"Stand where you are, Therese; there, at the foot of the bed! Stir not
an inch without my leave? I have let you have your own way too much of
late. I call for hours, and you never come. I will not let you out of
my sight again?"
So said Monsieur Papalier in the delirium of his fever, as Madame
Dessalines was nursing him in his chamber at Saint Marc. It was a sad
and dreary office; but she had motive to go through with it. The more
he wandered back in his talk to the old days, the more strongly she felt
herself called upon to use the present generously. The more imperious
the tone of command with which he addressed her, the more easily could
she pass over the error. There was a degree of pleasure in giving
momentary case to him, while he could not recognise the hand that
bestowed it. She dreaded, however, for the sake of both, an hour of
sanity. If he slept for a short interval, she feared to hear him speak
coherently on his waking; and the more because little or no chance of
his recovery remained. The thought of his carrying forward into the
hour of death the insolent temper of his life was terrible. She almost
hoped that, if he were to die, it would be without having been aware
that he and his nurse were no longer master and slave.
She was his sole nurse. There was no alternative between this and her
not being with him at all. It was impossible to allow any servant, any
stranger, to hear his talk of old times--to witness the mode in which he
addressed her. Except the physician, no one but herself entered his
chamber during his waking hours.
She now sat, as he desired, full in his view, at the foot of the bed,
encouraging repose by her stillness, and gladly turning from the ghastly
countenance of the dying man to the scene without--visible in all its
splendour, as the room had a north aspect, and the window stood wide, to
admit the breathing wind from the sea. The deep blue sea, under the
heaven of a lighter blue, looked glorious from the shaded apartment.
The rustle of the trees in the courtyard, and the fall of water there,
spoke of coolness, and seemed to make themselves heard by the patient
even in the midst of the fever-flames by which he was consumed, for he
spoke of trees and fountains, and fancied himself at Arabie. He asked
Therese to sing; and told her what to sing. She did not wish to refuse;
she would have indulged him; but there was a choking in her throat which
forbade it. Papalier was not long peremptory. From commanding, his
voice sank to complaining; from complaining, to the muttering of
troubled slumber; and, at length, into the silence of sleep.
Therese sat still, as before, looking out upon the sea, till its
brightness, combined with the whispers of foliage and waters, made her
eyes heavy, and disposed her to sleep too. Leaning back against the
bed-post, she was dreaming that she was awake, when she heard her name
so called that she awoke with a start. Papalier was himself again, and
was demanding where he was, and what had been the matter. He felt the
blister on his head; he complained of the soreness and stiffness of his
mouth and tongue; he tried to raise himself, and could not; and, on the
full discovery of his state, he wept like a child.
Gently, but not tenderly, did Therese endeavour to comfort him. He had
irrecoverably forfeited her tenderness. Gentle, however, she was, as
she told him that his state now, however painful, was better than an
hour ago, when he was unconscious of it. Gentle was her hand, when she
wrapped fresh, cool leaves round his burning head. Gentle was her
voice, when she persuaded him to drink. Gentle was the expression of
her eye, when she fixed its gaze upon his face, and by its influence
caused him to check, like a child, the sobs that shook his frame.
"Therese," said he, "I am dying. I feel that I am dying. Oh! what must
I do?"
"We must wait upon God's pleasure. Let us wait in quiet. Is there
anything that can give you quiet of mind or body?"
Tears stole again from the heavy, closing eyes.
"We are all familiar with the end of our lives, almost from their
beginning," said Therese. "There is nothing strange or surprising in
it. The great thing is to throw off any burden--any anxiety--and then
to be still. An easy mind is the great thing, whether recovery is at
hand, or--"
"Do not talk of recovery. I shall not recover."
"Can I do anything--listen to anything--so as to give you case? Shall I
call father Gabriel? You may find comfort in speaking to him."
"I want to speak to you first. I have not half done the business I came
for: I have not half secured my estates for my daughters."
"I believe you have. I know that L'Ouverture fully intends--"
"What does it matter what L'Ouverture intends? I mean no contempt to
him by saying so. He intends very well, I dare say; but in the scramble
and confusion that are at hand, what chance will my poor orphan girls
have for their rights?"
"Fear nothing for them. If there is to be a struggle, there is no doubt
whatever as to how it will end. The French army will be expelled--"
"You do not say so! You cannot think so!"
"I am certain of it. But the white proprietors will be as safe in
person and property, as welcome to L'Ouverture, as during the years of
his full authority. You were not here to see it; but the white
proprietors were very happy, perfectly satisfied, during those years (at
least, all of them who were reasonable men). I can undertake for
L'Ouverture that your daughters' income from their estates shall be sent
to them at Paris, if you desire them to stay there; or the estates shall
be sold for their benefit; or, if you will trust them to my care--"
"No, no! Impossible!"
"I am the wife of a general, and second to no woman in the island," said
Therese, calmly. "I have power to protect your daughters; and, in an
hour like this, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that I have the
will."
"It cannot be, Therese. I do not doubt you--neither your word nor your
will. But it is impossible, utterly."
"Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the dark
race? Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race! Will you
not do this?"
"You talk absurdly, Therese. Do not trouble me with nonsense now. You
will undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters the
estates I have left to them by will. That is, in case of the blacks
getting the upper hand. If they are put down, my will secures
everything. Happily, my will is in safe hands. Speak, Therese. You
engage for what I have just said?"
"As far as warranted by my knowledge of L'Ouverture and his intentions,
I do. If, through his death or adversity, this resource should fail,
your daughters shall not suffer while my husband and I have property."
"Your husband! property! It is strange," muttered Papalier. "I believe
you, however, I trust you, Therese; and I thank you, love."
Therese started at that old word--that old name. Recovering herself,
she inquired--
"Have you more to ask of me? Is there any other service I can render
you?"
"No, no. You have done too much for me--too much, considering the new
order of affairs."
"I have something to ask of you. I require an answer to one question."
"You require!"
"I do. By the right of an outraged mother, I require to know who
destroyed my child."
"Say nothing of that, Therese. You should know better than to bring
such subjects before a dying man."
"Such subjects lie before the dead. Better to meet them prepared--
atoned for, in as far as atonement is yet possible. For your own sake,
and by my own right, I require to be told who destroyed my child?"
"I did not, Therese."
"You did not! Is it possible? Yet in this hour you could not deceive
me. I have accused you of the deed, from that hour to this. Is it
possible that I have wronged you?"
"I do not say that I disapproved of it--that I did not allow it. But I
did not do it."
"Then you know who did it?"
"Of course I do."
"Who was it?"
"I swore long ago that I would not tell; and I never will. But you may
lay the blame on me, my dear; for, as I told you, I permitted the deed.
It was necessary. Our lives depended on it."
"May you not find your eternal death depend on it!" said Therese,
agonised by suspicions as to whose hand it was by which her child had
died. In a moment, she formed a resolve which she never broke--never
again to seek to know that which Papalier now refused to tell. A glance
at the countenance before her filled her with remorse the next instant,
at what now seemed the cruel words she had just spoken.
"Let me bring Father Gabriel to you," said she. "He will give you
whatever comfort God permits."
"Do not suppose I shall tell Father Gabriel what you want to discover,"
replied Papalier. "He has no business with more than my share of the
affair: which is what you know already. I am too weak to talk--to
Father Gabriel, or any one else."
"But you need comfort. You will rest better afterwards."
"Well, well; in the evening, perhaps. I must be quiet now. Comfort,
indeed!" he muttered. "Yes, I want comfort enough, in the horrid
condition I am in. But there is no comfort till one lies dead. I wish
I were dead."
He fell into a restless doze. Moved by his misery and melted by the
thought that she had wronged him, all these years, by harbouring the
image of his hand on her infant's throat--distracted, too, by the new
doubts that had arisen--Therese prayed and wept, wept and prayed, on
behalf of Papalier and all sinners. Again and again she implored that
these wretched hatreds, those miserable strifes, might be all hushed in
the grave,--might be wholly dissolved in death.
She was just stealing to the door, intending to send for Father Gabriel,
that he might be in readiness for the dying man's confession, when
Papalier started, cast his eyes round the room hurriedly, and
exclaimed--
"It is in vain to talk of attaching them. If one's eye is off them for
one moment--Oh! _you_ are there, Therese! I thought, after all I had
done for you--after all I had spent upon you--I thought you would not go
off with the rest. Don't go--Therese--Therese!"
"I am here," said she, perceiving that he no longer saw.
"I knew you would stay," he said, very faintly. "I cannot spare you, my
dear."