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."