"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.
If Toussaint owed his danger to Christophe, he owed him the protection by which he had thus far been preserved. Worn as he was by perpetual labour and anxiety, Henri seemed never to close his eyes in sleep during this anxious season. He felt to the full his responsibility, from the hour of the first discovery of French treachery towards his friend. By day, he was scouring the country in the direction of Toussaint's rides.
By night, he was patrolling round the estate. It seemed as if his eye pierced the deepest shades of the woods; as if his ear caught up whispers from the council-chamber in Tortuga. For Henri's sake, Toussaint ran no risks but such as duty absolutely required; for Henri's sake, he freely accepted these toils on his behalf. He knew it to be essential to Henri's future peace that his personal safety should be preserved through this season, and that Henri himself should be his chief guardian.
Henri himself did not ask him to give up his rides. It was necessary that his people should have almost daily proof that he was among them, safe and free. It was necessary that the French should discern no symptom of fear, of shrinking, of departure from the mode of life he had proposed on retiring to his estate. Almost daily, therefore, he rode; and exhilarating did he find the rapid exercise, the danger, and, above all, the knowledge he gained of the condition of his people, in fortunes and in mind, and the confidence with which they hailed him, the constancy with which they appealed to his authority, wherever he appeared.
This knowledge enabled him to keep up more than the show of co-operation with the French in matters which concerned the welfare of the people.
He pointed out gross abuses; and Leclerc hastened to remedy them.
Leclerc consulted him occasionally in local affairs, and had his best advice. This kind of correspondence, useful and innocent, could not have been carried on to equal purpose but for Toussaint's rides.
By such excursions he verified a cause of complaint, concerning which he had received applications at home. In dispersing his troops over the colony, Leclerc had taken care to quarter a very large proportion in the districts near Gonaives, so as to enclose the residence of Toussaint with the best of the French forces. The canton of Henneri was overcharged with these troops; so that the inhabitants were oppressed, and the soldiers themselves suffered from scarcity of food, and from the fever which raged in their crowded quarters. Having ascertained this to be the fact, Toussaint wrote to represent the case to Leclerc, and received a speedy and favourable reply. By Leclerc's command, General Brunet wrote that this was an affair which came within his department; that he was necessarily ignorant of the localities of Saint Domingo, and of their respective resources; and that he should be thankful for information and guidance from one who had a perfect knowledge of these circumstances. He proposed that General Toussaint should meet him in the centre of the canton of Henneri, and instruct him concerning the better distribution of the troops.
"See these whites!" said Toussaint, handing the letter to Monsieur Pascal. "Till they find they are wrong, they have no misgivings; they know everything; and they are obliged at last to come, and learn of old Toussaint."
"You will not meet General Brunet, as he proposes," said Monsieur Pascal. "You will not place yourself in the centre of the canton, among their troops?"
"No, no; you will not! You will not think of going!" cried Madame L'Ouverture.
"For once, Margot, you bear ill-will towards those who compliment your husband," said Toussaint, smiling. "But be easy; I shall not go to the canton of Henneri. If I walk into a pitfall, it shall not be after having seen it made. I must meet General Brunet, however. I shall invite him here with an escort of twenty soldiers; promising to limit my own guard to that number."
"He will not come," said Monsieur Pascal.
"I think he will; not because they trust me, for they know not what trust is; but because I could gain nothing by any injury to General Brunet and twenty soldiers that could compensate for a breach of the treaty."
"The gain, from capture or violence, would be all the other way, certainly," said Pascal, in a low voice.
"Henri will take care that General Brunet's is _bona fide_ an escort of twenty. There is reason for the meeting taking place here. Maps will be wanted, and other assistance which we might not remember to provide elsewhere. General Brunet must be my guest; and Madame L'Ouverture will make him admire our hospitality."
General Brunet immediately accepted the invitation, promising to present himself at Pongaudin on the tenth of June.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
A FEAT.
General Brunet brought with him no more than his allotted twenty soldiers, and a secretary. Christophe ascertained to his own satisfaction, and let the household know, that not another French soldier breathed within a circuit of some miles, when the evening closed in; so that the ladies threw off constraint and fear together as the two generals, with their secretaries, retired to the library, after coffee.
Placide had been with Christophe all day, and was the means by which the household had been assured of the tranquillity of the neighbourhood. He was of the patrol which was to watch the roads during the night. It seemed improbable, however, that, of all nights, that should be chosen for an assault when the Ouvertures must be particularly roused to observation, and when a French general was in their hands. Of all nights, this was probably the safest; yet Placide, glad, perhaps, of an excuse to keep out of the way of a guest from Paris, chose to mount guard with Christophe.
Denis was permitted to be in the library, as the business was not private, and, to one who knew the country as well as he did, very entertaining. For a time he found it so, while all the five were stooping over the maps, and his father was explaining the nature of the localities, and the interests of the inhabitants, and while words dropped from General Brunet which gave an insight into that object of Denis's strong curiosity--the French encampment on Tortuga. When all of this kind had been said, and the conversation turned upon points of military science or management, which he did not care about, Denis drew off to the window, and thence into the balcony, where he looked out upon the night--vainly, for it was cloudy, and there was yet no moon. The air was cool and pleasant, however, and he remained leaning over the balcony, revolving what he had heard, and picturing to himself the little court of Madame Leclerc--so near, and yet out of his reach.
While thus absorbed, it is probable that some distant voice of song instigated him to sing also. Like his race generally, Denis was almost always singing; always when alone and meditative. It is probable that some notes of the air sung by those who looked to August for freedom-- sung by the whole negro population--now caught his ear; for he began, hardly to sing, but to murmur this popular air. The words were not heard within; and it would not have mattered if they had been; for the words were in the negro language. But the air was, by this time, intelligible enough to the invaders. In the interest of conversation, nothing escaped the eye of Toussaint. He saw an exchange of glances between General Brunet and his secretary, and a half smile on the face of each which he did not like.
He thought it best to take no notice; but, far from leaving off, Denis sang louder as he sank deeper into reverie. Monsieur Pascal became aware of some embarrassment, and of its cause.
"Denis, you disturb us," he called out from the table.
They heard no more of Denis; and their business proceeded. Vexed, partly with himself, and partly at having been rebuked in General Brunet's hearing, he went round the house by the balcony, and thence to the upper gallery, which commanded the finest sea view in the day-time, and the freshest sea breezes at night. There, in a somewhat perverse mood, he sang for his own pleasure the air which he had been checked for singing unconsciously. He remained there a long while--he did not know how long--till the moon rose, when he remembered that it must be midnight. As no one had called him, he supposed that the party in the library were still in consultation.
As his eye rested on the bay, while he was considering whether he must not go in, he perceived something dark lying on the waters between the island and the shore. As he strained his sight, and as the waned moon rose higher, he discovered that it was a ship. It was strange. No ship ever had business there; though he had heard that there was a deep channel, and good anchorage in that little bay. It was very strange.
But something stranger still soon met his ear--sounds, first odd, then painful--horrible. There was some bustle below--on the beach, within the little gate--he thought even on the lawn. It was a scuffle; there was a stifled cry. He feared the guard were disarmed and gagged-- attacked on the side of the sea, where no one dreamed of an assault, and where there was no Christophe to help. Denis knew, however, how to reach Christophe. He did the right thing. Lest his purpose should be prevented if he entered the house, he clambered up the roof to its ridge, and swung the heavy alarm-bell. Its irregular clang banished sleep in a moment from a circuit of many miles. It not only startled the ladies of the family from their beds; but every fisherman rushed from his hut upon the shore. Christophe and Placide were galloping to Pongaudin almost before they had drawn a breath. Every beast stirred in its lair; and every bird rustled in its roost. Rapid, however, as was the spread of sound, it was too late to save L'Ouverture.
L'Ouverture himself had but a few moments of uncertainty to endure. In the midst of earnest conversation, suspicious sounds were heard. The two Frenchmen rushed to the door of the library, and Monsieur Pascal to the balcony. Monsieur Pascal re-entered in an instant, saying-- "The house is surrounded--the lawn is crowded. Make no resistance, and they may spare your life."
"Hark! The bell! There is hope," said Toussaint. "No resistance! but let us gain time."
The door was burst open, and with General Brunet entered a personage whom he introduced as Admiral Ferrari, followed by a file of grenadiers.
"What can be your errand at this hour?" asked Toussaint.
"I have orders from the Captain-General to arrest you," replied Admiral Ferrari. "Your guards are disarmed and bound. Our troops are everywhere. You are dead if you resist. Deliver up your sword!"
"I shall not resist such a force as you have thought it necessary to bring against me," replied Toussaint, handing his sword to the admiral.
"Am I to be a prisoner here, in my own house?"
"No, indeed! I have orders to convey you and your family to Cap Francais. No delay! To the boats this moment! You will find your family on board the frigate, or on the way to it."
"Do what you will with me; but Madame L'Ouverture is in weak health.
Suffer her and my children to remain at home."
"Lose no more time. General. March! or we must carry you."
Voices of lamentation and of passion were heard in the corridor, which quickened L'Ouverture's movements more than threats or insults could have done. He left the library, and found the ladies of the household in the corridor--Margot weeping and trembling, and Genifrede addressing Monsieur Coasson in a tone of high anger.
"You here! Monsieur Coasson!" said Toussaint; "and availing yourself once more of the weakness and woes of women, I perceive."
"I came as guide," replied Monsieur Coasson. "The admiral and his troops needed some one to show them the way; and, as you are aware, I was qualified to do so. I have always felt, too, that I had a sort of appointment to fulfil with this young lady. Her kind expressions towards the whites on my last visit might be considered a sort of invitation to come again--with such a train as you see," pointing to the stiff row of grenadiers who stood behind.
Genifrede groaned.
"Make yourself happy with your train," said Toussaint, as he seized the wretch by the collar, hurled him back among the grenadiers, and kicked him over as he lay, introducing great disorder into the formal arrangements of that dignified guard.
This would have been the last moment of Toussaint, if General Brunet had