That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of
Government-house--dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at
the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one
lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the long
hours that she had sat there, Therese had been alone. Denis had
entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to
carry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know
if he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and had
withdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake. Madame
Dessalines' maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress
the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not
quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and
that little only in whispers. So Therese had been, for the most part,
alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionally
took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the
slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen
at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace
the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with
looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.
In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose
waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir,
from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and
fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight
walks met at this fountain--walks hedged in with fences of citron,
geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every
one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far
different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The
chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any
intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell;
and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur
and the splash. Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of the
tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.
"These young creatures!" thought she. "What a lot! They are to be
parted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence of
the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same
priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile
the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my
heart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still. For
this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! not
forgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a woman
cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart--tender to
me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a
station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which
would startle Moyse himself--hates them so that he does not even strive,
as I do, to remember that they are human--to be ready to give them the
cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they
grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh
at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at
Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him:
while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely
to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us--among us who, God knows,
are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when
Genifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that
trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence
that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off--and further. God
grant she may not have heard it!"
She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was no
stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. From
the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the
shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared not
look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the
officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his
solitude. Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat,
and cover her eyes from the light. She was startled by the opening of
the door from the corridor. It was L'Ouverture; and she rose, as every
one habitually did, at his approach.
"Genifrede?" he said, anxiously, as he approached.