandfather!" cried Euphrosyne, turning very pale.

"Fear nothing," said Afra. "They will presently learn that there is nothing to come here for. Will they not, Monsieur Pascal?"

"No doubt: and if not, there is nothing to fear, I believe. Not a shot has been fired yet, but from the alarm gun."

"Oh, how it echoed from the Haut-du-Cap!" cried Afra. "I wonder what the cultivators understood by it. See! my father's barge! There is fighting there, surely."

As Hedouville and his suite approached the wharf, the Governor's barge, which had lain at a little distance from the shore, began to press in, among the crowd of other boats, at a signal from one of the trompettes. The other boats, which were taking in terrified women and children, resisted this movement, and refused, at such a moment, its usual precedence to the Governor's barge. There was a hustling, a struggling, a shrieking, an uproar, so loud as to reach the ears and understandings of the insurgents. The word spread that the Commissary was escaping them. They broke through their opponents, and began a rush to the wharves. Not a few shots were now fired; but the young ladies scarcely heeded them in the excitement of this decisive moment.

"Oh, they will seize him! They will tear him in pieces!" cried Afra.

"He cannot—no, he never can get away!" exclaimed Euphrosyne.

"And he gave me the sweetest smile as he was going out!" said the weeping gouvernante.

"There! Bravo! Bravo!" cried Monsieur Pascal; and Pierre echoed "Bravo!"

"What is it? What is it?" cried the girls.

"He is safe! He and his party—they are all safe! Not in the barge— that is upset. You see those two green boats, now pulling off. They are there. They leaped into those boats just in time."

"Oh, look, look! what dreadful confusion!" cried Euphrosyne, covering her eyes with her hands.

"It is not so sure that they are safe yet," observed Pierre. "See how the blacks are pouring into the water!"

"And carrying the ladies and children with them, I fear," said Monsieur Pascal, gazing anxiously through his glass.

In fact, the negroes had no idea of giving up the pursuit because they had reached the water. Hundreds plunged in; and their heads were seen bobbing about all the surface of the bay. The rowers, however, pulled well, and presently left the greater number behind, to find satisfaction in the coolness of the element.

"There is no great harm done," said Monsieur Pascal, still gazing through his glass. "They have picked up two ladies and three children; and none seem to be missing."

"It is well that you and Monsieur were not there, Euphrosyne," observed Afra.

Euphrosyne shuddered, and Pierre looked all amazement at the absurdity of such an idea.

"No fear for us, Mademoiselle," said he. "See how empty the streets are, down below. None but the guard left, within half a mile."

It did indeed appear as if the whole population of the town and plain was collected on the shores of the bay. Those who had thrown themselves into the sea had to wait for a footing on land, unless they chose to swim round the point—which some of them did. When at length the crowd began to move up into the town, it was because the Commander-in-chief was riding away, after having addressed the people.

"What have you been about, child?" exclaimed Monsieur Revel, an hour after. "You are never beside me when I wake."

Euphrosyne did not point out that this was the first time she had failed to watch his siesta. She said that she had been seeing the Commissary set sail.

"What, already! He is in a great hurry, I think."

"The wind is quite fair, grandpapa. I suppose that is the reason why he made all the ships in the harbour sail the same way. He has carried off three frigates, and all the shipping in the roads. The sea is quite clear, grandpapa. There is not a single sail in sight, all along, as far as you can see. They are all off for France."

"What in the world made him do that?"

"Perhaps we shall hear, some day. To be sure, he had to carry a good many people away with him."

"Did many whites go with him?"

"I do not know how many whites. They say fifteen hundred went altogether; but many of these were mulattoes; and some few blacks, who went for a frolic, and will come back again when they have seen France."

"Strange doings! Strange doings!" sighed the old man.

"And we shall have some glorious doings to-morrow, grandpapa. There was a little bustle and struggle when the Commissary went away—I am glad you were asleep, and did not hear it. There will be no more—there will be no riot now, everybody says—the Commander-in-chief has behaved so finely, and the people are so fond of him. The danger is all over; and the town's-people have begged him—the Deliverer, as they call him—to attend the great church to-morrow, in state. Te Deum will be sung in all the churches, and it is to be a great fete-day. Are you not pleased?"

"Not at all pleased that Hedouville is gone, and fifteen hundred of his friends, and all the shipping."

"Well, but we are all at peace now, and everybody satisfied."

"Why are we here, then? Why am I not at home?"

"We will go home in a day or two. The streets will be noisy to-night; and besides, one removal is enough for one day. Afra will follow her father after to-morrow—he is gone, you know, this morning—"

"Whose guest am I, then? If I am the guest of the negro Toussaint—"

"You are the guest of Monsieur Raymond while Afra is here. When she sets out, we will go home."

"And shall I have to be swung up to the balcony, and have my brains dashed out, while all the nuns are staring at me?"

"Oh, no," replied Euphrosyne, laughing. "There will be nothing then to prevent your going in your own carriage to your own door. I am afraid we shall not find my pretty little humming-birds there. They will think I have forgotten them."

"Ay, those humming-birds," said Monsieur Revel, appearing to forget all his troubles.



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 fete 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!"



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 Francais. 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 Genifrede 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 Genifrede'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 Francais 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 Hedouville 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 Gonaives, 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 Aimee."

"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 Aimee loves him. I doubt whether Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the matter as you are."

"Aimee is not one who will ever show herself too ready—Aimee 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 Aimee. 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? Hedouville 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 Aimee, 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 Aimee! You say that will be a security."

"We must not forget Aimee 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 Genifrede 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 Genifrede, 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 Genifrede.' Moyse has yet much to learn—and much to overcome; yet I look upon Genifrede 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 Hedouville'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 Genifrede. Farewell!"

As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Genifrede 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.