The hunters had parted with the boys in the valley, at sunrise, when they said they should seek fish and fowl to-day, in the logwood grove and the pond above it, as there were hunters enough out upon the hills.

"If they are really no farther off than that," said their mother, "they may hear us, and come for their share of the sight. You walk well, General Dessalines."

Dessalines declared himself well. The rumour of war was the tonic he needed. Even at this distance, it had done more for him than all Therese's medicines in a month. Therese saw that it was indeed so; and that he would lie at the Plateaux now before the enemy.

"Look at General Vincent," whispered Madame Pascal to her husband, on whose arm she was leaning, as all stood on the height, anxiously gazing at the road, which wound like a yellow thread across the plain, and round the base of the hills. The troops were now hidden by a hanging wood; so that Afra rested her strained eyes for a moment, and happened to notice Vincent's countenance. "Look, do look, at General Vincent!"

Her husband shook his head, and said that was what he was then thinking of. Dessalines and his wife were similarly occupied; and they and the Pascals communicated with each other by glances.

"What is the matter, Vincent," asked Dessalines, outright. "Here are the long-expected come at last; and you look as gloomily upon them as if they were all France."

"I am not such a man of blood as you, Dessalines. I have never given up the hope of accommodation and peace. It is strange, when the great men on both sides profess such a desire for peace, that we must see this breach made, nobody can tell why."

"Why, my good fellow!" exclaimed Dessalines, staring into his face, "surely you are talking in your sleep! The heats put you to sleep last summer, and you are not awake yet. You know nothing that has been done since December, I do believe. Come! let me tell you, as little Tobie is not here to do it."

"Don't, love," said Therese, pressing her husband's arm. "No disputes to-day, Jacques! The times are too serious."

"At another time, General," said Vincent, "I will instruct you a little in my opinions, formed when my eyes were wide open in France; which yours have never been."

"There they are! There they come from behind the wood, if we could but see them for the dust!" exclaimed some.

"Oh, this dust! we can see nothing!" cried others. "Who can give a guess how many they are?"

"It is impossible," said Bellair. "Without previous knowledge, one could not tell them from droves of bullocks and goats going to market at Saint Marc."

"Except for their caps," said Euphrosyne. "I see a dozen or two of feathers through the crowd. Do not you, Afra?"

"Yes, but where is their music? We should hear something of it here, surely."

"Yes, it is a dumb march," said Dessalines, "at present. They will strike up when they have turned the shoulder of that hill, no doubt. There! now listen!"

All listened, so that the brook, half a mile behind, made its babbling heard, but there was not a breath of music.

"Is it possible that Rochambeau should be in the way," asked Therese.

"He cannot be in the way," said her husband, "for where I stand, I command every foot of the road, up to our posts; but he may be nearer than we thought. I conclude that he is."

"Look! See!" cried several. "They are taking another road. Where are they going! General Dessalines, what does it mean?"

"I would thank anyone to tell me that it is not as I fear," replied Dessalines. "I fear Maurepas is effecting a junction, not with us, but with some one else."

"With Rochambeau!"

"Traitor!"

"The traitor Maurepas!"

"His head!"

"Our all for his head!" cried the enraged gazers, as they saw Maurepas indeed diverging from the road to the post, and a large body of French troops turning a reach of the same road, from behind a hill. The two clouds of dust met. And now there was no more silence, but sound enough from below and afar. There was evidently clamour and rage among the troops in the Plateaux; and bursts of music from the army of their foes, triumphant and insulting, swelled the breeze.

"Our all for the head of Maurepas!" cried the group again.

"Nay," said Vincent, "leave Maurepas his head. Who knows but that peace may come out of it? If all had done as he has now done, there could be no war."

"In the same way," exclaimed Pascal, "as if all of your colour thought as you do, there would then be no war, because there would be no men to fight; but only slaves to walk quietly under the yoke."

"Be as angry as you will," said Vincent, in a low voice to Pascal. "No one's anger can alter the truth. It is impious and vain, here as elsewhere, to oppose Bonaparte. L'Ouverture will have to yield; you know that as well as I do, Monsieur Pascal; and those are the best friends of the blacks who help to render war impossible, and who bring the affair to a close while the First Consul may yet be placable."

"Has that opinion of yours been offered to your Commander, Vincent?"

"It would have been, if he had asked for it. He probably knows that I had rather have seen him high in honour and function under Leclerc, than an outlaw, entrenched in the mornes."

"Then why are you here?"

"I am here to protect those who cannot protect themselves, in these rough times. I am here to guard these ladies against all foes, come they whence they may,—from France, or out of our own savannahs,—from earth, air, or sea.—But hark! Silence, ladies! Silence all, for a moment!"

They listened, ready to take alarm from him, they knew not why. Nothing was heard but the distant baying of hounds,—the hunters coming home as it was supposed.

"Those are not Saint Domingo hounds," said Vincent, in a low voice to Dessalines.

"No, indeed!—Home, all of you! Run for your lives! No questions, but run! Therese, leave me! I command you.—If this is your doing, Vincent—"

"Upon my soul, it is not. I know nothing about it.—Home, ladies, as fast as possible!"

"My children!" exclaimed Madame Bellair. "I can find them, if you will only tell me the danger,—what is the danger?"

"You hear those hounds. They are Cuba bloodhounds," said Dessalines. "The fear is that they are leading an enemy over the hills."

Not a word more was necessary. Every one fled who could, except Therese, who would not go faster than her husband's strength permitted him to proceed. The voice of the hounds, and the tramp of horses' feet were apparently so near, before they could reach the first sentry, that both were glad to see Pascal hurrying towards them, with two soldiers, who carried Dessalines to the house, while Pascal and Therese ran for their lives,—she striving to thank her companion for remembering to bring this aid.

"No thanks!" said Pascal. "General Dessalines is our great man now. We cannot do without him. Here is to be a siege,—a French troop has come over by some unsuspected pass;—I do not understand it."

"Have you sent to the Plateaux?"

"Of course, instantly; but our messengers will probably be intercepted, though we have spared three men, to try three different paths. If L'Ouverture learns our condition, it will be by the firing."

Some of the sportsmen had brought in from the hills the news of the presence of an enemy in the morne—not, apparently, on their way to the plantation, but engaged in some search among the hills. Others spoke tidings which would not have been told for hours but for the determination of Madame Bellair to set out in search of her children, whatever foe might be in the path. It became necessary to relate that it was too late to save her children. They had been seen lying in a track of the wood, torn in pieces by the bloodhounds, whose cry was heard now close at hand. Though there was no one who would at first undertake to tell the mother this, there were none who, in the end, could conceal it from her. They need not have feared that their work of defence would be impeded by her waitings and tears. There was not a cry; there was not a tear. Those who dared to look in her face saw that the fires of vengeance were consuming all that was womanish in Deesha's nature. She was the soldier to whom, under Dessalines, the successful defence of Le Zephyr was mainly owing. Dessalines gave the orders, and superintended the arrangements, which she, with a frantic courage, executed. From that hour to the day when she and her husband expired in tortures, the forces of the First Consul had no more vindictive and mischievous enemy than the wife of Charles Bellair. Never propitiated, and long unsubdued, Charles Bellair and his wife lived henceforth in the fastnesses of the interior; and never for a day desisted from harassing the foe, and laying low every Frenchman on whom a sleepless, and apparently ubiquitous vengeance, could fix its grasp.

Deesha was not the only woman who seemed to bear a foeman's soul. Therese looked as few had seen her look before; and, busy as was her husband with his arrangements for the defence of the house, he could not but smile in the face which expressed so much. To her, and any companions she could find among the women, was confided the charge of Sabes and Martin, who, locked into a room whence they must hear the firing of their comrades outside, could not be supposed likely to make a desperate attempt to escape. Therese answered for their detention, if she had arms for herself and two companions. Whoever these heroines might be, the prisoners were found safe, after the French had decamped.

There were doubts which, at any other time, would have needed deliberation. It was a doubt, for a moment, whether to imprison Vincent, whose good faith was now extremely questionable: but there was no one to guard him; and his surprise and concern were evidently so real, and his activity was so great in preparing for defence, that there seemed nothing for it but trusting him to protect the women who were under his charge. Dessalines, however, kept his eye upon him, and his piece in readiness to shoot him down, on the first evidence of treachery.

Another doubt was as to the foe they had to contend against. How they got into the morne, and why such an approach was made to an object so important as securing a party of hostages like these; whether, if Vincent had nothing to do with it, the spies had; and whether, therefore, more attacks might not be looked for, were questions which passed through many minds, but to which no consideration could now be given. Here were the foe; and they must be kept off.

The struggle was short and sharp. Small as was the force without, it far outnumbered that of the fighting men in what had been supposed the secure retreat of Le Zephyr; and there is no saying but that the ladies might have found themselves at length on Tortuga, and in the presence of Bonaparte's sister, if the firing had not reached the watchful ear of L'Ouverture at the Plateaux, on the way to which all the three messengers had been captured. Toussaint arrived with a troop, in time to deliver his household. After his first onset, the enemy retreated; at first carrying away some prisoners, but dropping them on their road, one after another, as they were more and more hardly pressed by L'Ouverture, till the few survivors were glad to escape as they could, by the way they came.

Toussaint returned, his soldiers bringing in the mangled bodies of the two boys. When he inquired what loss had been sustained, he found that three, besides the children, were killed; and that Vincent was the only prisoner, besides the three messengers turned back in the morne.

"Never was there a more willing prisoner, in my opinion," observed Pascal.

"He carries away a mark from us, thank Heaven!" said Dessalines. "Madame Bellair shot him."

It was so. Deesha saw Vincent join the French, and go off with them, on the arrival of L'Ouverture; and, partly through revenge, but not without a thought of the disclosures it was in his power to make, she strove to silence him for ever. She only reached a limb, however, and sent him away, as Dessalines said, bearing a mark from Le Zephyr.

One of the French troop, made prisoner, was as communicative as could have been desired—as much so as Vincent would probably be on the other side. He declared that the attack on Le Zephyr was a mere accident: that his company had entered the morne, led by the bloodhounds in pursuit of some negroes, from whom they wanted certain information for Rochambeau, respecting the localities; that they had thus become acquainted with the almost impracticable pass by which they had entered; that, when the hounds had destroyed the children, and proved that there were inhabitants in the morne, the situation of Le Zephyr had been discovered, and afterwards the rank of its inhabitants; that the temptation of carrying off these hostages to Rochambeau had been too strong to be resisted; and hence the attack.

"We shall have to remove," the ladies said to each other, "now that our retreat is known."

"Shall we have to remove?" asked Euphrosyne, whose love of the place could not be quenched, even by the blood upon its threshold. "I am not afraid to stay, if any one else will."

"How can you be so rash, Euphrosyne?" asked Afra.

"I would not be rash, Euphrosyne replied; but we know now how these people came into the morne, and L'Ouverture will guard the pass. And remember, Afra, we have beaten them; and they will take care how they attack us another time. Remember, we have beaten them."

"We have beaten them," said Dessalines, laughing. "And what did you do to beat off the French, my little lady?"

"I watched the prisoners through the keyhole; and if they had made the least attempt to set the house on fire—"

"You would have put it out with your tears—hey, Mademoiselle Euphrosyne?"

"Ask Madame, your lady, what she would have done in such a case: she stood beside me. But does L'Ouverture say we must remove?"

"L'Ouverture thinks," said Toussaint, who heard her question, "that this is still the safest place for the brave women who keep up his heart by their cheerful faces. He is ashamed that they have been negligently guarded. It shall not happen again."

He was just departing for the Plateaux. As he went out he said to his wife, while he cast a look of tender compassion upon Madame Bellair—

"I shall tell Charles that you will cherish Deesha. It is well that we can let her remain here, beside the graves of her children. Bury them with honour, Margot."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

AUGUST FAR-OFF.

In time of peace, and if her children had perished by any other mode, it might have been a consolation to Deesha to dwell for a time beside their graves. As it was, the deep bark of the murderous dogs filled her ear perpetually, and their fangs seemed to tear her heart. Her misery in the quiet mansion of the mornes was unendurable; and the very day after the funeral she departed, with her husband, to a place where no woman's eye could mark her maternal anguish—where no semblance of a home kept alive the sense of desolation. She retired, with her husband and his troop, to a fastness higher up in the Morne-du-Chaos, whence they kept watch over the regular entrenchments below, cut off supplies of provisions from the French, harassed all their marches, and waged a special war against the bloodhounds—the negro's most dreaded foe. More, however, were perpetually brought over from Cuba, and regularly trained, by means too barbarous for detail, to make negroes their prey. From the hour when Deesha first heard the cry of a bloodhound, more than the barbarism of her native Congo took possession of her. Never more was she seen sowing under the shade of the tamarind-tree. Never more did she spread the table, for husband or guests, within a house. Never more was her voice heard singing, gaily or plaintively, the songs that she had gathered from the palm groves of Africa, or the vineyards of France, or from the flowery fields of a mother's hopes. Henceforth she carried the rifle, and ate her meal in stern silence, in the cave of the rock. When she laughed, it was as her shot went straight to her victim's heart. When she spoke, it was of the manoeuvres of her mountain war; and the only time that she was ever seen to shed tears was when a rumour of a truce reached the pinnacle on which she dwelt. Though assured that any truce could be only, as every negro knew, a truce till August, the mere semblance of accommodation with the foe forced tears of vexation from eyes which were for ever after dry. If she felt a gleam of satisfaction before leaving Le Zephyr, it was at the singular accident by which Juste, always so bent upon being a soldier, shared the honours of a military funeral. Juste and Tobie were buried with the soldiers who had fallen in the defence of the house; and to the father, who followed the coffins, and the mother, who hid herself in the thicket, there was something like pleasure in the roll of the drum, and the measure of the dead march, and the warlike tone of the shrill dirge which was sung round the open graves, and the discharge of firearms over them—a satisfaction like that of fulfilling the last wish of their boy. This done, and the graves fenced and planted, the childless pair departed, wishing, perhaps, in their own hearts, that they could weep their misfortune like those whom they left behind.

For some time forward from that day there was no more cause for weeping at Le Zephyr. The season had come for the blacks to show what they could do. In the hope, as he said, of hastening on the peace, Vincent told all that he knew of the plans and resources of the outlawed chiefs; and, in consequence, the French at length proceeded to vigorous action, believing that if they could force the post at the Plateaux, they could so impoverish and disable the negro leaders as to compel them to become mere banditti, who might be kept in check by guarding the mountain-passes. The French force was, therefore, brought up again and again to the attack, and always in vain. The ill success of the invaders was, no doubt, partly owing to the distress which overtook their soldiery whenever they had been a few days absent from their camp and their ships. Whichever way they turned, and however sudden the changes of their march, they found the country laid waste—the houses unroofed, the cattle driven away, the fields burned or inundated, and nothing but a desert under their feet, and flames on the horizon, while the sun of the tropic grew daily hotter overhead. These were disadvantages; but the French had greatly the superiority in numbers, in experience, and in supplies of ammunition. Yet, for many weeks, they failed in all their attempts. They left their dead before the entrance of the Plateaux, or heaped up in the neighbouring fields, or strewed along the mountain-paths, now to the number of seven hundred, now twelve, and now fifteen hundred; while the negroes numbered their losses by tens or scores. The first combined attack, when Maurepas, with his army, joined Rochambeau, and two other divisions met them from different points, was decisively disastrous; and even Vincent began to doubt whether the day of peace, the day of chastisement of L'Ouverture's romance, was so near as he had supposed.

The last time that the French dared the blacks to come forth from their entrenchments, and fight on the plain afforded the most triumphant result to the negroes. So tremendous was the havoc among the French— while the blacks charged without intermission, rolling on their force from their entrenchments, each advancing line throwing itself upon the ground immediately after the charge, while those behind passed over their bodies, enabling them to rise and retreat in order to rush forward again in their turn—that the troops of the Rhine and the Alps were seized with a panic, and spread a rumour that there was sorcery among the blacks, by which they were made invulnerable. It was scarcely possible, too, to believe in the inferiority of their numbers, so interminable seemed the succession of foes that presented a fresh front. Rochambeau saw that, if not ordered to retreat, his troops would fly; and whether it was a retreat or a flight at last, nobody could afterwards determine. They left fifteen hundred dead on the field, and made no pause till they reached Plaisance.

From this time, the French generals resolved against more fighting, till reinforcements arrived from France. New hopes inspired the blacks—all of them, at least, who did not, like L'Ouverture and Christophe, anticipate another inundation of the foe from the sea. Placide, who was foremost in every fight, was confident that the struggle was nearly over, and rode up to Le Zephyr occasionally with tidings which spread hope and joy among the household, and not only made his mother proud, but lightened her heart.

He told, at length, that the French, not relishing the offensive war begun by Christophe, had blockaded his father in the Plateaux. He treated this blockade as a mere farce—as a mode of warfare which would damage the French irreparably as the heats came on, while it could not injure the blacks, acquainted as they were with the passes of the country.

Placide would have been right, if only one single circumstance had been otherwise than as it was. L'Ouverture had nothing to fear from a blockade in regard to provisions. He had adherents above, among the heights, who could supply his forces with food for themselves and fodder for their horses inexhaustibly. Every ravine in their rear yielded water. They had arms enough; and in their climate, and with the summer coming on, the clothing of the troops was a matter of small concern. But their ammunition was running short. Everything was endeavoured, and timely, to remedy this; but there was no effectual remedy. Many a perilous march over the heights, and descent upon the shore, did one and another troop attempt—many a seizure of French supplies did they actually effect—many a trip did Paul, and others who had boats, make to one and another place, where it was hoped that powder and ball might be obtained; but no sufficient supply could be got. The foe were not slow in discovering this, and in deriving courage from their discovery. From the moment that they found themselves assailed with flights of arrows from the heights, and that their men were wounded, not always with ball, or even shot, but with buttons, nails, and other bits of old metal—with anything rather than lead—they kept a closer watch along the coast and the roads, that no little boat, no cart or pack-horse, might escape capture. Towards the end of April the difficulty became so pressing, that L'Ouverture found himself compelled to give up his plan of defensive war, with all its advantages, and risk much to obtain the indispensable means of carrying on the struggle.

It was with this view that he mustered his force, gave out nearly the last remains of his ammunition, burst victoriously through the blockading troops, routed them, and advanced to attack the French lines posted at Plaisance. Behind him he left few but his wounded, commanded by Dessalines, who was yet hardly sufficiently recovered to undertake a more arduous service. Before him were the troops under Maurepas, whom he had always believed he could recall with a word, if he could but meet them face to face. Others probably believed so too; for those troops had, on every occasion, been kept back, and so surrounded, as that no one from their old haunts and their old companions could reach them. Now, however, the French force was so reduced by the many defeats they had undergone, that it was probable they would be obliged to put faith in the renegado division, if attacked; and L'Ouverture was not without hopes of striking a decisive blow by recalling the negroes in the French lines to their allegiance to himself.

Everything answered to his anticipations. When he advanced to the attack, he found the troops of Maurepas posted in the front, to weaken the resolution of their former comrades, or receive their first fire. His heart bounded at the sight; and all his resentment against them as renegades melted into compassion for the weakness of those who had been reared in terror and servility. He rushed forward, placing himself, without a thought of fear, between the two armies, and extended his arms towards the black lines of the enemy, shouting to them—

"My soldiers, will you kill your general? Will you kill your father, your comrades, your brothers?"

In an instant every black was on his knees. It was a critical moment for the French. They rushed on, drowning the single voice on which their destruction seemed to hang, threw the kneeling soldiers on their faces, strode over their prostrate bodies, and nearly effected their object of closing round L'Ouverture, and capturing him. His danger was imminent. The struggle was desperate;—but his soldiers saved him. The battle was fierce and long, but again and again turning in his favour, till all seemed secure. He was forcing the enemy from their lines, and giving out the inspiring negro cry of victory, when a new force marched up against him, stopped the retreat of the French, and finally repulsed the blacks—exhausted as they were, and unable to cope with a fresh foe. In the most critical moment, four thousand troops, fresh from the ships had arrived to convert the defeat of the French into a victory; and they brought into the battle more than their own strength in the news that reinforcements from France were pouring in upon every point of the coast.

The news reached L'Ouverture, and completed the discouragement of his little army. It decided him at once in what direction to retreat. It was useless to return to the Plateaux, as the force there was more than proportioned to the supply of ammunition. This fresh descent of the French upon the coast would have the effect of dispersing the small bodies of black troops in the north. A rendezvous was necessary, in order to make the most both of the men and stores. He proceeded to post his troops at Le Dondon, and Marmalade, sending orders to Christophe to meet him there. There they might possibly be usefully employed in cutting off access to the French army at Plaisance, and at the same time supplying their own wants, while deliberating on what plan to carry on the struggle, under the new circumstances, till August; for, whatever treachery and defection might have to be encountered elsewhere, there was never a moment's doubt that Nature would prove a faithful ally, when her appointed season came.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

CONFLICTING.

"What to do!" said L'Ouverture to Christophe, as they entered his apartment at Le Dondon. "What to do? Everything, this year and for the future, may depend on what we decide on for our next step. And we must decide before we leave this room, say your thoughts, Henri."

"I am for a truce."

"I am for a retreat in the mountains. Now for our reasons! Why do you desire a truce?"

"Because I see that Leclerc so earnestly wishes it, that I am confident we may make good terms, for the interval of waiting till we recover altogether our power, our territory, and our people. Leclerc will revoke our outlawry. That done, you will be the virtual rider of our people till August; after which no foes will be left upon our soil. What have you to say against this?"

"That it is yielding, unnecessarily and fatally, to the invaders. Where are our censures of Clerveaux and Maurepas, if we, too, yield to Leclerc, and make terms with him?"

"Every one of our people will understand the difference in the cases. Every one of them sees the difference between falling at the feet of Leclerc, like Clerveaux; or joining him on the very field on which you were about to oppose him, like Maurepas; and making a truce, for a short interval, when you are almost destitute of ammunition, and the enemy so exhausted with the heats as to decline coming into the field; while, at the same time, fresh troops are pouring in upon the coast, in such numbers as to prevent your regaining your independence by remaining in arms. If every man of the negroes has not wit enough to understand this for himself, who is better able than you to inform them of whatsoever you desire them to know? Be assured, Toussaint, powerful as your influence is this day among our people, it will be more so when you are no longer an outlaw. It is worth a large sacrifice of our feelings to have our outlawry revoked."

"Have you more reasons to give for accepting a truce; or, as the French understand it, a peace?"

"Let me first hear your reasons for a retreat in the mountains."

"A retreat in the mountains is the more honest proceeding of the two, Henri. If we make terms with the French, it will be knowing that that which goes by the name of peace is no more than a truce till August."

"And will not they know that as well as we? Is it necessary to tell the whites, at this day, that they are liable to the fever in the heats, and that any army, however glorious in its strength previously, becomes a skeleton at that season? This is a matter that is perfectly understood by all the parties."

"We must look forward, Henri, to the days to come, when August itself is past. The influence of myself or my successor will be injured by my having, even apparently, yielded to the invaders. My power over our people's minds will be immeasurably greater, if I shall have consistently refused to tolerate the foe, from the moment of their first hostile act to the end of the struggle. Am I not right?"

"That character of consistency will be purchased at a price too dear;— at the cost of your characteristic of mercy, Toussaint—of reverence for human life. You will be ranked with Dessalines, if you keep up, for four months, the disturbance and devastation of war, when every one knows that your end will be as certainly gained after these four months have been spent in peace. What a grief it would be to see you changed in all eyes from the adored L'Ouverture to Toussaint the bandit! Pardon my freedom."

"I required it of you, my friend; so do not speak of pardon. We are agreed that the moral influence of my conduct is the main consideration, as the destruction of the French army is certain, sooner or later—our independence secure, if we so will it. If we remain in the mountains, cutting off in detail the grasp which France shall attempt to lay on any part of our territory or our system; training our people, meantime, for another campaign, if France should attempt another; replenishing gradually our stores with perpetual small captures from the enemy, allowing them no asylum, discountenancing their presence, in every possible way—we shall be taking the shortest, and therefore the most merciful method of convincing the French and the blacks at once that their empire here is at an end, and slavery henceforth impossible for the negroes of Saint Domingo. But, if I make a peace or truce, how dim and perplexed will be the impression of my conduct! I cannot hold office, civil or military, under the French. Henri, you would not have me do so!"

"Certainly not. Till August, retire to your estate, that every office in the colony may thereafter be in your hand."

"If I co-operate with the French, even in the faintest appearance, my moral influence will be all on their side, and a second year of warfare will find us farther from peace or independence than the first. If I act, more or less, for the blacks, Leclerc will send me to France as a traitor. If I do nothing, neither party will believe in my doing nothing: each will suspect me of secret dealings with the other. It is also true that I cannot, if I would, be inoperative. Every glance of my eye, every word of my lips, in my own piazza at Pongaudin, would be made to bear its interpretation, and go to disturb the single and distinct image which I now stand before every eye and in every mind."

"I do not agree with you," said Henri. "While the image of August is distinct in the minds of the Saint Domingo people, it will keep your influence single and intelligible to them. As for what the French think, that is their own affair. They have the means of knowledge. Let them use them. There is one fact which no one can misunderstand, the while—that after the defections under which you have suffered, and under your known want of military stores, an incursive war from the mountains appears ferocious—both revengeful and cruel—when every one knows that time will render it unnecessary."

"These defections do not discourage me as they do you, Henri. Full one third of my forces are faithful—are proved so by trial. These, with the goodness of our cause, are enough for my hopes—almost for my desires. There is no ferocity, but rather mercy, in hastening on the day of our independence and peace, by using a force so respectable—so honoured, as this tried remnant of my army."

"You reckon fallaciously, Toussaint. You include my troops in the force you speak of."

"Henri!" exclaimed L'Ouverture, stopping in his walk up the apartment; "it cannot be that you will desert me. No, no! forgive me that the words passed my lips!"

"Never will I desert you or our cause, Toussaint. Never will I intermit my enmity to our invaders; never will I live for any other object than the liberties of our people. But the time may be come for us to pursue our common object by different paths. I cannot go and play the bandit in the mountains."

"Why did you not call me a bandit when I was at the Plateaux?"

"Because you were then waging an honourable war. War, not peace, was then beckoning you on to freedom. A state of voluntary outlawry, a practice of needless ravage, will make a different man of you. Say no more of it, Toussaint: I cannot be lieutenant to—Do not make me utter the word."

"You have always hitherto obeyed me, Henri."

"I have; and when we are in a state of war, I will obey you again. Do not class me with La Plume and Clerveaux—or, rather, do, if you will, and when August is past I will prove to you the difference."

"Do not you see, Henri, that you not only cease to aid me at a great crisis but that you put a force upon me?"

"I cannot help it; I must do so, rather than go and be a butcher in the mornes with Dessalines."

"Say with me, too: call me a butcher, too! After the long years that you have known my heart, call me a butcher too."

"Let us talk sense, Toussaint: this is no time for trifling. After August, I shall join you again—to fight, if it be necessary: but I hope it will not."

"Not if heaven strengthens me to do my work without you, Christophe. After the fever, it is much for the sick to walk: we do not expect the dead to rise."

"When I join you, after August," resumed Christophe, "whether for the labours of war or peace, you, and perhaps even Jacques, will wish that your hands were as clean from blood as mine. Your thought, Toussaint!— tell me your thought. If—"

"I was thinking that you will join us, Henri. You will labour till our great work is done. You may err; and you may injure our cause by your error; but you will never be seduced from the rectitude of your own intentions. That is what I was thinking. I would fain keep my judgment of you undisturbed by a grieving heart."

"You are more than generous, Toussaint: you are just. I was neither. Pardon me. But I am unhappy—I am wretched that you are about to forfeit your greatness, when—Oh, Toussaint! nothing should ever grieve me again, if we could but agree to-day—if I could but see you retire, with your wonted magnanimity, to Pongaudin, there, with your wonted piety, to await the leadings from above. Where is your wonted faith, that you do not see them now, through the clouds that are about us?"

"I cannot but see them now," said Toussaint, sighing; "and to see is to follow. If you are wholly resolved to make a truce for yourself and your division—"

"I am wholly resolved to do so."

"Then you compel me to do the same. Without you, I have not force sufficient to maintain an effectual resistance."

"Thank God! then we shall see you again L'Ouverture, and no longer Toussaint, the outlaw. You will—"

"Hear me, Henri! You put this constraint upon me. What are you prepared to do, if the French prove treacherous, after our peace is made?"

"To drive them into the sea, to be sure. You do not suppose I shall regard them as friends the more for making a truce with them! We will keep our eyes upon them. We will preserve an understanding with the whole island, as to the vigilance which the blacks must exercise, day and night, over their invaders. The first treacherous thought in Leclerc's mind is a breach of the truce; and dearly shall he rue it."

"This is all well-planned, Henri. If the cunning of Leclerc proves deeper than yours—"

"Say ours, Toussaint."

"No. I have no part in this arrangement. I act under your compulsion, and under my own protest; as I require of you, Henri, to remember. If we are not deep enough, vigilant enough, active enough, for Leclerc and his council—if he injures us before August, and Bonaparte ordains a second campaign after it, are you ready to endure the responsibility of whatever may befall?"

"I am."

"Have you looked well forward into the future, and detected every mischief that may arise from our present temporising, and resolved that it was a less evil than losing the rest of this season, putting a compulsion upon your best friend, and fettering the deliverer of your people?"

"I have so looked forward—repudiating the charge of undutiful compulsion. I act for myself, and those under my command."

"Virtually compelling me to act with you, by reducing me from being the General of an army to be the leader of a troop; and by exposing our cause to the peril—the greatest of all—of a declared division between you and me. I yield, Christophe; but what I am going to do, I do under protest. Order in the French prisoners."

"Yet one moment," said Henri. "Let me reason with you a little further. Be satisfied of the goodness of the act before you do it."

"I do not need satisfaction on that. I do not quarrel with the terms we are to make. I do not protest against any of the provisions of the treaty. I protest against the necessity of treating. Summon the prisoners."

"Can you," said Christophe, still delaying, "can you improve upon the terms proposed? Can the conditions be altered, so as to give more satisfaction to your superior foresight? I would not use flattering terms at this moment, Toussaint; you know I would not. But your sagacity is greater than mine, or any one's. I distrust myself about the terms of the treaty, I assure you."

"About anything more than the mere terms of the treaty?" asked Toussaint, again stopping in his walk.

"About the conditions—and about the conditions only."

"Your self-distrust is misplaced, and comes too late. Order the prisoners to be brought in."

As Sabes and Martin entered, L'Ouverture and Christophe renewed, by a glance, their agreement to speak and act with the utmost apparent sameness of views and intentions. It was but a poor substitute for the real coincidence which had always hitherto existed; but it was all that was now possible.

"I am going to send you back to your Captain-General, gentlemen," said Toussaint.

"Not without apology, I trust," said Sabes, "for having subjected to such treatment as we have undergone, messengers sent to parley—bearing actually the necessary credentials from the Captain-General. For nine weeks have my companion and I been dragged from place to place, wherever it suited your purposes to go, in perpetual fear for our lives."

"I am sorry you have trembled for your lives, gentlemen," replied Toussaint. "It was an unnecessary suffering, as I gave you my word, on your capture, that your persons were safe. Considering that you were found crouching among the ferns, within hearing of my private conversation with my son respecting the affairs of the war, I think your complaints of your detention unreasonable; and I have no apology to make, on that ground, either to yourselves or your commander. I cannot hear another word of complaint, gentlemen. You know well that by any general in Europe you would, under similar circumstances, have been hanged as spies. Now to public business. I am about to send you to General Leclerc, with proposals from General Christophe and myself to bring this painful war to an end, according to the desire of the heads of both armies. We all know such to be the wish of the Captain-General."

"No doubt. It was never his desire, nor that of any true Frenchman," said Sabes, "to be at war on the soil of this colony. You alone, General Toussaint, are responsible for the loss of lives, and all the other miseries which it has occasioned."

"How so? Let him say on, Lieutenant Martin. No one suffers by speaking his thoughts to me, be they what they may. On what consideration is it possible to impute this war to me?"

"It would never have broken out if you had not despised the authority, and thrown off the control, of the mother-country. This view cannot be new to you, General Toussaint," continued Sabes, on seeing the look of amazement with which L'Ouverture turned to Christophe.

"Indeed it is," replied Toussaint. "The charge is as unexpected as it is untrue. You, sir," he said, appealing to Lieutenant Martin, "are a naval officer. Tell me how you would act in such a case as this. Suppose you commanded a vessel of the state, authorised and approved in your office? suppose another officer came—without notice, without your having heard a word of complaint—and leaped upon your deck, with a crew double the number of your own, striking down and fettering your men. If you resisted their violence in such a case, successfully or unsuccessfully, would you admit that you were the cause of the struggle—that you despised the government under which you held your command—that you threw off the control of your superiors?"

There was a pause.

"Such is my case," said Toussaint; "and thus you must represent it, if you be men of honour. The purport of my letter to the Captain-General (which will be ready by the time you are prepared for your journey), is to declare the willingness of General Christophe and myself to negotiate, as the continuation of the war, under the circumstances which have arisen, appears to be without object. The terms which we require, and which it is supposed General Leclerc will agree to, are an amnesty for all who have ever fought, or otherwise acted, under our command; and the preservation of the rank of all black officers, civil and military. My friend Christophe and I will retire to our estates, to pray for the peace and welfare of the colony—the peace and welfare which have, notwithstanding our prayers, been so unhappily broken up. Gentlemen, there can be little doubt that the Captain-General will agree to these terms of pacification."

"We cannot answer for his replies," said Martin. "Our representations shall be faithful."

"I doubt it not," said Toussaint, "after experiencing your companion's courage and fidelity in rebuke; for which, though he is mistaken in fact, I honour him. Nor can I doubt the readiness of the Captain-General to treat with us on the terms I shall propose; for he must know that I shall always, among my native fastnesses, be strong to burn, ravage, and destroy. He must know, that though my negroes may be conquered, they will never more be subdued; and that, entrenched in the mornes, they can always effectually prevent an unfriendly settlement of the island. He must know that I am open to generous treatment; but otherwise ready and able to sell dearly a life which has done our country some service."

The French officers assented; but waited, as if to hear something more, besides Christophe's declaration, for his own part, of agreement in what L'Ouverture had said.

Sabes at length spoke, not without another cautionary sign from his companion.

"Your generous frankness, General Toussaint," said he, "induces me to remind you of one more duty which, in case of the desired pacification, you will owe to the Captain-General. You will hold yourself indebted to France for all such treasure as, in an hour of alarm, you may have chosen to conceal."

"What does this mean?" said Toussaint. "General Christophe, do you know of any public treasure being concealed in any part of the island?"

"None," said Christophe, "public or private."

"Nor do I. You hear, gentlemen."

"You forget, General Toussaint, what we heard on the occasion of our capture."

"You forget your own words to us," said Lieutenant Martin—"that we had seen and heard too much for you to let us go."

"I remember my words perfectly; and that they referred to my choice of a post in the mornes, and a retreat for my family—affairs long since made public enough. What else do you suppose you saw and heard? If I spoke of depositing my treasures in the mornes, I was doubtless speaking of my household. Did you understand me to mean gold and silver? What was it that you suppose you saw and heard?"

"We saw new-made graves, and the tools that dug them, after having heard shots."

"You are welcome to dig upon the Plateaux, and to take whatever treasure you may find. You will find only the bones of the brave who fell in attacking and defending the post."

"And of those who, being there, can tell no tales. You forget that we heard their death-shots before we saw their graves. The time is come for you to tell the secret that you buried with them."

Christophe rarely laughed; but he laughed now.

"They believe," said he—"apparently they believe—that you hid treasure in the morne, and then shot and buried the servants employed."

"We do," said the officers, gravely.

"Were you really about to carry this story to the Captain-general?" asked Toussaint, smiling. "Tell him that the wealth of the colony, sufficient for the desires of its inhabitants, is dispersed through all its dwellings, to be enjoyed—not hidden by avarice, and sealed with blood."

"We are too well informed," said Sabes, "concerning the wealth and splendour of the colony to believe that any part of its treasure has met our eyes that can be concealed. Duty to France now requires that she should be put in possession of the whole wealth of the island."

"Let France cultivate an honourable peace," said Toussaint, "and her authorities will assuredly see the wealth of the colony spread over all its fields, and amassed in every harbour. We can then present an overflowing public treasury. That is all I have to offer: and it ought to be enough."

Sabes did not press the point further, because he saw it would be useless. But he and his companion were more and more persuaded of the truth of their notion of what they had seen and heard, the more they recalled the tales told at the Court of France of the plate, the gems, the bullion and coin, and the personal ornaments which abounded, even in the prosperous days of the old emigrants. Every one knew, too, that the colony had been more prosperous than ever since. It is not known by whom the amount of the hidden treasure was, at length, fixed at thirty-two millions of francs. Sabes and Martin simply told their story and their ideas to Leclerc, adding the information that Toussaint L'Ouverture was an adept in dissimulation; that they had as nearly as possible been deprived of this piece of insight, by the apparent frankness and candour of his manners; and that, but for the boldness of Sabes in pressing the affair of the buried treasure, they should actually have quitted the negro chief, after an occasional intercourse of nine weeks, without any knowledge of that power of dissimulation which had been formerly attributed to him by those who, it now appeared, knew him well, and which must be the guiding fact in all the Captain-General's dealings with him. His cunning must be met by all the cunning that Leclerc's united council could muster, or destruction would lurk under the pretended pacification. Accordingly, the whole of Leclerc's policy henceforth proceeded on the supposed fact of Toussaint L'Ouverture being the prince of dissemblers.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

RECEDING.

Leclerc was eager to receive proposals of peace,—to owe a respite to dissimulation itself, rather than continue the war, under his present difficulties. It was weary work, keeping up a show before the eyes of the blacks, when, of the twelve thousand soldiers whom he had brought with him, five thousand had fallen in battle, and five thousand more were in the hospitals. Twenty thousand had arrived within a few weeks, from France; and, of these, scarcely eleven thousand remained fit for service. Happy indeed was Leclerc to receive replies to his overtures of peace; and anxious was he to testify every respect to the generals whom he had lately insulted and defied. He revoked their outlawry, commending them to the esteem and good offices of those to whom he had desired to deliver them as traitors. It is true, he transmitted to France magnificent accounts of the surrender of the blacks, of their abject supplications for their lives, and of the skill and prowess by which he had subdued the rebels, and restored the colony to France. But these boastings were not known in Saint Domingo; though the true state of the case was whispered in Paris, as regarded the mortality among the white troops, and the formidable influence still retained by the negro leaders.

Leclerc invited Toussaint to visit him at Cap; as well aware, doubtless, as Toussaint himself, that this open indication of amity was necessary to protect the army from the ill-will of the blacks, who would not believe, on any other authority than L'Ouverture's own, that he had made peace with the invaders.

It was a mournful, though showy demonstration, and all parties were glad when it was over. As L'Ouverture rode from Le Dondon to Cap Francais, followed by a guard of three hundred and fifty horse, he was greeted by the inhabitants with the profoundest respect. Only in by-places, or from the depths of some wood, did a few voices sing, in negro language, the new song which was spreading over the island in praise of August,— exhorting to patience and peace till August. As he entered the town of Cap, the thunder of artillery reverberated from the heights around. Every fort along the coast, every vessel in the roads, fired its salute; and the inhabitants of every colour issued from their houses, to pay honour to their adored L'Ouverture.

Leclerc stood ready to receive him, and to administer to him the oath of allegiance in the hall of Government-House, the doors of which stood wide, and were carefully kept so by Toussaint's own guard, who would not, for a moment, let their commander be hidden from their sight. They formed in the Walk, and in the court of Government-House, remaining in fighting order, with drawn sabres, during the whole of the interview between the late and the present Commander-in-chief.

With an unaltered countenance, Toussaint took once more the oath of allegiance to France;—the oath which it had never been his desire to break. He smiled when he heard this simple act proclaimed by another roar of artillery, such as might have greeted a victory. Leclerc frowned; for it was not followed, as he had hoped, by acclamations. The echoes died away into deep silence.

It was an awkward moment. Leclerc hoped that Toussaint would lead the conversation. But Toussaint was deep in thought. Gazing on the anxious and sickly face of the Captain-General, he was grieving at heart that he, and so many thousands more who might have lived long and useful lives at home, should be laid low, in the course of a bad enterprise against the liberties of the natives. The mournful gaze of his mild eyes confused the Captain-General, so that he said the first thing that occurred, in order to break the silence. He observed that he understood there was some business yet standing over for settlement between the parties who had so happily met at last. He had no doubt that General Toussaint would see clearly that in his allegiance to France was involved the duty of accounting to the government for the wealth of the island, whether open to estimate or concealed in the mornes, or elsewhere.

"I have heard something of this before," said Toussaint, "and are as ignorant as yourself of any buried treasure. In this island, Nature is so perpetually bountiful, that we have not the temptation which we are told exists elsewhere, to amass wealth against a time of dearth. I have no treasure."

"If so, how could you have proposed to remain out of the bounds of the law, as you did till lately? Nature is not bountiful on the mountain-peaks, which must then have been your abode. At least, Nature does not there bring forth arms and ammunition. Without treasure, with which to purchase supplies, how would you have obtained arms and ammunition?"

"I should have taken yours."

Leclerc saw that even his own followers were more disposed to applaud than resent these words; and he, therefore, changed the topic.

"It is fortunate, then, for all parties," said he, "that future struggles are avoided. We are friends. Let it go abroad through the whole island that we are friends."

Toussaint made no reply. Leclerc continued—

"You, General, and your troops, will be employed and treated like the rest of my army. With regard to yourself, you desire repose."—Looking round, he repeated the words emphatically. "You desire repose: and you deserve it. After a man has sustained for several years the government of Saint Domingo, I apprehend he needs repose. I leave you at liberty to retire to which of your estates you please. I rely so much on the attachment you bear the colony of Saint Domingo, as to believe you will employ what moments of leisure you may have during your retreat, in communicating to me your ideas respecting the means proper to be taken to cause agriculture and commerce again to flourish. Respecting your forces, and those of General Christophe, I hold full information. As soon as a list and statement of the troops under General Dessalines are transmitted to me, I will communicate my instructions as to the positions they are to take."

"I will send a messenger from my guard to General Dessalines, this day," said Toussaint. "I shall be passing near his post, on my way to my house at Pongaudin; and he shall have your message."

"This day?" said Leclerc, in a tone of some constraint. "Will you not spend this day with us?"

"I cannot," replied Toussaint. "I must be gone to my home."

As soon as it was believed that he was fairly out of hearing, the acts of the morning were proclaimed throughout Cap Francais as the pardon of Generals Toussaint and Christophe. This proclamation was afterwards published, by Leclerc's orders, in the Gazette du Cap, where it was read by Toussaint in his study at Pongaudin.

"See!" said he, pointing out the paragraph to Pascal, with a smile. "This is the way of men with each other. See the complacency with which one man pardons another for the most necessary, or the best deed of his life!"

During a halt on the road to Pongaudin, Isaac and Aimee appeared. Aimee was tearful, but her face was happy. So were her words.

"Oh, father!" she said, "who could have hoped, after what has happened, that all would so soon be well!"

"I am rejoiced to see you happy, my children."

"And you, father, you are happy? Honoured as you are—the colony at peace—all parties friends—no more divisions—no more struggles in families! Father, answer me. Is it not all well?"

"No, my child."

"Are you unhappy, father?"

"Yes, my child."

"I am quite disappointed, quite grieved," said Aimee, drawing back from his arms, to look in his face.

"Vincent gave us a glorious account on Tortuga," said Isaac, "of the welcome you had at Cap. We thought—"

"I did not see Vincent at Cap."

"He was not there; but he knew all—"

"But, father," said Aimee, "you will see General Vincent. You will see him at Pongaudin. Now that you have done as he did—now that you are friends with the French, as he is, you will see him, father?"

"I have never done as Vincent did, Aimee; and my friendship with the French is what it ever was. If Vincent comes as your husband, I will see him as such. As a friend, I cannot. Is he your husband, my love?"

"No!"

"He is to be your husband?"

"If you would see him. If he were your friend. He urges me, father; and Madame Leclerc and Isaac urge me; but I cannot marry him yet. Father, you do not know how much my heart is with you and my mother."

"Are you happy, Aimee?"

"Madame Leclerc is very kind; and Vincent's love is everything that ought to make me happy, but—"

"Will you go home with me, my child?"

"How glad I should be, if only you loved Vincent!"

"I cannot, Aimee. Would that I could!"

"Then, when I have married him, you will see him as my husband? I cannot marry till my heart is more at ease—till I see everybody as friendly as Vincent said they were. But when we are married we will come to Pongaudin. May we?"

"Come, my dear, when you will. Your parents' home and hearts will always be open to you. Meantime, write often to us, Aimee."

"Oh, yes! I will. I will write very often; and you will answer. I have heard perpetually of my mother, and of poor Genifrede. But where is Placide? I thought we should have met him. Was not he at Cap?"

"At Cap! No, indeed! He was too heart-broken to be at Cap to-day."

"I wish I could understand it all!" said Aimee, sadly. "I am sure there are many things that I do not know or comprehend. I thought all had been right now; and yet you and Placide are unhappy. I cannot understand it all."

"Time will explain, my child. There will come a day when all doubts will be cleared up, and all woes at an end—when the wicked will cease from troubling, love, and the weary be at rest."

"Must you be going, father, already? Oh! I wish—"

And she looked at Isaac, as if purposing to go to Pongaudin. Isaac, had, however, promised Madame Leclerc to return by an appointed hour. There could be no difficulty, he said, in going to Pongaudin any day: but to-day he had promised that they would both return to Madame Leclerc. Aimee, therefore, bade her father farewell for the present— only for a very little while. He must tell her mother that they should certainly meet very soon.

In the piazza, at Pongaudin, Toussaint found Christophe.

"I wish," said Christophe, "you would send to Dessalines not only the Captain-General's message, but your own request that he will yield."

"I cannot, Henri."

"But he may spoil all by holding out."

"I have done what I can in yielding myself. I can do no more."

"You approve our act? Surely you do not repent of what you have done?"

"I cannot repent of what I could not avoid. But enough of business for to-day, my friend. Where is Madame Christophe? Where are your children? Bring them here; and let us enjoy leisure and friendship once more, while we can."

"We will. But, Toussaint, if you could only say that you are satisfied that we have done what is best, it would relieve me much."

"I cannot, Henri. But, be assured, I fully acquiesce. One has not always the comfort of being able to acquiesce."

"Can you say, then, that you forgive me, in as far as you think me wrong?"

"Can you doubt it?" replied Toussaint, turning upon him a countenance full of frank affection. "Are you not a friend of many years?"

"God forgive me if I have misled you, Toussaint!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

SUSPENSE.

Nature wrought with the blacks this season for the fulfilment of their hopes, and the defence of their precarious liberties. Never, within the remembrance of the young people at Pongaudin, had the heat set in so early, and the month of May been so sickly in the towns. To the eyes of such as Genifrede, who were ever on the watch for signs, it might almost seem that they saw Pestilence floating, on her poison-dropping wings, beneath the clouds which sailed from all quarters of the sky to the mountain-peaks; clouds muttering in thunder, and startling the intruders with terrific lightnings, from night-to-night. The reports of fever having broken out here and there among the invaders became more and more frequent. At first, those who were watching the times the most intently concluded that, early as the season was, "the wish" must be "father to the thought," and believed little of what they heard. But before Toussaint had been ten days at Pongaudin, it was certain that disease was raging to such an extent among the French troops at Cap, that the Captain-General had retired to Tortuga, to join his lady, and others of the expedition who were the most carefully guarded. The garrison at Saint Marc was thinning, Therese sent word; and the country people conveyed to Pongaudin the news that funerals were becoming daily more frequent at Limbe, Le Dauphin, and other posts along the northern shore.

Not for this, however, was there any relaxation of the vigilance with which L'Ouverture was watched by the foe. His mode of life was simple, and open to the observation of any who chose to look on. He improved his gardens; he read much; he interested himself in Denis's studies; he rode out daily, and conversed everywhere with the people by the wayside. He wrote many letters, sometimes with his own hand, and sometimes employing that of his friend, Monsieur Pascal, who, with his wife, resided with the Ouvertures. Toussaint also received many letters, and a perpetual succession of visitors—of applicants about matters of business, as it seemed. The only mystery was, how all his despatches were sent to their destination. This was a mystery which grew out of the French practice of intercepting his correspondence. Accidents had happened to so many of his letters during the first week, that he presently learned the necessity of some plan for securing the privacy of his correspondence: and some plan he did devise, which quite succeeded; as appeared from the French General having recourse to a new mode of surveillance—that of setting spies on the person and movements of the black chief.

Toussaint's family were alarmed at finding his steps tracked, and his repose watched. They heard incessantly of his path being crossed in his rides; and they knew that many of the trifling messages which were brought, at all hours of the day and night, to be delivered into L'Ouverture's own ear, were mere devices to learn whether he was at home. They saw that their grounds were never private; and felt that eyes watched them from the outer darkness when their saloon was lighted for their evening employments and amusements. Toussaint smiled at the alarms of his family, admitting the fact of this incessant espionnage, but asking what harm it did, and pointing out that it was only an inconvenience of a few weeks' duration. He would not hear of any strengthening of his guard. To increase his guard would be to encourage and authorise the suspicions which he was now daily weakening. He had nothing to conceal; and the sooner the invaders satisfied themselves of this, the better for all parties.

In answer to Madame L'Ouverture's frequent speculations as to what Leclerc could fix his suspicions on, Toussaint said he was probably supposed to be in communication with Dessalines. He thought so from his never approaching the mornes, in his rides, without finding French soldiers overlooking his proceedings from every point of the hills. He was not in communication with Dessalines. He did not know, and he wished not to know even where he was—whether with the Bellairs, or training his soldiers elsewhere for further warfare. Dessalines had never submitted; and while this was the case, it was obviously prudent for those who had made terms to know nothing of any plans of his to which they might wish success. Therese would not compromise the Ouvertures by living with them, in the present state of affairs. She remained quietly on her husband's estate, near Saint Marc, only corresponding frequently with her friends at Pongaudin, in letters which all the world might see.

The chief subject of this correspondence was the fever-hospitals preparing at Saint Marc, as at all the other towns on the coast, for the reception of the sick whites. Whatever might be Therese's feelings towards the whites, her compassion towards sick persons of every colour was stronger. Her gentle nature asserted itself whenever weakness and suffering appealed to it; and this season she began to inspire that affection in her neighbours—to establish that character for devoted charity, which afterwards made her the idol of the people. If her husband had been with her, he would probably have forbidden her to save the lives of any of that race whom he desired to exterminate. But though she could perhaps have taken away life, with her own hand, on the battlefield, with the cry of liberty in her ear, she could form no compact with such an ally as pestilence. In the season of truce and retreat, in the absence of the sounds and sights of conflict, she became all the woman—the gentle spirit—to whom the colony from this time looked up, as sent to temper her husband's ferocity, and wisely to direct his strengthening passions. She who was so soon after "the Good Empress," was now the Sister of Charity, actually forgetting former wrongs in present compassion for the helpless; and ministering to the sick without thought whether, on recovery, they would be friends or foes. It was matter of speculation to many besides the Ouvertures, whether the invaders omitted the opportunity of making a hostage of her, because their sick needed her services, or because they were grateful for her offices, or because they knew Dessalines well enough to be aware that, so far from such an act bringing him to submission, it would exasperate his ferocity, and draw down new sufferings and danger upon the discouraged whites.

One evening, the household of the Ouvertures were where it was now their wont to be at sunset—under the trees, on a grassy slope of the gardens, fronting the west. There they usually sat at this hour, to see the sun sink into the ocean; the darkness following almost as quickly as if that great fire were indeed quenched in the waters. On this occasion, the sun was still half-an-hour above the horizon, when Madame Dessalines appeared, in her riding-dress, and, as she said, in haste. She spoke apart with Madame L'Ouverture and Toussaint; and presently called Genifrede to the conference.

Therese had of late wanted help at Saint Marc—help in directing the nursing of the sick. Now she must have it. Monsieur Papalier was ill— very ill. The people of the house where he lived insisted upon sending him into the hospital this very night, if good attendance were not provided for him; and now—

Therese did not yet seem quite clear why this event had determined the moment of her application for Genifrede's assistance. She was agitated. She could only say that Genifrede had nursed Dessalines well; and she must have her help again now.

"You will go, Genifrede," said her father; "that Madame Dessalines may be at liberty to nurse Monsieur Papalier herself."

"No, no," said Therese, trembling. Genifrede also said "No."

"You would not have me nurse him?" said Therese. "Any one else! Ask me to save Rochambeau. Send me to Tortuga, to raise Leclerc from the brink of the grave; but do not expect me to be his nurse again."

"I do hope it from you. I expect it of you, when you have considered the tenfold mercy of nursing him with your own hands. Think of the opportunity you will give him of retrieving wrongs, if he lives, and of easing his soul, if he dies. How many of us would desire, above all things, to have those whom we have injured beside our dying pillow, to make friends of them at last? Let Monsieur Papalier die grateful to you, if he must die; and give him a new heart towards you, if he survives."

"It was not this that I intended," said Therese. "Genifrede will do everything, under my care. You shall have my help, Genifrede."

"No," said Genifrede. "Do not play the tempter with me. Find some one else. You will have much to answer for, if you make me go."

"What temptation, Genifrede?" asked her mother.

"Do not press her," said Toussaint, who read his child's mind. "You shall not be urged, Genifrede."

"You do not know—I myself do not know," said Genifrede, hurriedly, to Madame Dessalines, "what might happen—what I might be tempted to do. You know—you have read what some nurses did in the plague at Milan—in the plague in London—in the night—with wet cloths—"

"Do not speak of it. Stay here, Genifrede. I can do without you."

"If," continued Genifrede, "they could do that for money—if the tempter moved their hands to that deed with whispers of money, with the sight of mere rings and watches, what might not a wretched creature do, at such a time, with revenge muttering for ever in her heart! My ear is weary of it here; and there—I cannot go."

"No, you cannot," said Therese.

"Christ strengthen you, my child," said Toussaint, "as Therese is strengthening! She can already serve those whom she and you once hated alike: and she is about to save her foe of foes."

"No, you will not save Monsieur Papalier," said Genifrede.

"L'Ouverture is a prophet, as all men are in proportion as they are Christians," said Therese. "If he says I shall save my enemy, I believe I shall."

"You will, at least, try. If you are going, go;—the sun is setting," said Toussaint. "What escort have you?"

"Old Dessalines and another, I want no more."

"Old Dessalines!" said Toussaint, smiling; "then he must have wine. I must see him."

"He is here," said Therese, calling him.

The old man was, indeed, lingering near, preferring the chance of a word from L'Ouverture even to supper and wine within. He was ready enough to tell his story:—that he lived as butler at General Dessalines'; and, that though master and servant had changed places, he liked the new times better than the old. He was treated with more respect now, by everybody, than when he was a negro tradesman, even though he then had a slave of his own. The place of butler suited him too. General Dessalines and his lady drank only water; and they left him to manage the wine-cellar just as he liked; except at the present time, when a dreadful quantity of wine was wanted for the convalescents. It frightened him to think how soon the cellar might be emptied, if they went on at this rate. Old Dessalines was glad he had come to Pongaudin to-day. He had not only seen L'Ouverture, but had heard from L'Ouverture's own lips that General Dessalines' cellars should never be quite empty while there was wine at Pongaudin.

When Toussaint resumed his seat under the tree, where the Pascals, Euphrosyne, Placide, and Denis remained (the rest having gone into the house with Therese), he found Denis discussing with Monsieur Pascal the principle and policy of nursing the sick who were hereafter to be mown down on the battlefield. Denis had been reminded that this was a time of peace, and that he was not authorised to anticipate more battlefields: and his reply had shown that he had no faith in this peace, but looked forward, like others of his colour, to August and its consequences. He was not contradicted here; and he went on to ask whether the Crusaders (his favourite warriors) nursed the wounded and sick heathens whom they found on their road, and in the cities they took.

"They were no Christians if they did not," said Euphrosyne.

"It was a savage age," observed Placide.

"Still they were the representatives of the Christianity of their day," said Afra; "and Christianity requires us to do good to those who use us ill."

"The Crusaders," said Toussaint, "lived in the early days of that Christianity which is to endure as long as the race of man. Like others, they did their part in acting out one of its principles. That one was not love of enemies,—which yet remains for us."

"I agree with you," said Pascal. "There are many ways of warring for the Cross. Theirs was one; ours is another."

"You always speak as if you were a black, Monsieur Pascal," said Denis.

"I would fain be a negro in heart and temper, Denis, if what your father thinks of the vocation of negroes be true."

"But about those ways of warring for the Cross!" inquired Afra.

"I mean, and L'Ouverture, I think, means," said Pascal, "that nothing can immediately alter the nature of men; that the glorious Gospel itself is made to change the face of the world gradually; all the more surely, because slowly and naturally. This seed of life was cast upon the flood of human passions, and the harvest must not be looked for till after many days. Meantime it sprouts out, now here, now there, proving that it is alive and growing; but the harvest is not yet."

"We find one trace of the Gospel here, and another there," said Toussaint; "but a Christian nation, or race, or class of people, who has seen?"

"Not in the earliest days?" asked Euphrosyne. "Were not the first confessors and martyrs a Christian class?"

"They were so according to their intention, to their own idea," said Toussaint. "They were votaries of the one Christian principle most needed in their time. The noble men, the courageous women, who stood, calm and resolved, in the midst of the amphitheatre, with the heathen altar behind them, the hungry tiger before them, and a careless or scoffing multitude ranged all around—these were strong witnesses to the great principle of Faith—noble proofs of the power of living and dying for things unseen. This was their function. It was for others to show forth the humility and modesty in which, as a class, they failed."

"The anchorites," said Pascal, "each in his cave, solitary, abstemious, showed forth in its strength the principle of Devotion, leaving Charity unthought of."

"And then the nun," said Toussaint—

"What possible grace of religion did the nun exhibit?" asked Euphrosyne.

"The original nun, Euphrosyne, was inspired with the reverence of Purity. In an age of licence, those who were devoted to spiritual things were the salt of the earth. But in their worship of purity they outraged human love."

"The friar," said Pascal, "was a perpetual emblem of Unworldliness. He forced upon the admiration of a self-seeking world the peace of poverty, the repose of soul which is troubled with no thought for the morrow. But for other teachers, however, industry would have been despised—the great law of toil would have remained unrecognised."

"The Crusaders worked hard enough," said Denis. "Thousands and thousands of them died of their toils, besides the slain."

"They were the apostles of Zeal," said Monsieur Pascal. "For the honour of the Gospel they suffered and died. They overlooked all that it teaches of toleration and universal love;—of peace on earth and good-will to men."

"None of these Christians," said Afra, "appear to have had much concern for men. They seemed to have lived for God and the faith, without love or care for those for whose sake God gave the faith."

"Just so," said her husband. "That part of our religion had not yet come into action. The first step taken towards this action was one which united with it the former devotion to God. The organisation of the great Church of Christ united, in the intentions of those who formed it, care for the glory of God and the salvation of men. It was a great step."

"But still," said Euphrosyne, "there was not the Charity, the living for the good of men, soul and body, which was what Christ taught and practised."

"That, Euphrosyne, was a later fruit; but it is ripening now. We have more Sisters of Charity than contemplative nuns, at this time. There are hospitals in every Christian land for the sick and the aged. It is remembered now, too, that Christ had compassion on the blind, and the deaf, and the insane: and charity to these is now the Christianity of a multitude."

"And what is their defect?" asked Denis. "What essential do they overlook, as the anchorite and the crusader overlooked this same charity?"

"It may be liberality—regard to the Christian liberty of others;—it may be—"

"Let us not look too closely into their failures," said Toussaint. "Let us not judge our brethren. These are too near our own time for us to be just judges. We see their charity—the brightest light yet in the constellation of Christian principles; let us be thankful that our eyes have seen it. It is brightening too; so that day telleth to-day of its increase, and night is witness of it unto night. It is now not only the sick and infirm in body that are cared for; but I am told there has been a man in England who has taken such pity on those who are sick and deformed in soul as to have explored the most loathsome of European prisons in their behalf. There has been a Briton who pitied the guilty above all other sufferers, and devoted to them his time, his fortune, his all. He will have followers, till Christendom itself follows him; and he will thus have carried forward the Gospel one step. The charity which grieves more for the deformity of the soul than the evils of the body is so far higher a charity, that it may almost be called a new principle."

"What remains?" asked Euphrosyne.

"Do you see anything further to be done, father?" inquired Denis.

With a mournful smile, Toussaint replied that mankind had advanced but a little way yet. The world was very far from being Christianised.

"In practice," said Euphrosyne. "But, supposing us all to fulfil what has been exemplified from the earliest days till now, do you suppose that many principles remain to be acted upon?"

"No doubt. If I saw none, I should believe, from all experience, that revelations (or rather verifications of what Christ revealed) will succeed each other as long as men exist. But, from the beginning till now, individuals here and there have lived by the principles which classes and nations have overlooked. By a solitary ray shining here and there, we may foretell something of the new lights about to rise upon the world. There will be more privileged classes, Euphrosyne; and, Denis, these privileges are lying within our grasp."

"A new charity, father?"

"A new charity, my boy. To solace the sick and infirm is good. To tend the diseased soul is better. But there is a higher charity still."

"To do good to those who hate us," said Monsieur Pascal; "in doing good, to conquer not only our love of ease and our fear of pain, but our prejudices, our just resentments, our remembrance of injuries, our disgust at oppression, our contempt of pride—to forget or conquer all these through the love of men as men, is, indeed, a higher charity than any which classes have yet illustrated."

"The negroes are the race that will illustrate it," said Toussaint, with calm confidence. "The Gospel is for the whole world. It sprang up among the Jews; the white Gentiles hold it now; and the negroes are destined to fulfil their share. They are to illustrate its highest Charity. For tokens, mark their meek and kindly natures, the softness and the constancy of their affections, and (whenever tried) their placability. Thus prepared, liberty is about to be opened to them in a region of civilisation. When God has given them the strength of the free, it will exalt their meekness and their love into that highest charity of which we have spoken. I myself am old; and though I shall do what I can on this side the grave, I cannot see the great day, except in faith. But my children may witness at least its dawn."

"In those days, wars will cease," said Euphrosyne, recalling the thoughts she had revolved on the day of the death of Moyse: "there will be no bloodshed, no violence—no punishment of injuries to others, while your people forgive their own."

"So will it be, I trust," said Toussaint.

"Why not, then, begin now? Why not act upon your whole principle at once?"

"Because the nature of the negro has been maimed. He has been made selfish, cowardly, and indolent. He must be educated back into a fair condition; and this necessary education circumstances have imposed. We are compelled to the self-denial, toil, and danger of warfare, in order to obtain the liberty which is to carry us forward. I once hoped otherwise, Euphrosyne; but I now see the bracing process of defensive warfare to be inevitable, and, on the whole, good for my people. Their liberties, thus hardly won, will be prized, so as to shut out the future danger of war. If, however, one stroke is inflicted for other purposes than defence—if one life is taken for vengeance, we shall be set back, long and far, in our career. It shall not be, under my rule. Alas! for those who succeed me, if they permit it! It will not only make the first black empire a by-word throughout the world, but it will render the Christian civilisation of my people difficult and slow."

Toussaint spoke like a rider; and he was virtually still a sovereign, as he had been for years past. Nor were the tokens of sovereignty altogether wanting. At this moment, as was continually happening, despatches arrived, on affairs of great importance, on which he must think and act.

"See what these French commanders are doing," said he, handing his letters to Monsieur Pascal, "at the very moment that they disclaim all intention of enslaving the negroes! What are they doing yonder but recommencing slavery? It must not be. Are you disposed for business?"

"This moment," said Monsieur Pascal, springing up before he had finished the letters. "Will you provide a messenger? Slavery is restored; and there is not a moment to be lost."

As in old days, lights were ordered into the library; and the royal-souled negro dictated his commands to his friendly secretary, who smiled, at such an hour, at the thought of the exultation of the French court over the "surrender" and "submission" of the blacks.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

DEPARTURE WITHOUT RETINUE.

"Stand where you are, Therese; there, at the foot of the bed! Stir not an inch without my leave? I have let you have your own way too much of late. I call for hours, and you never come. I will not let you out of my sight again?"

So said Monsieur Papalier in the delirium of his fever, as Madame Dessalines was nursing him in his chamber at Saint Marc. It was a sad and dreary office; but she had motive to go through with it. The more he wandered back in his talk to the old days, the more strongly she felt herself called upon to use the present generously. The more imperious the tone of command with which he addressed her, the more easily could she pass over the error. There was a degree of pleasure in giving momentary case to him, while he could not recognise the hand that bestowed it. She dreaded, however, for the sake of both, an hour of sanity. If he slept for a short interval, she feared to hear him speak coherently on his waking; and the more because little or no chance of his recovery remained. The thought of his carrying forward into the hour of death the insolent temper of his life was terrible. She almost hoped that, if he were to die, it would be without having been aware that he and his nurse were no longer master and slave.

She was his sole nurse. There was no alternative between this and her not being with him at all. It was impossible to allow any servant, any stranger, to hear his talk of old times—to witness the mode in which he addressed her. Except the physician, no one but herself entered his chamber during his waking hours.

She now sat, as he desired, full in his view, at the foot of the bed, encouraging repose by her stillness, and gladly turning from the ghastly countenance of the dying man to the scene without—visible in all its splendour, as the room had a north aspect, and the window stood wide, to admit the breathing wind from the sea. The deep blue sea, under the heaven of a lighter blue, looked glorious from the shaded apartment. The rustle of the trees in the courtyard, and the fall of water there, spoke of coolness, and seemed to make themselves heard by the patient even in the midst of the fever-flames by which he was consumed, for he spoke of trees and fountains, and fancied himself at Arabie. He asked Therese to sing; and told her what to sing. She did not wish to refuse; she would have indulged him; but there was a choking in her throat which forbade it. Papalier was not long peremptory. From commanding, his voice sank to complaining; from complaining, to the muttering of troubled slumber; and, at length, into the silence of sleep.

Therese sat still, as before, looking out upon the sea, till its brightness, combined with the whispers of foliage and waters, made her eyes heavy, and disposed her to sleep too. Leaning back against the bed-post, she was dreaming that she was awake, when she heard her name so called that she awoke with a start. Papalier was himself again, and was demanding where he was, and what had been the matter. He felt the blister on his head; he complained of the soreness and stiffness of his mouth and tongue; he tried to raise himself, and could not; and, on the full discovery of his state, he wept like a child.

Gently, but not tenderly, did Therese endeavour to comfort him. He had irrecoverably forfeited her tenderness. Gentle, however, she was, as she told him that his state now, however painful, was better than an hour ago, when he was unconscious of it. Gentle was her hand, when she wrapped fresh, cool leaves round his burning head. Gentle was her voice, when she persuaded him to drink. Gentle was the expression of her eye, when she fixed its gaze upon his face, and by its influence caused him to check, like a child, the sobs that shook his frame.

"Therese," said he, "I am dying. I feel that I am dying. Oh! what must I do?"

"We must wait upon God's pleasure. Let us wait in quiet. Is there anything that can give you quiet of mind or body?"

Tears stole again from the heavy, closing eyes.

"We are all familiar with the end of our lives, almost from their beginning," said Therese. "There is nothing strange or surprising in it. The great thing is to throw off any burden—any anxiety—and then to be still. An easy mind is the great thing, whether recovery is at hand, or—"

"Do not talk of recovery. I shall not recover."

"Can I do anything—listen to anything—so as to give you case? Shall I call father Gabriel? You may find comfort in speaking to him."

"I want to speak to you first. I have not half done the business I came for: I have not half secured my estates for my daughters."

"I believe you have. I know that L'Ouverture fully intends—"

"What does it matter what L'Ouverture intends? I mean no contempt to him by saying so. He intends very well, I dare say; but in the scramble and confusion that are at hand, what chance will my poor orphan girls have for their rights?"

"Fear nothing for them. If there is to be a struggle, there is no doubt whatever as to how it will end. The French army will be expelled—"

"You do not say so! You cannot think so!"

"I am certain of it. But the white proprietors will be as safe in person and property, as welcome to L'Ouverture, as during the years of his full authority. You were not here to see it; but the white proprietors were very happy, perfectly satisfied, during those years (at least, all of them who were reasonable men). I can undertake for L'Ouverture that your daughters' income from their estates shall be sent to them at Paris, if you desire them to stay there; or the estates shall be sold for their benefit; or, if you will trust them to my care—"

"No, no! Impossible!"

"I am the wife of a general, and second to no woman in the island," said Therese, calmly. "I have power to protect your daughters; and, in an hour like this, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that I have the will."

"It cannot be, Therese. I do not doubt you—neither your word nor your will. But it is impossible, utterly."

"Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the dark race? Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race! Will you not do this?"

"You talk absurdly, Therese. Do not trouble me with nonsense now. You will undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters the estates I have left to them by will. That is, in case of the blacks getting the upper hand. If they are put down, my will secures everything. Happily, my will is in safe hands. Speak, Therese. You engage for what I have just said?"

"As far as warranted by my knowledge of L'Ouverture and his intentions, I do. If, through his death or adversity, this resource should fail, your daughters shall not suffer while my husband and I have property."

"Your husband! property! It is strange," muttered Papalier. "I believe you, however, I trust you, Therese; and I thank you, love."

Therese started at that old word—that old name. Recovering herself, she inquired—

"Have you more to ask of me? Is there any other service I can render you?"

"No, no. You have done too much for me—too much, considering the new order of affairs."

"I have something to ask of you. I require an answer to one question."

"You require!"

"I do. By the right of an outraged mother, I require to know who destroyed my child."

"Say nothing of that, Therese. You should know better than to bring such subjects before a dying man."

"Such subjects lie before the dead. Better to meet them prepared— atoned for, in as far as atonement is yet possible. For your own sake, and by my own right, I require to be told who destroyed my child?"

"I did not, Therese."

"You did not! Is it possible? Yet in this hour you could not deceive me. I have accused you of the deed, from that hour to this. Is it possible that I have wronged you?"

"I do not say that I disapproved of it—that I did not allow it. But I did not do it."

"Then you know who did it?"

"Of course I do."

"Who was it?"

"I swore long ago that I would not tell; and I never will. But you may lay the blame on me, my dear; for, as I told you, I permitted the deed. It was necessary. Our lives depended on it."

"May you not find your eternal death depend on it!" said Therese, agonised by suspicions as to whose hand it was by which her child had died. In a moment, she formed a resolve which she never broke—never again to seek to know that which Papalier now refused to tell. A glance at the countenance before her filled her with remorse the next instant, at what now seemed the cruel words she had just spoken.

"Let me bring Father Gabriel to you," said she. "He will give you whatever comfort God permits."

"Do not suppose I shall tell Father Gabriel what you want to discover," replied Papalier. "He has no business with more than my share of the affair: which is what you know already. I am too weak to talk—to Father Gabriel, or any one else."

"But you need comfort. You will rest better afterwards."

"Well, well; in the evening, perhaps. I must be quiet now. Comfort, indeed!" he muttered. "Yes, I want comfort enough, in the horrid condition I am in. But there is no comfort till one lies dead. I wish I were dead."

He fell into a restless doze. Moved by his misery and melted by the thought that she had wronged him, all these years, by harbouring the image of his hand on her infant's throat—distracted, too, by the new doubts that had arisen—Therese prayed and wept, wept and prayed, on behalf of Papalier and all sinners. Again and again she implored that these wretched hatreds, those miserable strifes, might be all hushed in the grave,—might be wholly dissolved in death.

She was just stealing to the door, intending to send for Father Gabriel, that he might be in readiness for the dying man's confession, when Papalier started, cast his eyes round the room hurriedly, and exclaimed—

"It is in vain to talk of attaching them. If one's eye is off them for one moment—Oh! you are there, Therese! I thought, after all I had done for you—after all I had spent upon you—I thought you would not go off with the rest. Don't go—Therese—Therese!"

"I am here," said she, perceiving that he no longer saw.

"I knew you would stay," he said, very faintly. "I cannot spare you, my dear."

The last words he said were—

"I cannot spare you—remember—Therese!"

To the pang of the thought that he had died unconfessed succeeded the question, more painful still—

"Could religious offices avail anything to a soul wholly unsanctified? Is there a promise that any power can put such a spirit into immediate congeniality with the temper of Heaven? Among the many mansions, is there one which would not be a prison to such?—to the proud one who must there feel himself poor and miserable, and blind and naked?"



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

JUNE.

Of the letters written by Toussaint and Pascal on the evening when news arrived of the imposition of compulsory labour on the negroes, some reached their destination; but one did not. That one was to L'Ouverture's aide, Fontaine, at Cap Francais. It contained the following:—

"It is said that General Leclerc is in a bad state of health at Tortuga. Of this you will inform me. If you see the Captain-General, be sure to tell him that the cultivators are no longer disposed to obey me, for the planters wish to set them to work at Hericourt; which they certainly ought not to do.

"I have to ask you whether any one near the person of the Captain-General can be gained to procure the release of D—, who would be very useful to me from his influence at La Nouvelle, and elsewhere.

"Acquaint Gingembre that he is not to quit the Borgne, where the cultivators must not be set to work."

This letter never reached Fontaine, but was, instead, made the subject of a consultation in the Captain-General's quarters. Amidst the boastings which he sent home, and by which France was amused, Leclerc felt that his thirty-five thousand soldiers had made no progress whatever in the real conquest of Saint Domingo. He was aware that France had less power there than before she had alienated L'Ouverture. He felt that Toussaint was still the sovereign that he had been for ten years past. He knew that a glance of the eye, a lifting of the hand, from Toussaint, wrought more than sheaves of ordinances from himself, and all the commendations and flatteries of the First Consul. Leclerc, and the officers in his confidence, could never take a morning ride, or give an evening party—they could never hear a negro singing, or amuse themselves with children, playing on the shore or in the woods, without being reminded that they were intruders, and that the native and abundant loyalty of the inhabitants was all for their L'Ouverture, now that France had put him in opposition to herself. Leclerc and his confidential advisers committed the error of attributing all this to Toussaint's personal qualities; and they drew the false inference (most acceptable to the First Consul) that if Toussaint were out of the way, all would be well for the purposes of France. Having never seriously regarded the blacks as free men and fellow-citizens, these Frenchmen omitted to perceive that a great part of their devotion to Toussaint was loyalty to their race. Proceeding on this mistake, Leclerc and his council, sanctioned by the First Consul, ruined their work, lost their object, and brought irretrievable disgrace upon their names—some of which are immortalised only by the infamy of the act which ensued.

From day-to-day, they endeavoured to entrap Toussaint; but he knew it, surrounded as he was by faithful and vigilant friends. Day by day he was warned of an ambush here, of spies there, or of an attempt meditated for such an hour. During a fortnight of incessant designs upon his person, he so baffled all attempts as to induce a sort of suspicion among the French soldiery that he was protected by magic.

It was an anxious season for his family. Their only comfort was that it would soon be over; that this, like all other evils connected with the invasion, was to last only "till August;" the familiar words which were the talisman of hope throughout the island. The household at Pongaudin counted the days till August; but it was yet only the beginning of June; and the season passed heavily away. On one occasion, a faithful servant of Toussaint's was brought in dead—shot from a thicket which his master was expected to pass. On another, the road home was believed to be beset; and all the messengers sent by the family to warn him of his danger were detained on some frivolous pretext; and the household were at length relieved by his appearing from the garden, having returned in a boat provided by some of his scouts. Now and then, some one mentioned retiring to the mountains; but Toussaint would not hear of it. He said it would be considered a breach of the treaty, and would forfeit all the advantages to be expected from a few weeks' patience. The French were, he knew, daily more enfeebled and distracted by sickness. Caution and patience, for two months more, would probably secure freedom without bloodshed. He had foreseen that the present perils would arise from the truce; and still believed that it had better not have been made. But, as he had agreed to it, the first breach should not be on his part.