looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.
In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir, from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight walks met at this fountain--walks hedged in with fences of citron, geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell; and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur and the splash. Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of the tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.
"These young creatures!" thought she. "What a lot! They are to be parted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence of the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my heart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still. For this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! not forgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a woman cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart--tender to me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which would startle Moyse himself--hates them so that he does not even strive, as I do, to remember that they are human--to be ready to give them the cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him: while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us--among us who, God knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Genifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off--and further. God grant she may not have heard it!"
She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was no stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. From the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared not look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his solitude. Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat, and cover her eyes from the light. She was startled by the opening of the door from the corridor. It was L'Ouverture; and she rose, as every one habitually did, at his approach.
"Genifrede?" he said, anxiously, as he approached.
Therese pointed to the chamber, saying softly-- "She is there. I do not know what you will think of the means I have taken to procure her sleep. But she was so shaken--she so dreaded this night!"
"You have given her medicine. Is she asleep?"
"I gave her henbane, and she is asleep."
"Is there a chance of her sleeping till noon?"
"If she be not disturbed. I have carefully darkened the room. What, has been done?" she inquired, looking in his face. Struck with its expression, she exclaimed, "How you have suffered!"
"Yes. Life is bitter to those whom God has chosen. If Moyse did but know it, I almost envy him his rest."
"Is it over, then? is he dead?"
"He dies at sunrise. You think Genifrede may sleep till noon?"
Therese could not reply, and he proceeded-- "He is found guilty, and sentenced. There was no escape. His guilt is clear as noonday."
"No escape from the sentence," said Therese, eagerly. "But there is room for mercy yet. You hold the power of life and death over all the colony--a power like that of God, and put into your hand by Him."
"A power put into my hand by Him, and therefore to be justly used.
Moyse's crime is great, and mercy to him would be a crime in me. I have fault enough already to answer for in this business, and I dare not sin yet further."
"You yourself have sinned?" said Therese, with a gleam of hope in her countenance and tone.
"Yes. I ought to have discerned the weakness of this young man. I ought to have detected the passions that were working in him. I was misled by one great and prolonged effort of self-control in him. I appointed an unworthy officer to the care of the lives and safety of the whites. Many of them have gone to lay their deaths to my charge in heaven. All I can now do is, by one more death (would to God it were my own!) to save and to reassure those who are left. It is my retribution that Moyse must die. As for Paul, as for Genifrede--the sin of the brother is visited upon the brother--the sin of the father upon the child."
"But," said Therese, "you speak as if you had caused the innocent to be destroyed. Some few harmless ones may have died; but the greater number--those who were sought by the sword's point--were factious tyrants--enemies of your Government, and of your race--men who rashly brought their deaths upon themselves. They were passionate--they were stubborn--they were cruel."
"True--and therefore were they peculiarly under my charge. I have guaranteed the safety of the whites; and none need my protection so much as those who do not, by justice, obedience, and gentleness, by gaining the good-will of their neighbours, protect themselves."
"But Moyse did not murder any. He was not even present at any death."
"It has just been proved that, while he knew that slaughter was going on, he took no measures to stop it. The ground of his guilt is plain and clear. The law of the revolution of Saint Domingo, as conducted by me, is No retaliation. Every breach of this law by an officer of mine is treason; and every traitor to the whites must die."
"Alas! why so harsh now--only now? You have spared the guilty before, by tons, by hundreds. Why, now, cause all this misery for this one young life?"
"Those whom I have spared were my personal foes; and I spared them not so much for the sake of their separate lives, as for the sake of the great principles for which I live and govern--reconciliation and peace.
For this end I pardoned them. For this end I condemn Moyse."
"You make one tremble," said Therese, shuddering, "for one's very self.
What if I were to tell you that it is not Moyse and Genifrede alone that--" She stopped.
"That hate the whites? I know it," replied Toussaint. "I know that if God were to smite all among us who hate His children of another race, there would be mourning in some of the brightest dwellings of our land.
I thank God that no commission to smite such is given to me."
Therese was silent.
"My office is," said Toussaint, "to honour those (and they are to be found in cottages all through the island) who forgive their former oppressors, and forget their own wrongs. Here, as elsewhere, we may take our highest lesson from the lowliest men. My office is to honour such. As for the powerful, and those who think themselves wise--their secret feelings towards all men are between themselves and God."
"But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse's enmity towards the whites is mild and harmless--his passions moderation, compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ and cherish--would not this soften you--would it not hold your hand from inflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?"
"I leave it to no priest, Therese, but to God Himself, to vindicate His own justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before the eyes of men. He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishments too great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which the prison and the bullet are nothing. You speak of the tempest within the breast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years of imprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it. But no more of this! I only say, Therese, that while Jacques--" "Say me too!"
"While Jacques and you secretly hate, I have no concern with it, except in my secret heart. But if that hatred, be it more or less than that of this young man, should interfere with my duty to friend or foe, you see, from his fate, that I have no mercy to grant. Jacques is my friend: Moyse was to have been my son."
Neither could immediately speak. At length, Toussaint signed once more to the chamber-door, and once more said-- "Genifrede?"
"I have something to tell you--something to show you," replied Therese.
"Her sleep or stupor came upon her suddenly: but she kept a strong grasp upon the bosom of her dress. When I laid her on the bed, she kept her hands clasped one upon the other there. As she slept more heavily, the fingers relaxed; her hands fell, and I saw one end of this."
She produced a phial.
"Ha! the red water!" exclaimed Toussaint.
"I thought it was," said Therese.
"Who taught her this? Who has been tampering with her, and with her life?"
"Perhaps this may tell," said Therese, showing the ivory ring.
Toussaint closely examined the ring, and then drew his hand across his brows.
"How strange," said he, "are old thoughts, long forgotten! This bit of ivory makes me again a young man, and a slave. Do you remember that I once had the care of the sick at Breda, and administered medicines?"
Therese shuddered. She remembered that when her infant was taken ill, Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longer surgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledge and skill. Toussaint remembered nothing of this particular incident, and was not aware how he had touched her feelings. He went on: "I began that study as all of my race have begun it, till of late, in superstition. With what awe did I handle charms like this! Can it be possible that my poor child has been wrought upon by such jugglery?
What do you know about it?"
"No more than that the charm and the poison were hidden in her bosom."
"It is hard to trouble a dying man," said Toussaint, "but the survivor must be cared for. If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, he would have poisoned her body--But no--it is an atrocious thought. If I wrong him--if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell me what he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended. Father Laxabon is coming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more. I will go with him."
"How you suffer! How you must suffer!" said Therese, again speaking her thoughts, as she looked in his face.
"It is worse than going to my death," replied he; "but for my child's sake--for my poor brother's sake, too--it must be done."
He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room--he listened at the chamber-door--he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Therese well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying-- "Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying--or dead?"
"Indeed, I am not certain," exclaimed Therese, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.
"Here is no pain," whispered Therese. "She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself."
She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.
"No pain, thank God!" he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.
"Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?"
"Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son."
"And the other sufferers?"
"My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night."
"Are there more doomed?" asked Therese, faintly.
"There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example.
They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master--no retaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned!
Let us begone."
"One moment," exclaimed Therese, in agitation. "You have not told me when--where--" "He dies on the Place, at sunrise--a military, not an ignominious death.
Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Genifrede wakes.
Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now."
Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been assigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming-- "You have come at last! Oh, Genifrede! to have kept me waiting this last night--" He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.
"You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.
"I did--naturally."
"She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse."
"Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone--something of triumph in his countenance.
"Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man's face, "that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?"
"She has told, then. A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman's treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Genifrede loved me? And now, when put to the test--" "Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superstition--terrified her with spells and charms--" "You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only--" "And you wished it--you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost--and now you curse a woman's cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon.
Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Genifrede's."
"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Genifrede from me? She is mine."
"Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intent towards her." And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.
"Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together."
"Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours." And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.
"You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse. "How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"
"Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon. "Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes."
"A few minutes' patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his--he never was severe to me--but on account of a certain awe I felt of him--an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."
"It is well," said Toussaint. "There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment's darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse."
"I ask," said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, "how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"
"Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide.
If your father's heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for--But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy."
"Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Genifrede? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears--her fears of my ghost--to make her seek refuge with another?
Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?"
"Leave us!" said Laxabon to Toussaint. "He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks."
"Presently, father.--Moyse, what Genifrede hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be assured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory.
She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life.
When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman's love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Genifrede inquire concerning you."
"This is kind--this is generous," said Moyse, looking wistfully in his uncle's face.
"And now," said Toussaint, "I have to ask you to be generous to me. I need and implore your pardon, Moyse. While you were yet weak and wayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you. Too prone to ease and satisfaction, for my child's sake and my own, I too soon concluded you a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man. Your failure is my condemnation. I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you to throw away your life. All this, and much more, am I answerable for.
Whether or not God may have mercy, can you yield me your pardon? I implore it, Moyse."
Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle's feet, clinging to his knees, and crying-- "Save me! uncle, save me! You can--you will--" "No, Moyse, I will not--I cannot," declared Toussaint, in a voice which silenced even that most piercing of all sounds--the cry for life.
"Not one word!" continued L'Ouverture. "Keep your entreaties for Him who alone can help you. Kneel to Him alone. Rise, Moyse, and only say, if you can say it, that your last prayer for me shall be for pardon."
The awe of man was not destroyed in Moyse. He looked humbly upon the ground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said-- "My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout. But if you have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is by me! I know of no such wrong."
"Thank God!" cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast. "This is the temper which will win mercy."
"Leave us now," said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he was obeyed.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
ALL EAR.
Therese was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the bed on which lay Genifrede. The room was so darkened that nothing was to be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless, unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life were falling fast into ruins around her. It seemed treacherous, cruel, thus to beguile her of that tremendous night--to let those last hours of the only life she prized pass away unused--to deprive her of the last glances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death--of the latest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more. It seemed an irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and to substitute for them a blank and barren sleep. But it was done. It was done to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and she could not now be wakened to any purpose. With sickening heart, Therese saw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east. In a few minutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only the gleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life. Brief as was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of light appeared so hasty, so peremptory as now. By the rousing up of the birds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of the flowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretched children, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled. Therese resolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lest light and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused too soon.
As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher's nerves were so stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat, she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wing in the gardens, reached her ear. She heard at intervals the tap of a distant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms--not in a volley from the Place d'Armes, as she had expected, but further off, and mere dropping shot. This occurred so often, that she was satisfied it was not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knew whether to feel relieved or not. The door from the corridor presently opened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from her face. She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could give her news. Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end.
When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interrupted her, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.
"Tell me--only tell me," said she, "whether it is over."
"Not the principal execution--it is about going forward now. I came away--I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more."
"You saw L'Ouverture?" said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.
Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relieve his mind as she was eager to hear.
"I saw," said he, "what I never could have conceived of, and would never have believed upon report. I have seen man as a god among his fellow-men."
A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines' face, through its agony.
"It was too touching, too mournful to be endured," resumed Monsieur Pascal. "The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my dying hour. Never was man idolised like L'Ouverture. For him, men go willingly to their deaths--not in the excitement of a common danger; not for glory or for a bright future--but solitary, in ignominy, in the light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon them. Without protest, without supplication--as it appears, without objection--they stoop to death at his word."
"I do not know--I do not understand what has been done," said Therese.
"But does not every black know that L'Ouverture has no private interests--nothing at heart but the good of us all?"
"That is the spell," replied Pascal. "This sacrifice of his nephew will confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. These thirteen others--for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for dereliction of duty in the late rising--these thirteen are from the garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbe.
All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon the Place. L'Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He told them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to lead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection due to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the primary duty of a liberated race--that of keeping the peace. They knew their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knew that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L'Ouverture walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you, Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant death, there was passionate love in every face."
"I believe it," said Therese. "And he?"
"He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see. He is ten years older since last night. He spoke aloud the names of the most guilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him, and the committee, of investigation."
"And no one of the thirteen resisted?"
"Not one. One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humbly before him, and repaired where he pointed--to be shot. There was a spell upon me. I could not come away, though feeling at every moment as if I could endure no more. I did not, however, stay to see General Moyse brought out--" As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at a distance, followed by a volley of musketry.
"That is it," cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone. Therese sank back upon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head. She desired, in the sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.
She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened.
She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon's soft voice, saying-- "Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is Mademoiselle L'Ouverture?"
"She is asleep," said Therese, rousing herself--"asleep, if indeed she be not dead. If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpet of doom will scarcely reach her soul."
This last sound had roused Genifrede. She did not recognise it; she was not aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed it night, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with a confused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door to the salon. There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, and looking doubtful whether to advance or go back.
"My daughter--" said Father Laxabon. She came forward with a docile and wistful look. "My daughter," he continued, "I bring you some comfort."
"Comfort?" she repeated, doubtingly.
"Not now, Father," interposed Therese. "Spare her."
"Spare me?" repeated Genifrede in the same tone.
"I bring her comfort," said the father, turning reprovingly to Madame Dessalines. "His conflict is over, my daughter," he continued, advancing to Genifrede. "His last moments were composed; and as for his state of mind in confession--" He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot, and supported himself against the wall. Genifrede rushed back to the chamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Therese was there in an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it might be thought, no one could resist-- "Let me in, love! It is Therese. No one else shall come. If you love me, let me in."
There was no answer.
"You have killed her, I believe," she said to the priest, who was walking up and down in great disturbance--not with himself, but with the faithless creature of passion he had to deal with.
"The windows!" exclaimed Therese, vexed not to have thought of this before. She stepped out upon the balcony. One of the chamber-windows was open, and she entered. No one was there. Genifrede must have fled down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Therese hastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain, she saw the fluttering of her clothes.
"The reservoir!" thought Therese, in despair.
She was not mistaken. Genifrede stood on the brink of the deep and brimming reservoir--her hands were clasped above her head for the plunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistibly back. In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.
"They say," she screamed, "that every one worships you. Not true now!
Never true more! I hate--I curse--" He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering and muttering.
"That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should have interfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily, while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her, holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.
"This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lying under it!"
"Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.
"God forgive me!" he replied. "But we are all wretched."
"You repent, then?" said Genifrede. "Well you may! There are no more such, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it is too late now."
"I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."
"There are no more such," pursued she. "He was gallant."
"He was."
"He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."
"He was, my child."
"And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proud smile.
"He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."
"Such a soldier!" she dreamed on. "War was his sport, while I trembled at home. He had a soldier's heart."
Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had not appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to her feet.
"You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father. "With Madame Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."
"Home!" she exclaimed with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said, hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise. I wish you joy of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your paradise!"
She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Therese, who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father's care, now intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint, who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Having acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a life of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where, for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairs of the citizens of Cap. The steadiness of his attention to business was felt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wandering thoughts.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
PERCH OF THE RAVEN.
Euphrosyne's life in the convent was dull and weary. It would probably have been so anywhere, for some time after the old man's death: but elsewhere there would have been more to do and to amuse herself with.
Every one was kind to her--too kind. She had been accustomed to the voice of chiding during all the years that she had lived with her grandfather; and she did not mind it. It would now have been something of a relief, something welcome and familiar, to have been called "child" and "little fool" at times, instead of being told at every turn that she was an angel and a love, and finding that she was every one's pet, from the abbess to old Raphael.
The kindness of the household had begun from the moment the poor girl appeared, after having been consoled by Father Gabriel, and visited by Pierre, and the guardian to whose care her grandfather had confided her person and her property. Pierre had engaged to see her daily till the furniture should have been sold, and the house shut up, and he himself about to embark for France, with the savings of his long service. Her guardian, Monsieur Critois, knew but little of young people, and how to talk to them. He had assured her that he mourned extremely the loss of his old acquaintance--the acquaintance of so many years--and so lost.
He declared his desire of discharging his office of guardian so as to prove himself worthy of the trust, and his hope that he and his ward should be very good friends. At present, it was his wish that she should remain where she was; and he asked whether she did not find every one very kind to her. Euphrosyne could just say, "Yes;" but she was crying too much to be able to add, that she hoped she should not have to remain in the convent very long. Monsieur Critois saw that she was struggling to say something: but, after waiting a minute, he stroked her hair, promised to come again some day soon, hoped she would cheer up, had no doubt she would be very happy--and was gone, glad to have done with sobbing girls for this day.
When the gates had closed upon him, the petting began. The abbess decreed that Euphrosyne should have the sole charge of her mocking-bird.
Sister Angelique, who made the prettiest artificial flowers in the world, invited her to her apartment at all reasonable hours, when she might have a curiosity to see to learn the process. Sister Celestine had invented a new kind of comfit which she begged Euphrosyne to try, leaving a paper of sweetmeats on her table for that purpose. Old Raphael had gained leave to clear a parterre in the garden which was to be wholly hers, and where he would rear such flowers as she particularly admired. Father Gabriel himself, after pointing out to her the uncertainty of life, the sudden surprises of death, and the care with which it becomes social beings to discharge their duties to each other, since they know not how soon they may be parted--the serious Father Gabriel himself recommended her to amuse herself, and to remember how her grandfather had liked to see her gay. She had, no doubt, been a good girl on the whole; and she could not now do better than continue the conduct which had pleased the departed in the days that were gone.
Petted people generally prove perverse; and so, in the opinion of the universal household, did Euphrosyne. There could be no doubt of her love for her grandfather. One need but see the sudden tears that sprang, twenty times in a day, when any remembrance of him was awakened.
One need but watch her wistful looks cast up towards his balcony, whenever she was in the garden. Yet, when any one expressed indignation against his murderers, she was silent, or she ran away, or she protested against it. Such was the representation which sister Claire made to her reverend mother, on the first opportunity.
"I was not aware that it was exactly so," replied the abbess. "It appears to me that she dislikes to hear any parties made answerable for the murder but those by whose hands it was actually done. She--" The abbess stopped, and sister Claire started, at the sound of musketry.
"Another shot!" said the abbess. "It is a fearful execution. I should have been glad to have removed this poor child out of hearing of these