Chapter Twenty Two.
A Lover’s Love.
This new violence had for its object the few whites who were rash and weak enough to insist on the terms of Hédouville’s intended proclamation, instead of abiding by that of L’Ouverture. The cultivators on the estates of these whites left work, rather than be reduced to a condition of virtual slavery. Wandering from plantation to plantation, idle and discontented, they drew to themselves others who, from any cause, were also idle and discontented. They exasperated each other with tales, old and new, of the tyranny of the whites. Still, further mischief might have been prevented by due vigilance and firmness on the part of him in whose charge the town and district of Cap Français now lay. Stories, however, passed from mouth to mouth respecting General Moyse—anecdotes of the words he had dropped in dislike of the whites—of the prophecies he had uttered of more violence before the old masters would be taught their new place—rumours like these spread, till the gathering mob at length turned their faces towards the town, as if to try how far they might go. They went as far as the gates, having murdered some few of the obnoxious masters, either in their own houses, or, as in the case of Monsieur Revel, where they happened to meet them.
On the Haut-du-Cap they encountered General Moyse coming out against them with soldiery. At first he looked fierce; and the insurgents began to think each of getting away as he best might. But in a few moments, no one seemed to know how or why, the aspect of affairs changed. There was an air of irresolution about the Commander. It was plain that he was not really disposed to be severe—that he had no deadly intentions towards those he came to meet. His black troops caught his mood. Some of the inhabitants of the town, who wore on the watch with glasses from the gates, from the churches, and from the roofs of houses, afterwards testified to there having been a shaking of hands, and other amicable gestures. They testified that the insurgents crowded round General Moyse, and gave, at one time cheers, at another time groans, evidently on a signal from him. No prisoners were made—there was not a shot fired. The General and his soldiers returned into the town, and even into their quarters, protesting that no further mischief would happen, but the insurgents remained on the heights till daylight; and the inhabitants, feeling themselves wholly unprotected, sent off expresses to the Commander-in-Chief, and watched, with arms loaded, till he, or one of his more trustworthy Generals, should arrive. These expresses were stopped and turned back, by order of General Moyse, who ridiculed the idea of further danger, and required the inhabitants to be satisfied with his assurances of protection. Fortunately, however, one or two messengers who had been sent off a few hours before, on the first alarm, had reached their destination, while General Moyse was yet on the Haut-du-Cap.
The first relief to the anxious watchers was on seeing the heights gradually cleared at sunrise. The next was the news that L’Ouverture was entering the town, followed by the ringleaders from Limbé, whom he was bringing in as prisoners. He had proceeded directly to the scene of insurrection, where the leaders of the mob were delivered up to him at his first bidding. It now remained to be seen what he would do with those, within the town, high or low in office, who were regarded by the inhabitants as accessories.
This kind of speculation was not abated by the sight of L’Ouverture, as he passed through the streets. Grave as his countenance usually was, and at times melancholy, never had it been seen so mournful as to-day. Years seemed to have sunk down upon him since he was last seen—so lately that the youngest prattler in the Cap had not ceased to talk of the day. As he walked his horse through the streets, many citizens approached, some humbly to ask, others eagerly to offer information. With all these last he made appointments, and rode on. His way lay past Monsieur Revel’s door; and it happened to be at the very time that the funeral (an affair of hurry in that climate) was about to take place. At the sight, L’Ouverture stopped, opposite the door. When the coffin was brought out, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered till it moved on, when he turned his horse, and followed the train to the corner of the street. There were many present who saw his face, and by whom its expression of deep sorrow was never afterwards forgotten. When he again turned in the direction of Government-house, he proceeded at a rapid pace, as if his purposes had been quickened by the sight.
His aides, who had been dispersed on different errands, entered the town by its various avenues; and some of them joined him in the Jesuits’ Walk. At the gate of Government-house he was received by General Moyse, who had been almost the last person in Cap to hear of his arrival. L’Ouverture acknowledged his military greeting; and then, turning to his aides, said in a calm tone, which yet was heard half-way down the Walk, and thence propagated through the town, as if by echoes—
“General Moyse is under arrest.”
As Moyse was moving off towards the apartment in which he was to be guarded, he requested an interview with the Commander-in-Chief.
“After your business with the court-martial is concluded,” was the reply. “On no account before.”
General Moyse bowed, and proceeded to his apartment.
For some hours after, there was every indication of the rapid transaction of business in Government-house. Messengers were sent to Fort Dauphin, to the commanding officer at Limbé, and to every military station within thirty miles. Orders were issued for the garrison of Cap to be kept close within their quarters. Not a man was to be allowed, on any pretence whatever, to pass the barrack-gates, which were well-guarded by the Commander-in-Chief’s own guards, till troops for the service of the town could arrive from Fort Dauphin. As L’Ouverture was closeted with his secretary, message after message was reported; letter upon letter was delivered by his usher. Among these messages came, at length, one which made him start.
“Mademoiselle L’Ouverture begs to be permitted to see General Moyse.”
Before he could reply, a note by another messenger was put into his hands.
“I implore you to let me see Moyse. I do not ask to see you. I do not wish it. I will disturb no one. Only give me an order to see Moyse—for his sake, and that of your unhappy
“Génifrède.”
Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by the countenances of his servants to the room where Génifrède was lying, with her face hidden, upon a sofa. Denis was standing silent at a window which overlooked the Walk. Both were covered with dust from their journey.
Génifrède looked up, on hearing some one enter. When she saw that it was her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only—
“Oh, why did you come?”
“Stay, my child, why did you come? How—why—”
“I always know,” said she, “when misery is near; and where misery is, there am I. Do not be angry with Denis, father. I made him come.”
“I am angry with no one, Génifrède. I am too much grieved to be angry. I am come to take you to Moyse. I cannot see him myself, at present; but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is.”
“The salon!” said Génifrède, as if relieved. She had probably imagined him chained in a cell. This one word appeared to alter the course of her ideas. She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated. Her father said—
“I will send a servant to you. Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour I will come again.”
When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appeared far less wretched than before.
“Génifrède!” cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall, unable to go farther. “Génifrède! And was not that your father who admitted you? Oh, call him, Génifrède! Call him back! I must see him. If you ask him, he will come. Call him back, Génifrède!”
“If you are engaged, Moyse,” said she in a sickening voice, “if I am in your way, I will go.”
“No, no, my love. But I must see your father. Everything may depend upon it.”
“I will go—as soon as I can,” said the poor girl, beginning to sink to the floor.
“You shall not go, my love—my Génifrède,” cried Moyse, supporting her to a sofa. “I did not know—I little thought— Are you all here?”
“No; I came to see you, Moyse. I told you how it would be if we parted.”
“And how will it be, love?”
“Oh, how can you make me say it? How can you make me think it?”
“Why, Génifrède, you cannot suppose anything very serious will happen. What frightens you so? Once more I ask you the old question that we must both be weary of—what frightens you so?”
“What frightens me!” she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face. “Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from your command here? And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial—and that trial for—for—for your life?”
“Never believe so, Génifrède! Have they not told you that the poor blacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me? They did not do a single act of violence after I went to them. Not a hand was raised when they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour, they all went to their homes.”
“Oh, is it so? Is it really so? But you said just now that everything depended on your seeing my father.”
“To a soldier, his honour, his professional standing, are everything—”
Seeing a painful expression in Génifrède’s face, he explained that even his private happiness—the prosperity of his love, depended on his professional honour and standing. She must be as well aware as himself that he was now wholly at her father’s mercy, as regarded all his prospects in life; and that this would justify any eagerness to see him.
“At his mercy,” repeated Génifrède; “and he is merciful. He does acts of mercy every day.”
“True—true. You see now you were too much alarmed.”
“But, Moyse, how came you to need his mercy? But two days ago how proud he was of you! and now—Oh! Moyse, when you knew what depended on these few days, how could you fail?”
“How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for? He should have seen—”
“Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us so miserable. Let us go to your father. He will let us live at Saint Domingo in peace.”
Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at Saint Domingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was, he could not live where there were whites.
“How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hédouville went away? He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next to himself, you saved the town—that many whites owed their lives and their fortunes to you.”
“I repent,” cried Moyse, bitterly, “I repent of my deeds of that day. I repent that any white ever owed me gratitude. I thank God, I have shaken them off, like the dust from my feet! Thank God, the whites are all cursing me now!”
“What do you mean? How was it all?” cried Génifrède, fearfully.
“When Hédouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself, that I might gain you, as your father promised. This prospect, so near and so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces from white. For the hour, one passion put the other out.”
“And when—how soon did you begin to forget me?” asked Génifrède, sorrowfully.
“I have never forgotten you, love—not for an hour, in the church among the priests—in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as a prisoner. But I thought my point was gained when your father stooped from his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at home on hearing of my charge. I doubted no more that all was safe. Then I heard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbé—acting as if Hédouville was still here to countenance them. I saw exultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap. The poor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, stared at me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if—”
“Was his grandchild with him? She was? Then he was laughing at some of her prattle. Nothing else made him even smile.”
“It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function. I was growing more angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbé. I knew it was forced on by the whites. I knew the mischief was begun by Hédouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expected that I should draw the sword for them against our own people? Could I have done so, Génifrède?”
“Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword at all?”
“That was what I did. I went out to meet the insurgents; and the moment they saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returned to quietness, and to their homes. Not another blow was struck.”
“And the murderers—what did you do with them?”
Moyse was silent for a moment, and then replied—
“Those may deal with them who desire to live side-by-side with whites. As for me, I quarrel with none who avenge our centuries of wrong.”
“Would to God my father had known that this was in your heart! You would not then have been a wretched prisoner here. Moyse, the moment you are free, let us fly to the mornes. I told you how it would be, if we parted. You will do as I wish henceforward; you will take me to the Mornes?”
“My love, where and how should we live there? In a cave of the rocks, or roosting in trees?”
“People do live there—not now, perhaps, under my father’s government: but in the old days, runaways did live there.”
“So you would institute a new race of banditti, under your father’s reign. How well it will sound in the First Consul’s council-chamber, that the eldest daughter of the ambitious Commander-in-Chief is the first bandit’s wife in the mornes!”
“Let them say what they will: we must have peace, Moyse. We have been wretched too long. Oh, if we could once be up there, hidden among the rocks, or sitting among the ferns in the highest of those valleys, with the very clouds between us and this weary world below—never to see a white face more! Then, at last, we could be at peace. Everywhere else we are beset with this enemy. They are in the streets, in the churches, on the plain. We meet them in the shade of the woods, and have to pass them basking on the sea-shore. There is no peace but high up in the mornes—too high for the wild beast, and the reptile, and the white man.”
“The white man mounts as high as the eagle’s nest, Génifrède. You will not be safe, even there, from the traveller or the philosopher, climbing to measure the mountain or observe the stars.—But while we are talking of the free and breezy heights—”
“You are a prisoner,” said Génifrède, mournfully. “But soon, very soon, we can go. Why do you look so? You said there was no fear—that nothing serious could happen—nothing more than disgrace; and, for each other’s sake, we can defy disgrace. Can we not, Moyse? Why do not you speak?”
“Disgrace, or death, or anything. Even death, Génifrède. Yes—I said what was not true. They will not let me out but to my death. Do not shudder so, my love: they shall not part us. They shall not rob me of everything. You did well to come, love. If they had detained you, and I had had to die with such a last thought as that you remained to be comforted, sooner or later, by another—to be made to forget me by a more prosperous lover—O God! I should have been mad!”
“You are mad, Moyse,” cried Génifrède, shrinking from him in terror. “I do not believe a word you say. I love another!—they kill you! It is all false! I will not hear another word—I will go.”
To go was, however, beyond her power. As she sank down again, trembling, Moyse said in the imperious tone which she both loved and feared—
“I am speaking the truth now. I shall be tried to-night before a court-martial, which will embody your father’s opinion and will. They will find me a traitor, and doom me to death upon the Place. I must die—but not on the Place—and you shall die with me. In one moment, we shall be beyond their power. You hear me, Génifrède? I know you hear me, though you do not speak. I can direct you to one, near at hand, who prepares the red water, and knows me well. I will give you an order for red water enough for us both. You will come—your father will not refuse our joint request—you will come to me as soon as the trial is over; and then, love, we will never be parted more.”
Génifrède sat long with her face hidden on her lover’s shoulder, speechless. After repeated entreaties that she would say one word, Moyse raised her up, and, looking in her face, said authoritatively—
“You will do as I say, Génifrède?”
“Moyse, I dare not. No, no, I dare not! If, when we are dead, you should be dead to me too! And how do we know? If, the very next moment, I should see only your dead body with my own—if you should be snatched away somewhere, and I should be alone in some wide place—if I should be doomed to wander in some dreadful region, calling upon you for ever, and no answer! Oh, Moyse! we do not know what fearful things are beyond. I dare not; no, no, I dare not! Do not be angry with me, Moyse!”
“I thought you had been ready to live and die with me.”
“And so I am—ready to live anywhere, anyhow—ready to die, if only we could be sure— Oh! if you could only tell me there is nothing beyond—”
“I have little doubt,” said Moyse, “that death is really what it is to our eyes—an end of everything.”
“Do you think so? If you could only assure me of that— But, if you were really quite certain of that, would you wish me to die too?”
“Wish it! You must—you shall,” cried he, passionately. “You are mine—mine for ever; and I will not let you go. Do not you see—do not you feel,” he said, moderating his tone, “that you will die a slow death of anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Place strikes upon your ear? You cannot live without love—you know you cannot—and you shall not live by any other love than mine. This little sign,” said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from his pocket-book, “This little sign will save you from the anguish of a thousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days of despair. Take it. If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in my name, you will receive what will suffice for us both. Take it, Génifrède.”
She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.
“You do not care for me,” said Moyse, bitterly. “You are like all women. You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everything for you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut out your lover into the storm.”
Génifrède was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of his love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:—
“If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did you not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what for? If you had put it to my lips—if you had not given me a moment to fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it—oh, so thankfully! But now—I dare not.”
“You are not afraid to live without me.”
“Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying—of everything.”
“You once asked me about—”
“I remember—about your spirit coming.”
“Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?”
“Why did you not kill me? You know I should have been thankful. I wish the roof would fall and bury us now.”
She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door. It was her father’s servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived, and that L’Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend. The servant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only for another word.
“Remember,” said Moyse, “they are not to seduce or force you back to Pongaudin to-day. Remember, you are not fit to travel. Remember,” he again said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into her bosom, “you come to me as soon as the trial is over. I depend upon you.”
He led her, passive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand, saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, “For once, I cannot accompany you further. Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay my respects to her soon.” He added, to the servant—
“See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L’Ouverture’s orders, till I need his services myself.”
The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission to discharge for a prisoner. Before he had closed the door, Génifrède was in the arms of Thérèse.