"What is the matter, child? What makes you look so merry?" asked
Monsieur Revel, when his eyes opened upon Euphrosyne the next morning.
"Nothing has happened, grandpapa. The only thing is, that I like to do
what you wish; and I always will, as long as you live. I will go to the
convent to-day. You can send for me at any time when you want me, you
know. I am sure the abbess will let me come whenever you send Pierre
for me."
"Well, well--do not be in such a hurry. I do not want you to go to-day.
Why should you be in such a hurry?"
When the breeze had come to refresh him, and he had had his coffee,
Monsieur Revel felt more complaisant, and explained what he meant by
there being no hurry. Euphrosyne should not leave him till to-morrow;
and this day should be spent as she pleased. Whatever she liked to ask
to-day should be granted. This indulgence was promised under a
tolerable certainty that she would ask nothing unreasonable: that she
would not propose a dinner-party of dark-complexioned guests, for
instance. There might also be an expectation of what it would be that
she would choose. M. Revel was conscious that he did not visit his
estate of Le Bosquet, in the plain of Limbe, so often as Euphrosyne
would have liked, or as he himself knew to be good for his agent, the
cultivators, and his heiress. He was aware that if he could have shown
any satisfaction in the present order of affairs, any good-will towards
the working of the new system, there might have been a chance of old
stories dying away--of old grievances being forgotten by the
cultivators, in his present acquiescence in their freedom. He could not
order the carriage, and say he was going to Le Bosquet; but he had just
courage enough to set Euphrosyne free to ask to go. It turned out
exactly as he expected.
"We will do what you will, my child, to-day. I feel strong enough to be
your humble servant."
"It is a splendid day, grandpapa. It must be charming at Le Bosquet.
If I order the carriage now, we can get there before the heat; and we
need not come home till the cool of the evening. We will fill the
carriage with fruit and flowers for the abbess. May I order the
carriage?"
Le Bosquet was only twelve miles off. They arrived when the cultivators
were settling to their work after breakfast. It was now, as on every
former occasion, a perplexity, an embarrassment to Euphrosyne, that the
negroes lost all their gaiety, and most of their civility, in the
presence of her grandfather. She could hardly wonder, when she
witnessed this, at his intolerance of the very mention of the blacks, at
his ridicule of all that she ever told him about them, from her own
observation. When she was in any other company, she saw them merry,
active, and lavish of their kindness and politeness; and whenever this
occurred, she persuaded herself that she must have been mistaken the
last time she and Monsieur Revel were at Le Bosquet, and that they ought
to go again soon. The next time they went, there was the same gloom,
listlessness, and avoidance on the part of the negroes; the same care on
her grandfather's that she should not stir a step without the escort of
Pierre or the agent. He would not even let her go with Portia, the
dairy-woman, to gather eggs; nor with little Sully, to see his
baby-brother. She made up her mind that this was all wrong--that all
parties would have been more amiable and happy, if there had been the
same freedom and confidence that she saw on other estates. Poor girl!
she little knew what was in all minds but her own--what recollections of
the lash and the stocks, and hunger and imprisonment on the one hand,
and of the horrors of that August night on the other. She little knew
how generally it was supposed that she owed it to the grandfather whom
she loved so much that she was the solitary orphan whom every one
pitied.
It was, as Euphrosyne had said, a splendid day; and all went well.
Monsieur Revel would not go out much; but as he sat in the shaded room,
looking forth upon the lawn, the agent satisfied him with accounts of
the prosperity of the estate, the fine promise of the cacao walks, and
the health and regular conduct of the negroes. Euphrosyne showed
herself from time to time, now in the midst of a crowd of children, now
with a lapful of eggs, and then with a basket of fruit. In honour of
the master and young mistress, the dinner was very superb, and far too
long; so that the day had slipped away before Euphrosyne felt at all
disposed to return. She was glad that the agent was engaged in a deep
discussion with his employer when the carriage came round; so that she
was able to make one more short circuit in the twilight while they were
settling their point.
The gentlemen were talking over the two late proclamations--
L'Ouverture's and Hedouville's. The agent wished that Hedouville had
never come, rather than that he should have set afloat the elements of
mischief contained in his proclamation. Monsieur Revel could not
believe that a Commissary, sent out for the very purpose of regulating
such matters, could have got very far wrong upon them; and besides, the
proclamation had never been issued. Never formally issued, the agent
said; but it had been circulated from hand to hand of those who were
interested in its provisions. Some were, at that moment, preparing to
act upon it; and he feared that mischief might come of it yet. It was
certain that L'Ouverture knew more about claims to deserted estates, and
about the proper regulations as to tillage, than any novice from France
could know; and it was no less certain that he was ever more eager to
gratify the whites than the blacks. It would have been by far the
wisest plan to leave that class of affairs in the hands of the person
who understood them best; and, if he was not much mistaken, the
Government at home would yet rue Hedouville's rashness in acting without
so much as consulting L'Ouverture. Monsieur Revel was so amazed at
finding that L'Ouverture was not only worshipped by romantic young
ladies and freed negroes, but approved and confided in by such practical
and interested whites as his own agent, that he could only say again
what he said every day--that the world was turned upside down, and that
he expected to be stripped, before he died, of Le Bosquet, and of
everything else that he had; so that his poor child would be left
dependent on the charity of France. To this the agent replied, as
usual, that the property had never before been so secure, nor the estate
so prosperous; and that all would go well, if only the Government at
home would employ competent people to write its proclamations.
"Where is this child?" cried Monsieur Revel at last. "I am always kept
waiting by everybody. It is dark already, and the carriage has been
standing this hour. Where is she?"
"Mademoiselle is in the carriage," said Pierre, from the hall. "I made
Prince light the lamps, though he thinks we shall not want them."
"Come, come! let us lose no more time," said Monsieur Revel, as if every
one had not been waiting for him.
Euphrosyne jumped from the carriage, where she had been packing her
basket of eggs, her fruit, and her flowers, so that they might be out of
her grandfather's way. He could not admire any of them, and found them
all in his way. While the road lay under the dark shadow of the groves
on the estate, he cast anxious glances among the tall stems on which the
carriage lamps cast a passing gleam. He muttered a surly good-night to
the negroes who held open the gates; but, when the last of these
swung-to, when the carriage issued upon the high road, and the plain
lay, though dim in the starlight, yet free and lovely to the eye, while
the line of grey sea was visible to the left, the old man's spirits
seemed to rise. It was seldom that he quitted the town; and when he
did, and could throw off his cares, he was surprised to find how
reviving were the influences of the country.
"It is a lovely night, really," said he. "If you ever go to Paris, my
dear, you will miss this starlight. There the stars seem to have shrunk
away from you, a myriad of miles. Let those flowers be, child. Why may
not I have the pleasure of smelling them? There! Let them lie. Who
would believe that that sea, which looks so quiet now, will be rolling
and dashing upon the beach in November, as if it meant to swallow up the
plain? How it seems to sleep in the starlight! You found little Sully
grown, my dear, I dare say."
"Oh, yes! but more glad to see us than ever. He had to show me how he
could read, and how he had been allowed to put a new leg to the master's
desk at the school. Sully will make a good carpenter, I think. He is
going to make a box for me; and he declares the ants shall never get
through it, at the hinge, or lid, or anywhere. How the people are
singing all about! I love to hear them. Prince drives so fast, that we
shall be home too soon. I shall be quite sorry to be in the streets
again."
It seemed as if Prince had heard her, for, in another moment, he was
certainly checking his horses, and their speed gradually relaxed.
"He must have driven us fast, indeed," said Monsieur Revel. "Look at
the lights of the town--how near they are! Are those the lights of the
town?"
"I should have looked for them more to the left." Euphrosyne replied.
"Let us ask Pierre. We cannot possibly have lost our way."
Pierre rode up to the carriage window, at the moment that Prince came to
a full stop.
"We do not know," said Louis, the black footman, who was beside
Prince--"We do not know what those lights can mean. They seem to be
moving, and towards this way."
"I think it is a body of people," said Pierre. "I fear so, sir."
"We had better go back," said Euphrosyne. "Let us go back to Le
Bosquet."
"Forward! Forward!" cried Monsieur Revel, like one frantic. "Why do
you stand still, you rascal? I will drive myself if you do not push on.
Drive on--drive like the devil--like what you all are," he added, in a
lower tone.
"Surely we had better go back to Le Bosquet."
"No, no, you little fool," cried the agonised old man, grasping hold of
her, and dragging her towards himself.
Louis shouted from the box, as Prince lashed his horses onwards, "We
shall be in the midst of them, sir, this way."
"Drive on," was still the command. "Drive through everything to get
home!" As he clasped his arms round Euphrosyne, and pressed her so
closely that she could scarcely breathe, heaping his cloak upon her
head, she heard and felt him murmuring to himself--
"To Le Bosquet! No, indeed! anywhere but there! Once at home--she once
safe--and then--"
Euphrosyne would have been glad to see a little of what appeared--to
know something of what to expect. Once or twice she struggled to raise
her head; but this only made the convulsive clasp closer than before.
All she knew was, that Pierre or the men on the box seemed to speak,
from time to time; for the passionate "Drive on!"
"Forward!" was repeated. She also fancied that they must at last be in
the midst of a crowd; for the motion of the carriage seemed to be
interrupted by a sort of hustling on either side. Her heart beat so
tumultuously, however, and the sense of suffocation was so strong, that
she was sure of nothing but that she felt as if dying. Once more she
struggled for air. At the same moment, her grandfather started--almost
bounded from his seat, and relaxed his hold of her. She thought she had
heard firearms. She raised her head; but all was confusion. There was
smoke--there was the glare of torches--there was a multitude of shining
black faces, and her grandfather lying back, as if asleep, in the corner
of the carriage.
"Drive on!" she heard Pierre cry. The whip cracked, the horses plunged
and scrambled, and in another moment broke through the crowd. The
yelling, the lights, the smoke, were left behind; the air blew fresh;
and there was only calm starlight without, as before.
The old man's hand fell when lifted. He did not move when she stroked
his cheek. He did not answer when she spoke. She put her hand to his
forehead, and it was wet.
"Pierre! Pierre!" she cried, "he is shot! he is dead!"
"I feared so, Mademoiselle. Drive on, Prince!"
In an inconceivably short time, they were at their own door. Pierre
looked into the carriage, felt his master's wrist and heart, spoke
softly to Prince, and they drove on again--only past the corner--only to
the gate of the convent.
When it was opened, Pierre appeared at the carriage door. "Now,
Mademoiselle," he said. He half pulled, half lifted her over the
crushed fruit and flowers that were in her way--glanced in her face, to
see whether she had observed that the body fell behind her--carried her
in, and gave her, passive and stupified, into the arms of two nuns.
Seeing the abbess standing behind, he took off his hat, and would have
said something; but his lips quivered, and he could not.
"I will," said the lady's gentle voice, answering to his thought. "My
young daughter shall be cherished here."