One radiant day of the succeeding spring, a party was seen in the plain
of Cul-de-Sac, moving with such a train as showed that one of the
principal families of the island was travelling. Rigaud and his forces
were so safely engaged in the south, that the plain was considered
secure from their incursions. Port-au-Prince, surrounded on three sides
by hills, was now becoming so hot, that such of its inhabitants as had
estates in the country were glad to retire to them, as soon as the roads
were declared safe; and among these were the family of the
Commander-in-Chief, who, with tutors, visitors, and attendants, formed
the group seen in the Cul-de-Sac this day. They were removing to their
estate of Pongaudin, on the shores of the bay of Gonaves, a little to
the north of the junction of the Artibonite with the sea; but instead of
travelling straight and fast, they intended to make a three days'
journey of what might have been accomplished in less than two--partly
for the sake of the pleasure of the excursion, and partly to introduce
their friends from Europe to some of the beauties of the most beautiful
island in the world.
Madame L'Ouverture had had presents of European carriages, in which she
did not object to take airings in the towns and their neighbourhood; but
nowhere else were the roads in a state to bear such heavy vehicles. In
the sandy bridle-paths they would have sunk half their depth; in the
green tracks they would have been caught in thickets of brambles and low
boughs; while many swamps occurred which could be crossed only by single
horses, accustomed to pick their way in uncertain ground. The ladies of
the colony, therefore, continued, as in all time past, to take their
journeys on horseback, each attended by some one--a servant, if there
were neither father, brother, nor lover--to hold the umbrella over her
during rain, or the more oppressive hours of sunshine.
The family of L'Ouverture had left the palace early, and were bound, for
an estate in the middle of the plain, where they intended to rest,
either till evening, or till the next morning, as inclination might
determine. As their train, first of horses, and then of mules, passed
along, now under avenues of lofty palms, which constituted a deep, moist
shade in the midst of the glare of the morning--now across fields of
sward, kept green by the wells which were made to overflow them; and now
through swamps where the fragrant flowering reeds reached up to the
flanks of the horses, and courted the hands of the riders, the
inhabitants of the region watched their progress, and gave them every
variety of kindly greeting. The mother who was sitting at work under
the tamarind-tree called her children down from its topmost branches to
do honour to the travellers. Many a half-naked negro in the
rice-grounds slipped from the wet plank on which, while gazing, he
forgot his footing, and laughed his welcome from out of the mud and
slime. The white planters who were taking their morning ride over their
estates, bent to the saddle-bow, the large straw hat in hand, and would
not cover their heads from the hot sun till the ladies had passed.
These planters' wives and daughters, seated at the shaded windows, or in
the piazzas of their houses, rose and curtsied deep to the ladies
L'Ouverture. Many a little black head rose dripping from the clear
waters, gleaming among the reeds, where negro children love to watch the
gigantic dragon-flies of the tropics creeping from their sheaths, and to
catch them as soon as they spread their gauzy wings, and exhibit their
gem-like bodies to the sunlight. Many a group of cultivators in the
cane-grounds grasped their arms, on hearing the approach of numbers--
taught thus by habitual danger--but swung back the gun across the
shoulder, or tucked the pistol again into the belt, at sight of the
ladies; and then ran to the road-side to remove any fancied obstruction
in the path; or, if they could do no more, to smile a welcome. It was
observable that, in every case, there was an eager glance, in the first
place, of search for L'Ouverture himself; but when it was seen that he
was not there, there was still all the joy that could be shown where he
was not.
The whole country was full of song. As Monsieur Loisir, the architect
from Paris, said to Genifrede, it appeared as if vegetation itself went
on to music. The servants of their own party sang in the rear; Moyse
and Denis, and sometimes Denis' sisters, sang as they rode; and if there
was not song already on the track, it came from behind every flowering
hedge--from the crown of the cocoa-nut tree--from the window of the
cottage. The sweet wild note of the mocking-bird was awakened in its
turn; and from the depths of the tangled woods, where it might defy the
human eye and hand, it sent forth its strain, shrill as the thrush, more
various than the nightingale, and sweeter than the canary. But for the
bird, the Spanish painter, Azua, would have supposed that all this music
was the method of reception of the family by the peasantry; but, on
expressing his surprise to Aimee, she answered that song was as natural
to Saint Domingo, when freed, as the light of sun or stars, when there
were no clouds in the sky. The heart of the negro was, she said, as
naturally charged with music as his native air with fragrance. If you
dam up his mountain-streams, you have, instead of fragrance, poison and
pestilence; and if you chain up the negro's life in slavery, you have,
for music, wailing and curses. Give both free course, and you have an
atmosphere of spicy odours, and a universal spirit of song.
"This last," said Azua, "is as one long, but varied, ode in honour of
your father. Men of some countries would watch him as a magician, after
seeing the wonders he has wrought. Who, looking over this wide level,
on which plenty seems to have emptied her horn, would believe how lately
and how thoroughly it was ravaged by war?"
"There seems to be magic in all that is made," said Aimee; "so that all
are magicians who have learned to draw it forth. Monsieur Loisir was
showing us yesterday how the lightning may now be brought down from the
thunder-cloud, and carried into the earth at some given spot. Our
servants, who have yearly seen the thunderbolt fire the cottage or the
mill, tremble, and call the lightning-rods magic. My father is a
magician of the same sort, except that he deals with a deeper and higher
magic."
"That which lies in men's hearts--in human passions."
"In human affections; by which he thinks more in the end is done than by
their passions."
"Did you learn this from himself?" asked Azua, who listened with much
surprise and curiosity to this explanation from the girl by whose side
he rode. "Does your father explain to you his views of men, and his
purposes with regard to them?"
"There is no need," she replied. "From the books he has always read, we
know what he thinks of men's minds and ways: and from what happens, we
learn his purposes; for my father always fulfils his purposes."
"And who led you to study his books, and observe his purposes?"
"My brother Isaac."
"One of those who is studying at Paris? Does he make you study here,
while he is being educated there?"
"No; he does not make me study. But I know what he is doing--I have
books--Isaac and I were always companions--He learns from me what my
father does--But I was going to tell you, when you began asking about my
father, that this plain will not appear to you throughout so,
flourishing as it does now, from the road. When we reach the Etoile
estate, you will see enough of the ravages of war."
"I have perceived some signs of desertion in a house or two that we have
passed," said Azua. "But these brothers of yours--when will they
return?"
"Indeed I wish I knew," sighed Aimee. "I believe that depends on the
First Consul."
"The First Consul has so much to do, it is a pity their return should
depend upon his memory. If he should forgot, you will go and see Paris,
and bring your brothers home."
"The First Consul forgets nothing," replied Aimee. "He knows and heeds
all that we do here, at the distance of almost half the world. He never
forgets my brothers: he is very kind to them."
"All that you say is true," said Vincent, who was now on the other side
of Aimee. "Everything that you can say in praise of the First Consul is
true. But yet you should go and see Paris. You do not know what Paris
is--you do not know what your brothers are like in Paris--especially
Isaac. He tells you, no doubt, how happy he is there?"
"He does; but I had rather see him here."
"You have fine scenery here, no doubt, and a climate which you enjoy:
but there! what streets and palaces--what theatres--what libraries and
picture-galleries--and what society!"
"Is it not true, however," said Azua, "that all the world is alike to
her where her brother is?"
"This is L'Etoile," said Aimee. "Of all the country houses in the
island, this was, not perhaps the grandest, but the most beautiful. It
is now ruined; but we hear that enough remains for Monsieur Loisir to
make out the design."
She turned to Vincent, and told him that General Christophe was about to
build a house; and that he wished it to be on the model of L'Etoile, as
it was before the war. Monsieur Loisir was to furnish the design.
The Europeans of the party were glad to be told that they had nearly
arrived at their resting place; for they could scarcely sit their
horses, while toiling in the heat through the deep sand of the road.
They had left far behind them both wood and swamp; and, though the
mansion seemed to be embowered in the green shade, they had to cross
open ground to reach it. At length Azua, who had sunk into a despairing
silence, cried out with animation--
"Ha! the opuntia! what a fence! what a wall!"
"You may know every deserted house in the plain," said Aimee, "by the
cactus hedge round it."
"What ornament can the inhabited mansion have more graceful, more
beautiful?" said Azua, forgetting the heat in his admiration of the
blossoms, some red, some snow-white, some blush-coloured, which were
scattered in profusion over the thick and high cactus hedge which barred
the path.
"Nothing can be more beautiful," said Aimee, "but nothing more
inconvenient. See, you are setting your horse's feet into a trap." And
she pointed to the stiff, prickly green shoots which matted all the
ground. "We must approach by some other way. Let us wait till the
servants have gone round."
With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known
throughout the island for his defence of the Etoile estate against
Rigaud. Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and
brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long
enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his
fitness for freedom. He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he
might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred
remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation,
bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the
Commander-in-chief--the idol of their colour. The heir of the Etoile
estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim. Bellair, therefore, and
two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over
the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.
Bellair hastened to lead Madame L'Ouverture's horse round to the other
side of the house, where no prickly vegetation was allowed to encroach.
His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the
colonnade--once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire,
and at one end crumbling into ruins.
"Minerve!" cried Madame, on seeing her.
"Deesha is her name," said Bellair, smiling.
"Oh, you call her by her native name! Would we all knew our African
names, as you know hers! Deesha!"
Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the
Ouverture family. Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of
the abode--a corner of the palace-like mansion--a corner well covered in
from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and
luxury.
The courtyard through which they passed was strewed with ruins, which,
however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which
only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out. The whole was
shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the
cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once
was. Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a
growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this
natural ladder, when he was called back again. The jalousies were
decayed--starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while
the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took
root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and
the dew. The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds
and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the
desolation. The gilding of the balustrades of the hall was tarnished;
and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame
and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight
and clean. The saloon to the right constituted the family dwelling.
Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which
formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which
remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars. An
alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking. The
kitchen corner was partitioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid
folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise,
and the blue rivers and gilt pagodas of China. The other partitions
were the work of Bellair's own hands, woven of bamboo and long grass,
dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true
African, acquainted. The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still
remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or
with ladies' work-boxes. The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair's axe.
On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together
porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden
spoons, and knives with enamelled handles. A harp, with its strings
broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical
instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall. It was altogether a
curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together
amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.
The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its
coolness might have appeared. At one side of the mansion was the
colonnade, which engrossed the architect's attention; on the other
bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist--least
of all those who were lovers. Moyse and his Genifrede stepped first to
the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon
lost sight of among the shrubs.
Genifrede had her sketch-book in her hand. She and her sister were here
partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had
some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse. He snatched
the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a
garden-house which they passed, saying--
"You can draw while I am away. For this hour you are all my own."
"And when will you be away? Wherever you go, I will follow you. If we
once part, we shall not meet again."
"We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet
again. Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to
gain you--only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy
for over."
"Then you will be killed--or you will be sent to France, or you will
love some one else and forget me--"
"Forgot you!--love some one else! Oh! Heaven and earth!" cried Moyse,
clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he
impressed on her forehead. "And what," he continued, in a voice which
thrilled her heart, "what would you do if I were killed?"
"I would die. Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me! Let your
spirit wait for mine! It shall not be long."
"Shall my spirit come--shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am
dead? Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?"
"Oh! no, no!" she cried, shuddering. "I will follow--you need not fear.
But a ghost--oh! no, no!" And she looked up at him, and clasped him
closer.
"And why?" said Moyse. "You do not fear me now--you cling to me. And
why fear me then? I shall be yours still. I shall be Moyse. I shall
be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not. Why not
see and hear me?"
"Why not?" said Genifrede, in a tone of assent. "But I dare not--I will
not. You shall not die. Do not speak of it."
"It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it. Well, I will not die.
But tell me--if I forget you--if I love another--what then?" And he
looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and
withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the
blossom-strewn path--
"Then I will forget you too."
Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a
pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs. The walk, once a
smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown
with the vegetation which encroached on either hand. As the dark beauty
forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many
feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the
white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed
round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet. Her lover was
soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying--
"The very flowers worship you: but they and all--all must yield you to
me. You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your
father. Genifrede, how shall I distinguish myself? Show me the way,
and I shall succeed."
"Do not ask me," she replied, sighing.
"Nay, whom should I ask?"
"I never desired you to distinguish yourself."
"You do not wish it?"
"No."
"Not for your sake?"
"No."
And she looked around her with wistful eyes, in which her lover read a
wish that things would ever remain as they were now--that this moment
would never pass away.
"You would remain here--you would hide yourself here with me for ever!"
cried the happy Moyse.
"Here, or anywhere;--in the cottage at Breda;--in your father's hut on
the shore;--anywhere, Moyse, where there is nothing to dread. I live in
fear; and I am wretched."
"What is it that you fear, love? Why do you not trust, me to protect
you?"
"Then I fear for you, which is worse. Why cannot we live in the woods
or the mountains, where there would be no dangerous duties, and no
cares?"
"And if we lived in the woods, you would be more terrified still. There
would never be a falling star, but your heart would sink. You would
take the voices of the winds for the spirits of the woods, and the
mountain mists for ghosts. Then, there are the tornado and the
thunderbolt. When you saw the trees crashing, you would be for making
haste back to the plain. Whenever you heard the rock rolling and
bounding down the steep, or the cataract rising and roaring in the midst
of the tempest, you would entreat me to fly to the city. It is in this
little beating heart that the fear lies."
"What then is to be done?"
"This little heart must beat yet a while longer; and then, when I have
once come back, it shall rest upon mine for ever."
"Beside my father? He never rests. Your father would leave us in
peace; but he has committed you to one who knows not what rest is."
"Nor ever will," said Moyse. "If he closed his eyes, if he relaxed his
hand, we should all be sunk in ruin."
"We? Who? What ruin?"
"The whole negro race. Do you suppose the whites are less cruel than
they were? Do you believe that their thirst for our humiliation, our
slavery, is quenched? Do you believe that the white man's heart is
softened by the generosity and forgiveness of the blacks?"
"My father believes so," replied Genifrede; "and do they not adore him--
the whites whom he has reinstated? Do they not know that they owe to
him their lives, their homes, the prosperity of the island? Does he not
trust the whites? Does he not order all things for their good, from
reverence and affection for them?"
"Yes, he does," replied Moyse, in a tone which made Genifrede anxiously
explore his countenance.
"You think him deceived?" she said.
"No, I do not. It is not easy to deceive L'Ouverture."
"You do not think--no, you cannot think, that he deceives the whites, or
any one."
"No. L'Ouverture deceives no one. As you say, he reveres the whites.
He reveres them for their knowledge. He says they are masters of an
intellectual kingdom from which we have been shut out, and they alone
can let us in. And then again.--Genifrede, it seems to me that he loves
best those who have most injured him."
"Not best," she replied. "He delights to forgive: but what white has he
ever loved as he loves Henri? Did he ever look upon any white as he
looked upon me, when--when he consented? Moyse, you remember?"
"I do. But still he loves the whites as if they were born, and had
lived and died, our friends, as he desires they should be. Yet more--he
expects and requires that all his race should love them too."
"And you do not?" said Genifrede, timidly.
"I abhor them."
"Oh! hush! hush! Speak lower. Does my father know this?"
"Why should he? If he once knew it--"
"Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for
you; and we might live here, or on the shore."
"My Genifrede, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks. I love your
father. The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always
scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as
we are strong. If I and others leave L'Ouverture alone to govern, and
betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again
be masters, and you and I, my Genifrede, shall be slaves. But you shall
not be a slave, Genifrede," he continued, soothing her tremblings at the
idea. "The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like
the shells on the sea-shore, before my Genifrede shall be a slave. I
will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother's breast,
before any one of that race shall lay his grasp upon you. The whites
never will, never shall again, be masters: but then, it must be by
L'Ouverture having an army always at his command; and of that army I
must be one of the officers. We cannot live here, or on the sea-shore,
love, while there are whites who may be our masters. So, while I am
away, you must pray Christ to humble the whites. Will you? This is all
you can do. Will you not?"
"How can I, when my father is always exalting them?"
"You must choose between him and me. Love the whites with him, or hate
them with me."
"But you love my father. Moyse?"
"I do. I adore him as the saviour of the blacks. You adore him,
Genifrede. Every one of our race worships him. Genifrede, you love
him--your father."
"I know not--Yes, I loved him the other day. I know not, Moyse. I know
nothing but that--I will hate the whites as you do. I never loved them:
now I hate them."
"You shall. I will tell you things of them that will make you curse
them. I know every white man's heart."
"Then tell my father."
"Does he not know enough already? Is not his cheek furrowed with the
marks of the years during which the whites were masters; and is there
any cruelty, any subtlety, in them that he does not understand? Knowing
all this, he curses, not them, but the flower which, he says, corrupted
them. He keeps from them this power, and believes that all will be
well. I shall tell him nothing."
"Yes, tell him all--all except--"
"Yes, and tell me first," cried a voice near at hand. There was a great
rustling among the bushes, and Denis appeared, begging particularly to
know what they were talking about. They, in return, begged to be told
what brought him this way, to interrupt their conversation.
"Deesha says Juste is out after wild-fowl, and, most likely, among some
of the ponds hereabouts."
"One would think you had lived in Cap all your days," said Moyse. "Do
you look for wild-fowl in a garden?"
"We will see presently," said the boy, thrusting himself into the
thicket in the direction of the ponds, and guiding himself by the scent
of the blossoming reeds--so peculiar as to be known among the many with
which the air was filled. He presently beckoned to his sister; and she
followed with Moyse, till they found themselves in the field where there
had once been several fish-ponds, preserved in order with great care.
All were now dried up but two; and the whole of the water being diverted
to the service of these two, they were considerable in extent and in
depth. What the extent really was, it was difficult to ascertain at the
first glance, so hidden was the margin with reeds, populous with
wild-fowl.
Denis was earnestly watching these fowl, as he lay among the high grass
at some little distance from the water, and prevented his companions
from approaching any nearer. The sun was hot, and Genifrede was not
long in desiring to return to the garden.
"Let us go back," said she. "Juste is not here."
"Yes he is," said Denis. "However, go back if you like. I shall go
fowling with Juste." And he began to strip off his clothes.
His companions were of opinion, however, that a son of the
Commander-in-chief must not sport with a farmer's boy, without leave of
parents or tutor; and they begged him to put on his clothes again, at
least till leave was asked. Denis had never cared for his rank, except
when riding by his father's side on review-days; and now he liked it
less than ever, as the pond lay gleaming before him, the fowl sailing
and fluttering on the surface, and his dignity prevented his going among
them.
"What makes you say that Juste is here?" said Genifrede.
"I have seen him take five fowl in the last five minutes."
As he spoke, he plucked the top of a bulrush, and threw it with such
good aim, that it struck a calabash which appeared to be floating among
others on the surface of the pond. That particular calabash immediately
rose, and the face of a negro child appeared, to the consternation of
the fowl, whose splashing and screaming might be heard far and wide.
Juste came out of the water, displaying at his belt the result of his
sport. He had, as Denis had said, taken five ducks in five minutes by
pulling them under the water by the feet, while lying near them with his
head covered by the calabash. The little fellow was not satisfied with
the admiration of the beholders; he ran homewards, with his clothes in
his hand, Denis at his heels, and his game dangling from his waist, and
dripping as he ran.
"Many a white would shudder to see that child," said Moyse, as Juste
disappeared. "That is the way Jean's blacks wore their trophies during
the first days of the insurrection."
"Trophies!" said Genifrede. "You mean heads: heads with their trailing
hair;" and her face worked with horror as she spoke. "But it is not for
the whites to shudder, after what they did to Oge, and have done to many
a negro since."
"But they think we do not feel as they do."
"Not feel! O Christ! If any one of them had my heart before I knew
you--in those days at Breda, when Monsieur Bayou used to come down to
us!"
"Here comes that boy again," cried Moyse. "Let us go into the thicket,
among the citrons."
Denis found them, however--found Moyse gathering the white and purple
blossoms for Genifrede, while she was selecting the fruit of most
fragrant rind from the same tree, to carry into the house.
"You must come in--you must come to dinner," cried Denis. "Aimee has
had a drawing lesson, while you have been doing nothing all this while.
They said you were sketching; but I told them how idle you were."
"I will go back with Denis," said Genifrede. "You threw away my
sketch-book, Moyse. You may find it, and follow us."
Their path lay together as far as the garden-house. When there, Moyse
seized Denis unawares, shot him through the window into the house, and
left him to get out as he might, and bring the book. The boy was so
long in returning, that his sister became uneasy, lest some snake or
other creature should have detained him in combat. She was going to
leave the table in search of him, because Moyse would not, when he
appeared, singing, and with the book upon his head.
"Who calls Genifrede idle?" cried he, flourishing the book. "Look
here!" And he exhibited a capital sketch of herself and Moyse, as he
had found them, gathering fruits and flowers.
"Can it be his own?" whispered Genifrede to her lover.
Denis nodded and laughed, while Azua gravely criticised and approved,
without suspicion that the sketch was by no pupil of his own.
In the cool evening, Genifrede was really no longer idle. While Denis
and Juste were at play, they both at once stumbled and fell over
something in the long grass, which proved to be a marble statue of a
Naiad, lying at length. Moyse seized it, and raised it where it was
relieved by a dark green back-ground. The artist declared it an
opportunity for a lesson which was not to be lost: and the girls began
to draw, as well as they could for the attempts of the boys to restore
the broken urn to the arm from which it had fallen. When Denis and
Juste found that they could not succeed, and were only chidden for being
in the way, they left the drawing party seated under their clump of
cocoa-nut trees, and went to hear what Madame was relating to Bellair
and Deesha, in the hearing of Monsieur Moliere, Laxabon, and Vincent.
Her narration was one which Denis had often heard, but was never tired
of listening to. She was telling of the royal descent of her husband--
how he was grandson of Gaou Guinou, the king of the African tribe of
Arrudos: how this king's second son was taken in battle, and sold, with
other prisoners of war, into slavery: how he married an African girl on
the Breda estate, and used to talk of home and its wars, and its haunts,
and its sunshine idleness--how he used thus to talk in the evenings, and
on Sundays, to the boy upon his knee; so that Toussaint felt, from his
infancy, like an African, and the descendant of chiefs. This was a
theme which Madame L'Ouverture loved to dwell on, and especially when
listened to as now. The Congo chief and his wife hung upon her words,
and told in their turn how their youth had been spent at home--how they
had been kidnapped, and delivered over to the whites. In the eagerness
of their talk, they were perpetually falling unconsciously into the use
of their negro language, and as often recalled by their hearers to that
which all could understand. Moliere and Laxabon listened earnestly; and
even Loisir, occupied as he was still with the architecture of the
mansion, found himself impatient if he lost a word of the story.
Vincent alone, negro as he was, was careless and unmoved. He presently
sauntered away, and nobody missed him.
He looked over the shoulder of the architect.
"What pains you are taking!" he said. "You have only to follow your own
fancy and convenience about Christophe's house. Christophe has never
been to France. Tell him, or any others of my countrymen, that any
building you choose to put up is European, and in good taste, and they
will be quite pleased enough."
"You are a sinner," said Loisir; "but be quiet now."
"Nay--do not you find the blacks one and all ready to devour your
travellers' tales--your prodigious reports of European cities? You have
only to tell like stories in stone and brick, and they will believe you
just as thankfully."
"No, no, Vincent. I have told no tales so wicked as you tell of your
own race. My travellers' tales are all very well to pass an hour, and
be forgotten; but Christophe's mansion is to stand for an age--to stand
as the first evidence, in the department of the arts, of the elevation
of your race. Christophe knows, as well as you do without having been
to Paris, what is beautiful in architecture; and, if he did not, I would
not treacherously mislead him."
"Christophe knows! Christophe has taste!"
"Yes. While you have been walking streets and squares, he has been
studying the aisles of palms, and the crypts of the banyan, which, to an
open eye, may teach as much as a prejudiced mind can learn in all Rome."
"So Loisir is of those who flatter men in power?" said Vincent,
laughing.
"I look further," said Loisir; "I am working for men unborn. I am
ambitious; but my ambition is to connect my name honourably with the
first great house built for a negro general. My ambition is to build
here a rival to the palaces of Europe."
"Do what you will, you will not rival your own tales of them--unless you
find Aladdin's lamp among these ruins."
"If you find it, you may bring it me. Azna has found something half as
good--a really fine statue in the grass."
Vincent was off to see it. He found the drawing party more eager in
conversation than about their work. Aimee was saying as he approached--
"General Vincent declares that he is as affectionate to us as if we were
the nearest to him of all the children of the empire.--Did you not say
so?" she asked, eagerly. "Is not the First Consul's friendship for us
real and earnest? Does he not feel a warm regard for my father? Is he
not like a father to my brothers?"
"Certainly," said Vincent. "Do not your brothers confirm this in their
letters?"
"Do they not, Genifrede?" repeated Aimee.
"They do; but we see that they speak as they think: not as things really
are."
"How can you so despise the testimony of those who see what we only hear
of?"
"I do not despise them or their testimony. I honour their hearts, which
forget injuries, and open to kindness. But they are young; they went
from keeping cattle, and from witnessing the desolations of war here, to
the first city of the world, where the first men lavish upon them
instructions, and pleasures, and flatteries; and they are pleased. The
greatest of all--the First of the Whites, smiles upon the sons of the
First of the Blacks; and their hearts beat with enthusiasm for him. It
is natural. But, while they are in Paris, we are in Saint Domingo; and
we may easily view affairs, and judge men differently."
"And so," said Aimee, "distrust our best friends, and despise our best
instructors; and all from a jealousy of race!"
"We think the jealousy of race is with them," said Moyse, bitterly.
"There is not a measure of L'Ouverture's which they do not neutralise--
not a fragment of authority which they will yield. As to friends, if
the Consul Bonaparte is our best friend among the Whites, may we be left
thus far friendless!"
"You mean that he has not answered my father's letters. Monsieur
Vincent doubts not that an answer is on the way. Remember, my brothers
have been invited to his table."
"There are blacks in Paris, who look on," replied Moyse, drily.
"And are there not whites too, from this island, who watch every
movement?"
"Yes: and those whites are in the private closet, at the very ear of
Bonaparte, whispering to him of L'Ouverture's ambition; while your
brothers penetrate no further than the saloon."
"My brothers would lay down their lives for Bonaparte and France," said
Aimee; "and you speak treason. I am with them."
"And with me," said Vincent, in a whisper at her ear. "Where I find the
loyal heart in woman, mine is ever loyal too."
Aimee was too much excited to understand in this what was meant. She
went on--
"Here is Monsieur Vincent, of our own race, who has lived here and at
Paris--who has loved my father.--You love my father and his government?"
she said, with questioning eyes, interrupting herself.
"Certainly. No man is more devoted to L'Ouverture."
"Devoted to my father," pursued Aimee, "and yet devoted to Bonaparte.
He is above the rivalry of races--as the First Consul is, and as Isaac
is."
"Isaac and the First Consul--these are the idols of Aimee's worship,"
said Genifrede. "Worship Isaac still; for that is a harmless idolatry;
but give up your new religion, Aimee; for it is not sound."
"Why not sound? How do you know that it is not sound?"
"When have the blacks ever trusted the whites without finding themselves
bound victims in the end?"
"I have," said Vincent. "I have lived among them a life of charms, and
I am free," he continued, stretching his arms to the air--"free to
embrace the knees of both Bonaparte and L'Ouverture--free to embrace the
world."
"The end has not come yet," said Moyse.
"What end?" asked Aimee.
"Nay, God knows what end, if we trust the French."
"You speak from prejudice," said Aimee. "Monsieur Vincent and my
brothers judge from facts."
"We speak from facts," said Genifrede; "from, let us see--from seven--
no, eight, very ugly facts."
"The eight Commissaries that the colony has been blessed with," said
Moyse. "If they had taken that monkey which is looking down at your
drawing, Aimee, and seven of its brethren, and installed them at Cap,
they would have done us all the good the Commissaries have done, and far
less mischief. The monkeys would have broken the mirrors, and made a
hubbub within the walls of Government-house. These Commissaries, one
after another, from Mirbeck to Hedouville, have insulted the colony, and
sown quarrels in it, from end to end."
"Mirbeck! Here is Mirbeck," said Denis, who had come up to listen. And
the boy rolled himself about like a drunken man--like Mirbeck, as he had
seen him in the streets of Cap.
"Then they sent Saint Leger, the Irishman," continued Moyse, "who kept
his hand in every man's pocket, whether black or white."
Denis forthwith had his hands, one in Vincent's pocket, the other in
Azua's. Azua, however, was drawing so fast that he did not find it out.
"Then there was Roume."
"Roume. My father speaks well of Roume," said Aimee.
"He was amiable enough, but so weak that he soon had to go home, where
he was presently joined by his successor, Santhonax, whom, you know,
L'Ouverture had to get rid of, for the safety of the colony. Then came
Polverel. What the tranquillity of Saint Domingo was in his day we all
remember."
Denis took off Polverel, spying from his ship at the island, on which he
dared not land.
"For shame, Denis?" said Aimee. "You are ridiculing him who first
called my father L'Ouverture."
"And do you suppose he knew the use that would be made of the word?"
asked Genifrede. "If he had foreseen its being a tide, he would have
contented himself with the obsequious bows I remember so well, and never
have spoken the word."
Denis was forthwith bowing, with might and main.
"Now, Denis, be quiet! Raymond, dear Raymond, came next;" and she
looked up at Vincent as she praised his friend.
"Raymond is excellent as a man, whatever he may be as governor of Cap,"
said Moyse. "But we have been speaking of whites, not of mulattoes--
which is another long chapter."
"Raymond was sent to us by France, however," said Aimee.
"So was our friend Vincent there; but that is nothing to the purpose."
"Well; who next?" cried Denis.
"Do not encourage him," said Aimee. "My father would be vexed with you
for training him to ridicule the French--particularly the authorities."
"Now we are blessed with Hedouville," pursued Moyse. "There you have
him, Denis--only scarcely sly, scarcely smooth enough. Yet, that is
Hedouville, who has his eye and his smiles at play in one place, while
his heart and hands are busy in another."
"Busy," said Genifrede, "in undermining L'Ouverture's influence, and
counteracting his plans; but no one mentioned Ailbaud. Ailbaud--"
"Stay a moment," said Azua, whose voice had not been heard till then.
All looked at him in surprise, nobody supposing that, while so engrossed
with his pencil, he could have cared for their conversation. Aimee saw
at a glance that his paper was covered with caricatures of the
commissaries who had been enumerated.
"You must have known them," was Aimee's involuntary testimony, as the
paper went from hand to hand, amidst shouts of laughter, while Azua sat,
with folded arms, perfectly grave.
"I have seen some of the gentlemen," said he, "and Monsieur Denis helped
me to the rest."
The laughter went on till Aimee was somewhat nettled. When the paper
came back to her, she looked up into the tree under which she sat. The
staring monkey was still there. She made a vigorous spring to hand up
the caricature, which the creature caught. As it sat demurely on a
branch, holding the paper as if reading it, while one of its companions
as gravely looked over its shoulder, there was more laughter than ever.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Azua," said Aimee; "but this is the only
worthy fate of a piece of mockery of people wiser than ourselves, and no
less kind. The negroes have hitherto been thought, at least, grateful.
It seems that this is a mistake. For my part, however, I leave it to
the monkeys to ridicule the French."
Vincent seized her hand, and covered it with kisses. She was abashed,
and turned away, when she saw her father behind her, in the shade of the
wood. Monsieur Pascal, his secretary, was with him.
"My father!"
"L'Ouverture!" exclaimed one after another of the party; for they all
supposed he had been far away. Even Denis at once gave over pelting the
monkeys, and left them to their study of the arts in peace.
"Your drawings, my daughters!" said L'Ouverture, with a smile, as if he
had been perfectly at leisure. And he examined the Naiad, and then
Genifrede's drawing, with the attention of an artist. Genifrede had
made great progress, under the eye of Moyse. Not so Aimee; her pencil
had been busy all the while, but there was no Naiad on her page.
"They are for Isaac," she said, timidly. "Among all the pictures he
sees, there are no--"
"No sketches of Denis and his little companions," said her father; "no
cocoa-nut clumps--no broken fountains among the aloes--no groups that
will remind him of home. Isaac shall presently have these, Aimee. I am
on my way to Cap, and will send them."
"On your way to Cap!" cried every one--some in a tone of fear.
"To Cap," said he, "where Father Laxabon will follow me immediately,
with Monsieur Pascal. By them, Aimee, you will send your packet for
Isaac. My own horse is waiting."
"Do not go alone--do not go without good escort," said Moyse. "I can
give you reason."
"I know your thoughts, Moyse. I go for the very reason that there are,
or will be, troubles at Cap.--The French authorities may sometimes
decree and do that which we feel to be unwise--unsuitable to the
blacks," he continued, with an emphasis which gave some idea of his
having overheard more or less of the late conversation; "but we
islanders maybe more ignorant still of the thoughts and ways of their
practised race."
"But you are personally unsafe," persisted Moyse. "If you knew what is
said by the officers of Hedouville's staff--"
"They say," proceeded Toussaint, smiling, "that they only want three or
four brigands to seize the ape with the Madras head dress; and then all
would go well. These gentlemen are mistaken; and I am going to prove
this to them. An armed escort proves nothing. I carry something
stronger still in my mind and on my tongue. General Vincent, a word
with you."
While he and Vincent spoke apart, Aimee exclaimed, "Oh, Moyse! Go with
my father!"
"Do not--Oh, do not!" cried Genifrede. "You will never return!" she
muttered to him, in a voice of terror. "Aimee, you would send him away:
and my mother--all of us, are far from home. Who knows but that
Rigaud--"
"Leave Rigaud to me," cried Vincent, gaily, as he rejoined the party.
"I undertake Rigaud. He shall never alarm you more. Farewell,
Mademoiselle Aimee! I am going to the south. Rigaud is recruiting in
the name of France; and I know France too well to allow of that. I
shall stop his recruiting, and choke his blasphemy with a good French
sword. Farewell, till I bring you news at Pongaudin that you may ride
along the southern coast as securely as in your own cane-pieces."
"You are going?" said Aimee.
"This very hour. I south--L'Ouverture north--"
"And the rest to Pongaudin with the dawn," said Toussaint.
"What is your pleasure concerning me?" asked Moyse. "I wait your
orders."
"I remember my promise," said Toussaint; "but I must not leave my family
unprotected. You will attend them to Pongaudin: and then let me see you
at Cap, with the speed of the wind."
"With a speed like your own, if that be possible," said Moyse.
"Is there danger, father?" asked Genifrede, trembling.
"My child, there is danger in the air we breathe, and the ground we
tread on: but there is protection also, everywhere."
"You will see Afra, father," said Aimee. "If there is danger, what will
become of Afra? Her father will be in the front, in any disturbance:
and Government-house is far from being the safest place."
"I will not forget Afra. Farewell, my children! Go now to your mother;
and, before this hour to-morrow, I shall think of you resting at
Pongaudin."
They saw him mount before the courtyard, and set off, followed by one of
his two trompettes--the only horsemen in the island who could keep up
with him, and therefore his constant attendants in his most important
journeys. The other was gone forward, to order horses from post to
post.
Vincent, having received written instructions from the secretary, set
off in an opposite direction, more gay than those he left behind.
The loftiest trees of the rich plain were still touched with golden
light; and the distant bay glittered so as to make the gazers turn away
their eyes, to rest on the purple mountains to the north: but their
hearts were anxious; and they saw neither the glory nor the beauty of
which they heard talk between the painter, the architect, and their
host.