Chapter Twenty Four.
All Ear.
Thérèse was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the bed on which lay Génifrède. 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, Thérèse 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. Thérèse 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 Thérèse. “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 Limbé. 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 Thérèse. “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. Thérèse 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 Thérèse, 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 Génifrède. 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 Thérèse. “Spare her.”
“Spare me?” repeated Génifrède 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 Génifrède. “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. Génifrède rushed back to the chamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Thérèse 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 Thérèse. 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 Thérèse, 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. Génifrède must have fled down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Thérèse hastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain, she saw the fluttering of her clothes.
“The reservoir!” thought Thérèse, in despair.
She was not mistaken. Génifrède 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 Génifrède.
“God forgive me!” he replied. “But we are all wretched.”
“You repent, then?” said Génifrède. “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, Génifrède; 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, Génifrède, 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, Génifrède,” 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. Thérèse, 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.