Chapter Sixteen.
Dreaming Awake.
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 fête 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?”
The girls made a gesture of terror. Both said eagerly—
“He is in great danger; indeed, indeed he is.”
“Where are the soldiers?” asked Euphrosyne. “Do send for them directly: and ask him to lock himself up in the safest place till they come.”
“Tell me what you mean, and then—”
“I think he is in danger, now the white rulers are gone, from the people of my colour,” said Afra: “and I fear, this very night.”
“Do you mean that they intend to murder him?”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps to seize him, and send him to Rigaud;—and that will be only a slower murder.”
“But how—”
“I will tell you. Euphrosyne and I sat rather late behind the jalousies, in the dark, to see the people bring in flowers and fruit from the country for the morning. I saw many mulattoes in the walk; but none of them had fruit or flowers. I watched them. I know their ways, their countenances, and their gestures. I saw they were gloomy and angry; and I found out that it is with L’Ouverture. They were plotting mischief, I am certain.”
“But why so suddenly?—why to-night?”
“So we thought at first; and we went to rest, intending to tell L’Ouverture to-morrow. But the more we thought and talked about it, the more uneasy we grew. We were afraid to go to sleep without telling some one in this wing; so we stole along the corridors in the dark, and saw that there was a light in this library, and ventured to look in, hoping it might be L’Ouverture himself.”
“He is asleep in a room near. I will waken him. You are not afraid to stay here a few moments, while I am gone?”
“Oh, no.”
“He may wish to question you himself.”
“Tell him,” said Afra, speaking rapidly, “that the mulattoes are jealous of him, because they think he wants to have all the power in his own hands. They say—‘There go the ships! There are no whites in power now. So much the better! But here is Raymond displaced, and L’Ouverture is all in all. We shall have every office filled with blacks; and the only chance for our degraded colour is in the fields or in the removal of this black.’ Tell him this: but oh! be sure you tell him my father and I do not agree in one word of it.”
“She would do anything in the world to save him,” said Euphrosyne.
“You are dear as a daughter to him,” said Monsieur Pascal, with eyes of love, as he left them.
“I wish I was sure of that,” said Afra. “But what can be done, Euphrosyne? He has no guard! And my father is not here, nor any one to help us! I fancy every moment I hear them coming.”
“I am not much afraid,” said Euphrosyne, her teeth chattering all the while. “He is so powerful! He never seems to want anybody to protect—scarcely to help him.”
“But asleep! After midnight! Think of it! If they should seize him and bind him before he is awake!”
This fear was removed by his appearance, dressed, and like himself. He smiled at the girls, offered them each an arm, and said he had a sight to show them, if they would look at it without speaking. He led them in the dark to a window, whence they looked down upon a courtyard, which was full of soldiers, awake and armed. In another moment, Toussaint was conducting them along the corridors, towards their own apartments, “You knew!” whispered Afra. “We need not have come. I believe you always know everything.”
“I suspected a plan to prevent the publishing of the amnesty to-morrow, and the filling up the offices of the colony with blacks. I suspected, but was not certain. Your intelligence has confirmed me.”
“What will happen?” asked Euphrosyne, trembling. “Will anybody be killed?”
“Not to-night, I trust. You may go to rest secure that no blood will be spilled to-night; and to-morrow, you know, is a holy-day. If you hear a step in the corridor of this your wing, do not be alarmed. I am going to send one of my own guard.”
He left them at their door, after standing to hear them fasten it inside.
The girls kept awake as long as they could, calling each other’s attention to every fancied noise. They could be sure of nothing, however, but of the march of the sentinel along the corridor. They both slept at last, and were wakened in broad daylight by the gouvernante, who entered in great trepidation, to say that there had been a plot against the Commander-in-chief;—that the window of his chamber had been entered at two o’clock by a party of mulattoes, who had all been seized by L’Ouverture’s soldiers. How it came to end so—how soldiers enough happened to be at hand at the right moment—how it was all done without fighting, without noise enough even to break her rest (and she always know if anybody stirred)—the gouvernante could not tell. All she knew was, that L’Ouverture was the most considerate creature in the world. As soon as the eleven mulattoes who had been taken were put into confinement, L’Ouverture had sent one of his own guards into her corridor to prevent her being alarmed for herself and her young charge.