The Hour and the Man Part 66

"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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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."