Though the peace of the town was now considered secure, there was little
less bustle throughout the day and night than there had been in the
morning. The cultivators were all gone home. They poured out of the
town almost as fast as they had poured into it, happy to have attained
their object, in the defeat of the French authorities, and to be
returning without the loss or punishment of a man. As they attained the
height behind which they would lose sight of the sea, they turned for
one more view of the empty bay, and of the fleet, now disappearing on
the horizon. They gave three cheers; and this was the last that was
heard of them, except by such as met them in the plain, where they sang,
as they walked, the words of their chief's proclamation. In negro
fashion, they had set it to music; and very well it sounded, when sung
from the heart.
In the town, the soldiers were busy removing the guns, and all signs of
warfare, and the inhabitants in preparing for the fete of to-morrow.
During the night, the hurry of footsteps never ceased--so many of the
citizens were going out into the country, and returning with blossoming
shrubs to adorn the churches, and flowers with which to strew the path
of the Deliverer. Under cover of these zealous preparations did
discontent, like a serpent under the blossoms of the meadow, prepare to
fix its poisonous tooth. There were men abroad in the streets who
looked upon these preparations for rejoicing with a determination that
the rejoicings should never take place.
The business of this arduous day being finished, Toussaint had retired
early to rest, in a chamber in the south wing of Government-house--the
part which had been inhabited by the French functionaries. He would
allow no one to occupy any apartments of the north wing (that which was
appropriated to the governor of the town), while the daughter of the
late governor and her guests remained there. His secretary, who had
taken some hours' rest before, was busy writing, after midnight, in an
apartment in the same wing. He was preparing dispatches for the Central
Assembly, now sitting in the interior.
Monsieur Pascal was far from being on good terms with himself this
night. If, in the morning, he had doubted his capacity for being
governor of the town, he this night doubted his qualifications for the
office of secretary, which he had thus far filled to his own
satisfaction. To-night he could not command his ideas--he could not fix
his attention. He wrote a paragraph, and then he dreamed; he planned a
proposition, and then he forgot it again; and, in despair, started up to
pace the floor, and disperse intrusive thoughts by exercise. These
thoughts would intrude again, however; and he found himself listlessly
watching through the window a waving treetop, or a sinking star, while
his pen dried in his hand.
These intrusive ideas were of Afra. He had never thought of love, in
regard to himself, even enough to despise it, or to resolve against it:
and the time was apparently come when love was to revenge himself for
this neglect. Perhaps it was this idea, as much as the attractions of
Afra herself, that haunted him to-night. He felt that his hour was
come; that he was henceforth, like other men, to be divided between two
pursuits, to be dependent upon another for his tranquillity. He felt
already that he could never again see Mademoiselle Raymond, or hear of
her, without emotion. He had never understood love at first sight, and
had hardly believed in it:--he now did not understand it; but he could
not but believe in it. He felt actually haunted. Every breath of air
that whispered in the window brought her voice. Everything that moved
in the night breeze made him start as if it was herself. At last, in
despair about his task, which must be finished before dawn, he covered
his eyes with his hands, as he leaned back in his chair, resolving not
to move till he had ascertained what it was that he wanted to write
next.
A slight noise in the direction of the door, however, made him look up;
and he saw, advancing towards the light, no other than Afra herself. It
was no wonder that he sat upright in his chair, his pale face paler than
usual. In another moment, however, he blushed to the temples on hearing
a suppressed laugh from some one who stood behind Afra, and who said,
after some vain attempts to speak for laughing--
"M. Pascal takes us for ghosts."
"By no means, Mademoiselle Revel. Ghosts do not wrap themselves in
shawls from the night air, I believe; nor come in at the door when the
shorter way is through the wall; or take a seat when asked, as I hope
you will do." And he placed chairs as he spoke.
"We might have frightened you delightfully if we could have looked half
as ghost-like as you did, the first moment you saw us. Perhaps it was
the lamp--"
"Hush! Euphrosyne," said Afra. "You speak too loud, and waste time.
Remember what we came for. Monsieur Pascal," she said, in a low voice,
leaning towards him over the table, and refusing to sit down, "how is
L'Ouverture guarded?"
"Not at all, I believe. Why?"