Chapter Twenty Eight.
Many Guests.
For some weeks after the appearance of the fleet upon the coast, nothing took place which could be called war. Toussaint was resolved not to be the aggressor. Prepared at all points, he waited till those whom he still regarded as his fellow-citizens should strike the first blow. He was the more willing to leave an opening for peace till the last, that he heard that ladies were on board—ladies from the court of France, come to enjoy the delights of this tropical paradise. The sister of Bonaparte, Madame Leclerc, the wife of the commander of the expedition, was there. It seemed scarcely conceivable that she and her train of ladies could have come with any expectation of witnessing such a warfare as, ten years before, had shown how much more savage than the beasts of the forest men may be. It was as little conceivable that they could expect the negroes to enter into slavery again at a word, after having enjoyed freedom, and held rule for ten years. There must still be hope of peace; and Toussaint spared no effort to preserve it, till the strangers should declare their intentions by some unequivocal act.
For this object, L’Ouverture appeared gifted with ubiquity. No flying Arab was ever in so many places so nearly at once. Pongaudin, like every other estate which was in friendly hands, was a sort of camp. Here the Commander-in-chief and his officers had their head-quarters; and here he was to be found, at intervals of a few hours. During those intervals, he was inspecting the fortifications of Saint Marc, one of the strongest places of the island, and under the charge of Dessalines; or he was overlooking the bight of Leogane, from behind Port-au-Prince; or he was visiting L’Étoile, made a strong post, and held by Charles Bellair and his wife (for Deesha would not leave her husband);—or he was riding through the mornes to the north, re-animating, with the sight of his beloved countenance, the companies there held in reserve. He was on the heights of the Gros Morne, an admiring spectator, on occasion of that act of Christophe which was the real cause of the delay and indecision of Leclerc and his troops.
The main body of the French army was preparing to land, immediately on its arrival at Cap Français, when Christophe sent his friend and brother officer, Sangos, on board the fleet, to acquaint Leclerc with the absence of the Commander-in-chief of the colony, without whose permission the landing of troops could not be allowed. If a landing by force were attempted, the city would immediately be fired, and the inhabitants withdrawn. General Leclerc could not believe this to be more than an empty threat; but thought it as well to avoid risk, by landing in the night at points where he was not looked for. Accordingly, he sent some of his force on shore at Fort Dauphin, to the east; while he himself, with a body of troops, set foot on the fatal coast which he was never to leave, at Le Limbé, on the western side of the ridge which commanded the town, hoping to drop into the military quarter from the heights, before he was looked for. From these heights, however, he beheld the town one mass of fire. Christophe had withdrawn the inhabitants, including two thousand whites, who were to be held as hostages in the interior; and so orderly and well-planned had been his proceedings, that not the slightest personal injury was sustained by any individual. Of this conflagration, Toussaint had been a witness from the heights of Gros Morne. The horror which it occasioned was for the strangers alone. All the movable property of the citizens was safe in the interior: and they were all safe in person. The dismay was for the French, when they found only a burning soil, tumbling roofs, and tottering walls, where they had expected repose and feasting after the ennui of a voyage across the Atlantic. For the court ladies, there existed at present only the alternative of remaining on board the ships, of which they were heartily weary, and establishing themselves on the barren island of Tortuga, the home of the buccaneers of former days. They shortly after took possession of Tortuga, which they found to be a tropical region indeed, but no paradise. It was not the best season for turtle; and there was no other of the luxuries whose savour had reached the nostrils of the court of France.
Among the two thousand whites removed from Cap were, of course, the ladies of the convent. They were safely established under shelter of the fortifications of Saint Marc, with all their little comforts about them, and their mocking-bird as tuneful as when hanging in its own orange-tree. Euphrosyne was not with them—nor yet with her guardian. Monsieur Critois had enough to do to protect himself and his lady; and he earnestly desired his ward to be thankful that she had friends among the ruling powers. Euphrosyne needed no commands on this head. She joined Madame Pascal, and was now with her and the secretary in the half-camp, half-household of Pongaudin.
Besides the family and establishment of the Commander-in-chief, as many of the white gentry of Cap were accommodated as the country palace of Pongaudin would contain. It seemed doubtful how long they would have to find amusement for themselves there; for the invaders seemed to have fallen asleep. A month had passed since the burning of Cap, and not another step had been taken. Expectation had begun to be weary. The feverish watching for news had begun to relax; the ladies no longer shuddered at the bare idea of walking in the shrubberies; and some of the younger damsels had begun to heed warnings from L’Ouverture himself not to go out of bounds—by no means to pass the line of sentinels in any direction. Instead of everything French being spoken of with a faltering voice, any one was now welcome who might be able to tell, even at second or third hand, that Madame Leclerc had been seen, and what she wore, and how she looked, and what she had said, either about the colony or anything else. The officers, both civil and military, found themselves able to devote their powers of entertainment more and move to the ladies; and the liability to be called off in the midst of the game of chess, the poem, the song, or the dance, seemed only to make their attentions more precious, because more precarious, than those of the guests who knew themselves to be hostages, and who had abundance of time for gallantry, if only they had had spirits and inclination. Most of the party certainly found the present position of affairs very dull. The exceptions were few. They were poor Génifrède, whose mind was wholly in the past, and before whose eyes the present went forward as a dim dream; her mother and sister, whose faculties were continually on the stretch to keep up, under such circumstances, the hospitalities for which they were pledged to so large a household; the secretary and his bride, who were engrossed at once with the crisis in public affairs and in their own; and Euphrosyne, who could find nothing dull after the convent, and who unconsciously wished that, if this were invasion and war, they might last a good while yet.
One evening, the 8th of February, was somewhat remarkable for L’Ouverture being not only at home, but at leisure. He was playing billiards with his officers and guests. It followed of course that General Vincent was also present. It followed of course; for whether it was that Toussaint felt the peculiar interest in him which report made observers look for towards an intended son-in-law, or whether the chief distrusted him on account of his fondness for Paris and the First Consul, Vincent was for ever kept under the eye, and by the side of his General. Aimée was wont to sigh when she heard her father’s horse ordered; for she know that Vincent was going too; and she now rejoiced to see her father at the billiard-table; for it told her that Vincent was her own for the evening.
Vincent was not slow in putting in his claim. At the first moment, when they were unobserved, he drew her to the window, where the evening breeze blew in, fragrant and cool; then into the piazza; then across the lawn; then down to the gate which opened upon the beach. He would have gone further; but there Aimée stopped, reminding him of the general order against breaking bounds.
“That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have their eyes upon us,” said Vincent. “But we are not prisoners; and there is not a prisoner abroad to-night. Come—only as far as the mangroves! We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate in two minutes.”
“I dare not,” said Aimée, with a longing look, however, at the pearly sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in the gleam of the moon. The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a little way on. It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she still said, “I dare not.”
“Who is there?” cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.
“No strangers, Claude. Any news on your watch?”
“None, Mademoiselle.”
“All quiet over towards Saint Marc?” inquired Vincent.
“All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports came round, ten minutes ago.”
“Very well: pass on, good Claude. Come, come!” he said to Aimée; “who knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!”
He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be within hearing. Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a broad smile, and did not object.
Once among the mangroves, Aimée could not repent. Their arched branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air. The moonlight quivered on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among their roots.
“Now, would you not have been sorry if I had not made you come?” said Vincent.
“If we could only stay—stay here for ever!” she exclaimed, leaning back against the bush under which they sat. “Here, amidst the whispering of the winds and the dash of the waters, you would listen no more for the roll of the drum, or the booming of cannon at Saint Marc. I am weary of our life at Pongaudin.”
“Weary of rumour of wars, before we have the wars themselves, love.”
“We can never hear anything of my brothers while we are on these terms with France. Day after day comes on—day after day, and we have to toil, and plan, and be anxious; and our guests grow tired, and nothing is done; and we know that we can hear nothing of what we most want to learn. I am certain that my mother spends her nights in tears for her boys; and nothing is so likely to rouse poor Génifrède as the prospect of their coming back to us.”
“And you yourself, Aimée, cannot be happy without Isaac.”
“I never tried,” said she. “I have daily felt his loss, because I wished never to cease to feel it.”
“He is happier than you, dearest Aimée.”
“Do not tell me that men feel such separations less than women; for I know it well already. I can never have been so necessary to him as he is to me; I know that well.”
“Say ‘was,’ my Aimée. The time comes when sisters find their brothers less necessary to them than they have been.”
“Such a time has never come to me, and I believe it never will. No one can ever be to me what Isaac has been.”
“‘Has been;’—true. But see how times have changed! Isaac has left off writing to you so frequently as he did—”
“No, no. He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write as I wrote to him.”
“Well, well. Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such apologies were necessary—”
“How dare you— What right have you to pry into my heart?” exclaimed Aimée, withdrawing herself from her companion’s side.
“The right of love,” he replied, following till both were seated on the very verge of the water. “Can you suppose that I do not see your disappointment when L’Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change when you see it? Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?—happiness which makes me feel of no account to you—happiness which makes me jealous of my very brother—for my brother he is, as he is yours.”
“It should not do that,” replied Aimée, as she sat looking into the water. “You should not be angry at my being happy. If you have learned so much of my thoughts—”
“Say on! Oh, say on!”
“There is no need,” said she, “if you can read the soul without speech, as you seem to profess.”
“I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself. I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides. If you care for me, I need to hear it from yourself.”
“If this quarrel comes to bloodshed, what will become of my brothers? If you love me, tell me that.”
“Still these brothers!” cried Vincent, impatiently.
“And who should be inquired of concerning them, if not you? You took them to France; you left them there—”
“I was sent here by Bonaparte—put on the deputation by his express command. If not, I should not now have been here—I should have remembered you only as a child, and—”
“But Placide and Isaac! Suppose Leclerc and Rochambeau both killed—suppose Madame Leclerc entering once more into her brother’s presence, a mourning widow—what would Bonaparte do with Placide and Isaac? I am sure you have no comfort to give me, or you would not so evade what I ask.”
“I declare, I protest you are mistaken. Bonaparte is everything that is noble, and gracious, and gentle.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Nay, why not? Have I not always said so? and you have delighted to hear me say so.”
“I should delight to believe it now. I will believe it; but yet, if he were really noble, how should this quarrel have arisen? For, if ever man was noble, and gracious, and gentle, my father is. If two such men come to open defiance, whose is the crime, and wherein does it lie?”
“If the world fall to pieces, Aimée, there can be no doubt of Bonaparte’s greatness. What majesty he carries with him, through all his conquests! How whole nations quail under his magnificent proclamations!”
“Are they really fine? I have seen but few; and they—”
“Are they not all grand? That proclamation in Egypt, for instance, in which he said he was the Man of Fate who had been foretold in the Koran, and that all resistance was impious and vain! If it had not happened four years before Bonaparte went to Egypt, I should have thought your father—”
“I was just thinking of that. But there is a great difference. It was not my father, but Laveaux, who said that the black chief, predicted by Raynal, had appeared. And it was originally said, not as a divine prophecy, but because, in the natural course of things, the redeemer of an oppressed race must arise. Besides, my father says nothing but what he believes; and I suppose Bonaparte did not believe what he was saying.”
“Do you think not? For my part, I believe his very words—that to oppose him is impious and vain.”
“Heaven pity us, if that be true! Was it not in that proclamation that Bonaparte said that men must account to him for their secret thoughts, as nothing was concealed from him?”
“Yes; just as L’Ouverture told the mulattoes in the church at Cap that, from the other side of the island, his eye would be upon them, and his arm stretched out, to restrain or punish. He almost reached Bonaparte’s strain there.”
“I like my father’s words the best, because all understood and believed what he said. Bonaparte may claim to read secret thoughts; but before my father, men have no secret thoughts—they love him so that their minds stand open.”
“Then those Italian proclamations, and letters to the Directory,” said Vincent; “how they grew grander, as city after city, and state after state, fell before him! When he summoned Pavia to open her gates to him, after her insurrection, how imperious he was! If he had found that a drop of French blood had been shed, he declared not a stone of the city should have remained; but a column should arise in its place, bearing the inscription, ‘Here once stood Pavia!’ There spoke the man who held the ages in his hand, ready to roll them over the civilised world—to crumble cities, and overthrow nations, in case of resistance to his will! How Paris rang with acclamations when these words passed from mouth to mouth! He was worshipped as a god.”
“It is said,” sighed Aimée, “that Leclerc has proclamations from him for our people. I wonder what they are, and how they will be received.”
“With enthusiasm, no doubt. When and where has it been otherwise? You shudder, my Aimée; but, trust me, there is inconceivable folly in the idea of opposing Bonaparte. As he said in Egypt, it is impious and vain. Trust me, love, and decide accordingly.”
“Desert my father and my family in their hour of peril! I will not do that.”
“There is no peril in the case, love; it is glory and happiness to live under Bonaparte. My life upon it, he will do your father no injury, but continue him in his command, under certain arrangements; and, as for the blacks, they and the whites will join in one common enthusiasm for the conqueror of Europe. Let us be among the first, my Aimée! Be mine; and we will go to the French forces—among my friends there. It is as if we were called to be mediators; it is as if the welfare of your family and the colony were, in a measure, consigned to our hands. Once married, and with Leclerc, how easily may we explain away causes of quarrel! How completely shall we make him understand L’Ouverture! And how, through us, Leclerc can put your father in possession of the views of Bonaparte: Oh, Aimée, be mine, and let us go!”
“And if it were otherwise—if it came to bloodshed—to deadly warfare?”
“Then, love, you would least of all repent. Alone and desolate—parted from your brothers—parted from me.”
“From you, Vincent?”
“Assuredly. I can never unsheath my sword against those to whom my attachment is strong. I can never fight against an army from Paris—troops that have been led by Bonaparte.”
“Does my father know that?”
“He cannot know me if he anticipates anything else. I execute his orders at present, because I admire his system of government, and am anxious that it should appear to the best advantage to the brother-in-law of the First Consul. Thus, I am confident that there will be no war. But, love, if there should be, you will be parted for ever from your brothers and from me, by remaining here—you will never again see Isaac. Nay, nay! No tears! no terrors, my Aimée! By being mine, and going with me to that place where all are happy—to Paris—you will, through my interest, best aid your father; and Isaac and I will watch over you for ever.”
“Not a word more, Vincent! You make me wretched. Not a word more, till I have spoken to my father. He must, he will tell me what he thinks, what he expects—whether he fears. Hark! There are horsemen!”
“Can it be? Horsemen approaching on this side? I will look out.”
“No, no! Vincent, you shall not go—”
Her terror was so great that Vincent could not indeed leave her. As the tramp of a company of horsemen became almost lost on quitting the hard road for the deep sand, he dropped his voice, whispering in her ear that she was quite safe, completely hidden under the mangroves, and that he would not leave her. She clasped his hand with both hers, to compel him to keep his word, and implored him not to speak—not to shake a leaf of their covert.
The company passed very near; so near as that the sand thrown up by the horses’ feet pattered among the foliage of the mangroves. No one of the strangers was then speaking; but in another moment the sentry challenged them. They laughed, and were certainly stopping at the little gate.
“We know your master, fellow,” said one. “We have had more talk with him in one day than you in all your service.”
“I am sure I ought to know that voice,” whispered Aimée, drawing a long breath.
The strangers were certainly intending to pass through the gate into the grounds; and the sentry was remonstrating. In another moment he fired, as a signal. There was some clamour and laughter, and Aimée started, as at a voice from the grave.
“That is Isaac’s voice!” she exclaimed, springing from her seat. It was now Vincent’s turn to hold her hands, or she would have been out in the broad moonlight in an instant.
“Stay, love! Stay one moment,” he entreated. “I believe you are right; but let me look out.”
She sank down on the sand, while he reconnoitred. At the moment of his looking forth, a young man who, he was certain, was Placide, was good-humouredly taking the sentry by the shoulders, and pushing him from his place, while saying something in his ear, which made the poor soldier toss his hat in the air, and run forward to meet his comrades, whom the sound of his gun was bringing from every direction, over the sands.
“It is they, indeed,” said Vincent. “Your brothers are both there.”
While he was speaking, Aimée burst from the covert, made her way miraculously through the gathering horses and men, pushed through the gate, leaving her lover some way behind, flew like a lapwing through the shrubbery, and across the lawn, was hanging on her brother’s neck before the news of the arrival was understood within the house.
There was no waiting till father and mother could choose where to meet their children. The lads followed the messenger into the salon, crowded as it was with strangers. L’Ouverture’s voice was the first heard, after the sudden hush.
“Now, Heaven bless Bonaparte for this!” he cried, “and make him a happy father!”
“Hear him, O God! and bless Bonaparte!” sobbed Margot.
A check was given to their words and their emotions, by seeing by whom the young men were accompanied. Thérèse was leading forward Génifrède, when she stopped short, with a sort of groan, and returned to her seat, forgetful at the moment even of Génifrède; for Monsieur Papalier was there. Other gentlemen were of the company. The one whom the young men most punctiliously introduced to their father was Monsieur Coasson, the tutor, guardian, or envoy, under whose charge General Leclerc had sent them home.
Toussaint offered him a warm welcome, as the guardian of his sons; but Monsieur Coasson himself seemed most impressed with his office of envoy: as did the gentlemen who accompanied him. Assuming the air of an ambassador, and looking round him, as if to require the attention of all present, Monsieur Coasson discharged himself of his commission, as follows:—
“General Toussaint—”
“They will not acknowledge him as L’Ouverture,” observed Thérèse to Madame Pascal and Génifrède. Afra’s eyes filled with tears. Génifrède was absorbed in contemplating her brothers—both grown manly, and the one looking the soldier, the other the student.
“General Toussaint,” said Coasson, “I come, the bearer of a letter to you from the First Consul.”
In his hand was now seen a gold box, which he did not, however, deliver at the moment.
“With it, I am commissioned to offer the greetings of General Leclerc, who awaits with anxiety your arrival at his quarters as his Lieutenant-General.”
“Upon what does General Leclerc ground his expectation of seeing me there?”
“Upon the ground of the commands of the First Consul, declared in his proclamation to the inhabitants of Saint Domingo, and, no doubt, more fully in this letter to yourself.”
Here he delivered the box, desiring that the presence of himself and his companions might be no impediment to General Toussaint’s reading his dispatches.
Toussaint had no intention that they should be any hindrance. He read and re-read the letter, while all eyes but those of Aimée were fixed upon his countenance. With an expression of the quietest satisfaction, she was gazing upon her brothers, unvexed by the presence of numbers, and the transaction of state business. They were there, and she was happy.
Those many eyes failed to discover anything from the countenance of Toussaint. It was immovable; and Monsieur Coasson was so far disappointed. It had been his object to prevent the dispatches which he brought from being road in private, that he might be enabled to report how they were received. He had still another resource. He announced that he had brought with him the proclamation of the First Consul to the inhabitants at large of Saint Domingo. As it was a public document, he would, with permission, read it aloud. Toussaint now looked round, to command attention to the words of the ruler of France. Vincent sought to exchange glances with Aimée; but Aimée had none to spare. Monsieur Papalier had unceremoniously entered into conversation with some of the guests of his own complexion, and did not cease upon any hint, declaring to those about him, that none of this was new to him, as he was in the counsels of Bonaparte in all Saint Domingo affairs. The tone of their conversation was, however, reduced to a low murmur, while Monsieur Coasson read aloud the following proclamation:—
“Paris, November 8, 1801.
“Inhabitants of Saint Domingo,
“Whatever your origin or your colour, you are all French: you are all equal, and all free, before God, and before the Republic.
“France, like Saint Domingo, has been a prey to factions, torn by intestine commotions and foreign wars. But all has changed: all nations have embraced the French, and have sworn to them peace and amity: the French people have embraced each other, and have sworn to be all friends and brothers. Come also, embrace the French, and rejoice to see again your European friends and brothers!
“The government sends you the Captain-General Leclerc. He has brought—”
Here Monsieur Coasson’s voice and manner became extremely emphatic.
“He has brought sufficient force for protecting you against your enemies, and against the enemies of the Republic. If you are told that these forces are destined to violate your liberties, reply, ‘The Republic will not suffer them to be taken from us.’
“Rally round the Captain-General. He brings you abundance and peace. Rally all of you around him. Whoever shall dare to separate himself from the Captain-General will be a traitor to his country; and the indignation of the country will devour him, as the fire devours your dried canes.
“Done at Paris,” etcetera.
“This document is signed, you will perceive,” said Monsieur Coasson, “by the First Consul, and by the Secretary of State, Monsieur H.B. Maret.”
Once more it was in vain to explore the countenance of L’Ouverture. It was still immovable. He extended his hand for the document, saying that he would retire with his secretary, for the purpose of preparing his replies for the First Consul, in order that no such delays might take place on his part, as the date of the letter and proclamation showed to have intervened on the other side. Meantime, he requested that Monsieur Coasson, and all whom he had brought in his company, would make themselves at home in his house; and, turning to his wife and family, he commended his newly arrived guests to their hospitality. With a passing smile and greeting to his sons, he was about to leave the room with Monsieur Pascal, when Monsieur Coasson intimated that he had one thing more to say.
“I am directed, General Toussaint,” said he, “in case of your refusal to join the French forces immediately, to convey your sons back to the guardianship of the Captain-General Leclerc: and it will be my duty to set out with them at dawn.”
A cry of anguish broke forth from Margot, and Placide was instantly by her side.
“Fear nothing,” said Toussaint to her, in a tone which once more fixed all eyes upon him. His countenance was no longer unmoved. It was convulsed, for a moment, with passion. He was calm in his manner, however, as he turned to Monsieur Coasson, and said, “Sir, my sons are at home. It rests with myself and with them, what excursions they make henceforth.”
He bowed, and left the room with Monsieur Pascal.