Therese was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the
bed on which lay Genifrede. The room was so darkened that nothing was
to be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless,
unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life were
falling fast into ruins around her. It seemed treacherous, cruel, thus
to beguile her of that tremendous night--to let those last hours of the
only life she prized pass away unused--to deprive her of the last
glances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death--of the
latest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more. It seemed
an irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and to
substitute for them a blank and barren sleep. But it was done. It was
done to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and she
could not now be wakened to any purpose. With sickening heart, Therese
saw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east. In a few
minutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only the
gleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life. Brief
as was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of light
appeared so hasty, so peremptory as now. By the rousing up of the
birds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of the
flowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretched
children, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled. Therese
resolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lest
light and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused too
soon.
As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher's nerves were
so stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat,
she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wing
in the gardens, reached her ear. She heard at intervals the tap of a
distant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms--not in a
volley from the Place d'Armes, as she had expected, but further off, and
mere dropping shot. This occurred so often, that she was satisfied it
was not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knew
whether to feel relieved or not. The door from the corridor presently
opened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from her
face. She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could give
her news. Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end.
When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interrupted
her, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.
"Tell me--only tell me," said she, "whether it is over."
"Not the principal execution--it is about going forward now. I came
away--I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more."
"You saw L'Ouverture?" said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.
Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relieve
his mind as she was eager to hear.
"I saw," said he, "what I never could have conceived of, and would never
have believed upon report. I have seen man as a god among his
fellow-men."
A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines' face, through its
agony.
"It was too touching, too mournful to be endured," resumed Monsieur
Pascal. "The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my
dying hour. Never was man idolised like L'Ouverture. For him, men go
willingly to their deaths--not in the excitement of a common danger; not
for glory or for a bright future--but solitary, in ignominy, in the
light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon
them. Without protest, without supplication--as it appears, without
objection--they stoop to death at his word."
"I do not know--I do not understand what has been done," said Therese.
"But does not every black know that L'Ouverture has no private
interests--nothing at heart but the good of us all?"
"That is the spell," replied Pascal. "This sacrifice of his nephew will
confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. These
thirteen others--for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for
dereliction of duty in the late rising--these thirteen are from the
garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbe.
All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon
the Place. L'Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He told
them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning
from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to
lead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection due
to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the
primary duty of a liberated race--that of keeping the peace. They knew
their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should
suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knew
that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L'Ouverture
walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you,
Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant
death, there was passionate love in every face."
"I believe it," said Therese. "And he?"
"He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see. He is ten
years older since last night. He spoke aloud the names of the most
guilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him,
and the committee, of investigation."
"And no one of the thirteen resisted?"
"Not one. One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humbly
before him, and repaired where he pointed--to be shot. There was a
spell upon me. I could not come away, though feeling at every moment as
if I could endure no more. I did not, however, stay to see General
Moyse brought out--"
As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at a
distance, followed by a volley of musketry.
"That is it," cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone. Therese sank back
upon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head. She desired, in
the sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.
She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened.
She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon's soft voice,
saying--
"Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is Mademoiselle
L'Ouverture?"
"She is asleep," said Therese, rousing herself--"asleep, if indeed she
be not dead. If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpet
of doom will scarcely reach her soul."
This last sound had roused Genifrede. She did not recognise it; she was
not aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed it
night, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with a
confused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door to
the salon. There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, and
looking doubtful whether to advance or go back.
"My daughter--" said Father Laxabon. She came forward with a docile and
wistful look. "My daughter," he continued, "I bring you some comfort."
"Comfort?" she repeated, doubtingly.
"Not now, Father," interposed Therese. "Spare her."
"Spare me?" repeated Genifrede in the same tone.
"I bring her comfort," said the father, turning reprovingly to Madame
Dessalines. "His conflict is over, my daughter," he continued,
advancing to Genifrede. "His last moments were composed; and as for his
state of mind in confession--"
He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot,
and supported himself against the wall. Genifrede rushed back to the
chamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Therese was there
in an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it might
be thought, no one could resist--
"Let me in, love! It is Therese. No one else shall come. If you love
me, let me in."
There was no answer.
"You have killed her, I believe," she said to the priest, who was
walking up and down in great disturbance--not with himself, but with the
faithless creature of passion he had to deal with.
"The windows!" exclaimed Therese, vexed not to have thought of this
before. She stepped out upon the balcony. One of the chamber-windows
was open, and she entered. No one was there. Genifrede must have fled
down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Therese
hastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain,
she saw the fluttering of her clothes.
"The reservoir!" thought Therese, in despair.
She was not mistaken. Genifrede stood on the brink of the deep and
brimming reservoir--her hands were clasped above her head for the
plunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistibly
back. In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.
"They say," she screamed, "that every one worships you. Not true now!
Never true more! I hate--I curse--"
He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed
her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering
and muttering.
"That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should have
interfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily,
while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her,
holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.
"This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lying
under it!"
"Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.
"God forgive me!" he replied. "But we are all wretched."
"You repent, then?" said Genifrede. "Well you may! There are no more
such, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it is
too late now."
"I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."
"There are no more such," pursued she. "He was gallant."
"He was."
"He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."
"He was, my child."
"And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proud
smile.
"He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."
"Such a soldier!" she dreamed on. "War was his sport, while I trembled
at home. He had a soldier's heart."
Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had
not appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to her
feet.
"You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father. "With Madame
Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."
"Home!" she exclaimed with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said,
hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise. I wish you joy
of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your
paradise!"
She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Therese,
who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father's care, now
intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint,
who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief
prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Having
acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too
hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation
which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a
life of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where,
for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairs
of the citizens of Cap. The steadiness of his attention to business was
felt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wandering
thoughts.