The Hour and the Man Part 41

"How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for? He should have seen--"

"Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us so miserable. Let us go to your father. He will let us live at Saint Domingo in peace."

Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at Saint Domingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was, he could not live where there were whites.

"How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hedouville went away? He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next to himself, you saved the town--that many whites owed their lives and their fortunes to you."

"I repent," cried Moyse, bitterly, "I repent of my deeds of that day. I repent that any white ever owed me grat.i.tude. I thank G.o.d, I have shaken them off, like the dust from my feet! Thank G.o.d, the whites are all cursing me now!"

"What do you mean? How was it all?" cried Genifrede, fearfully.

"When Hedouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself, that I might gain you, as your father promised. This prospect, so near and so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces from white. For the hour, one pa.s.sion put the other out."

"And when--how soon did you begin to forget me?" asked Genifrede, sorrowfully.

"I have never forgotten you, love--not for an hour, in the church among the priests--in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as a prisoner. But I thought my point was gained when your father stooped from his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at home on hearing of my charge. I doubted no more that all was safe. Then I heard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbe-- acting as if Hedouville was still here to countenance them. I saw exultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap. The poor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, stared at me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if--"

"Was his grandchild with him? She was? Then he was laughing at some of her prattle. Nothing else made him even smile."

"It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function. I was growing more angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbe. I knew it was forced on by the whites. I knew the mischief was begun by Hedouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expected that I should draw the sword for them against our own people? Could I have done so, Genifrede?"

"Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword at all?"

"That was what I did. I went out to meet the insurgents; and the moment they saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returned to quietness, and to their homes. Not another blow was struck."

"And the murderers--what did you do with them?"

Moyse was silent for a moment, and then replied--

"Those may deal with them who desire to live side-by-side with whites.

As for me, I quarrel with none who avenge our centuries of wrong."

"Would to G.o.d my father had known that this was in your heart! You would not then have been a wretched prisoner here. Moyse, the moment you are free, let us fly to the mornes. I told you how it would be, if we parted. You will do as I wish henceforward; you will take me to the Mornes?"

"My love, where and how should we live there? In a cave of the rocks, or roosting in trees?"

"People do live there--not now, perhaps, under my father's government: but in the old days, runaways did live there."

"So you would inst.i.tute a new race of banditti, under your father's reign. How well it will sound in the First Consul's council-chamber, that the eldest daughter of the ambitious Commander-in-Chief is the first bandit's wife in the mornes!"

"Let them say what they will: we must have peace, Moyse. We have been wretched too long. Oh, if we could once be up there, hidden among the rocks, or sitting among the ferns in the highest of those valleys, with the very clouds between us and this weary world below--never to see a white face more! Then, at last, we could be at peace. Everywhere else we are beset with this enemy. They are in the streets, in the churches, on the plain. We meet them in the shade of the woods, and have to pa.s.s them basking on the sea-sh.o.r.e. There is no peace but high up in the mornes--too high for the wild beast, and the reptile, and the white man."

"The white man mounts as high as the eagle's nest, Genifrede. You will not be safe, even there, from the traveller or the philosopher, climbing to measure the mountain or observe the stars.--But while we are talking of the free and breezy heights--"

"You are a prisoner," said Genifrede, mournfully. "But soon, very soon, we can go. Why do you look so? You said there was no fear--that nothing serious could happen--nothing more than disgrace; and, for each other's sake, we can defy disgrace. Can we not, Moyse? Why do not you speak?"

"Disgrace, or death, or anything. Even death, Genifrede. Yes--I said what was not true. They will not let me out but to my death. Do not shudder so, my love: they shall not part us. They shall not rob me of everything. You did well to come, love. If they had detained you, and I had had to die with such a last thought as that you remained to be comforted, sooner or later, by another--to be made to forget me by a more prosperous lover--O G.o.d! I should have been mad!"

"You are mad, Moyse," cried Genifrede, shrinking from him in terror. "I do not believe a word you say. I love another!--they kill you! It is all false! I will not hear another word--I will go."

To go was, however, beyond her power. As she sank down again, trembling, Moyse said in the imperious tone which she both loved and feared--

"I am speaking the truth now. I shall be tried to-night before a court-martial, which will embody your father's opinion and will. They will find me a traitor, and doom me to death upon the Place. I must die--but not on the Place--and you shall die with me. In one moment, we shall be beyond their power. You hear me, Genifrede? I know you hear me, though you do not speak. I can direct you to one, near at hand, who prepares the red water, and knows me well. I will give you an order for red water enough for us both. You will come--your father will not refuse our joint request--you will come to me as soon as the trial is over; and then, love, we will never be parted more."

Genifrede sat long with her face hidden on her lover's shoulder, speechless. After repeated entreaties that she would say one word, Moyse raised her up, and, looking in her face, said authoritatively--

"You will do as I say, Genifrede?"

"Moyse, I dare not. No, no, I dare not! If, when we are dead, you should be dead to me too! And how do we know? If, the very next moment, I should see only your dead body with my own--if you should be s.n.a.t.c.hed away somewhere, and I should be alone in some wide place--if I should be doomed to wander in some dreadful region, calling upon you for ever, and no answer! Oh, Moyse! we do not know what fearful things are beyond. I dare not; no, no, I dare not! Do not be angry with me, Moyse!"

"I thought you had been ready to live and die with me."

"And so I am--ready to live anywhere, anyhow--ready to die, if only we could be sure--Oh! if you could only tell me there is nothing beyond--"

"I have little doubt," said Moyse, "that death is really what it is to our eyes--an end of everything."

"Do you think so? If you could only a.s.sure me of that--But, if you were really quite certain of that, would you wish me to die too?"

"Wish it! You must--you shall," cried he, pa.s.sionately. "You are mine--mine for ever; and I will not let you go. Do not you see--do not you feel," he said, moderating his tone, "that you will die a slow death of anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Place strikes upon your ear? You cannot live without love--you know you cannot--and you shall not live by any other love than mine. This little sign," said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from his pocket-book, "This little sign will save you from the anguish of a thousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days of despair. Take it. If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in my name, you will receive what will suffice for us both. Take it, Genifrede."

She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.

"You do not care for me," said Moyse, bitterly. "You are like all women. You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everything for you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut out your lover into the storm."

Genifrede was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of his love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:--

"If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did you not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what for? If you had put it to my lips--if you had not given me a moment to fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it--oh, so thankfully! But now--I dare not."

"You are not afraid to live without me."

"Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying--of everything."

"You once asked me about--"

"I remember--about your spirit coming."

"Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?"

"Why did you not kill me? You know I should have been thankful. I wish the roof would fall and bury us now."

She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door. It was her father's servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived, and that L'Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend. The servant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only for another word.

"Remember," said Moyse, "they are not to seduce or force you back to Pongaudin to-day. Remember, you are not fit to travel. Remember," he again said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into her bosom, "you come to me as soon as the trial is over. I depend upon you."

He led her, pa.s.sive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand, saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, "For once, I cannot accompany you further. Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay my respects to her soon." He added, to the servant--

"See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L'Ouverture's orders, till I need his services myself."

The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission to discharge for a prisoner. Before he had closed the door, Genifrede was in the arms of Therese.