And true enough, François found his defiance went for little, for, with Gerard’s help, Michelle screened him in, and he was not allowed the diversion of watching what went on outside the counterpanes which served as partitions to shut off his bed from the rest of the room. His chatter sometimes sank into a murmur, but he talked incessantly, while Lendert lay docility itself.
“She is distraught, is Mère Michelle,” Alaine told Pierre that same afternoon, “so distraught that I do not dare tell her the news of my father, nor what I intend to do when these two are well. I cannot leave her now, it would be too cruel, but I intend to rescue him, Pierre. I have told no one, not even Gerard, nor Papa Louis, what I mean to do.”
Pierre looked down at her concernedly. “And what is it, Alaine?”
“I mean to go to Guadaloupa. Surely they will accept me in my father’s stead, one as young and strong as I.”
He gave a smothered groan. “You know not of what you speak, Alaine. Once there you and he would both be restrained. You cannot, must not attempt it.”
The tears gathered in Alaine’s eyes. “But my father, I cannot let him remain bound when I go free. They will take me, Pierre. You surely do not think they would not do it.”
His eyes had a far-off look in them as she went on. “You have been so peaceful, so happy here,” he said.
“I cannot be happy now; I can never be happy while he is there. I should be content, I would serve joyfully, if he were free. All my life there will be that misery at my heart if he dies an engagé and I make no effort to free him.”
“What is your plan?” Pierre asked after a silence.
“I thought to go to Manhatte to find a ship sailing for the islands and touching at Guadaloupa. I have a little money, and I could earn more. I would sell anything I possess to add to the sum to pay my passage, and once there I would find my father’s master. Oh, Pierre,—his master! You know what that means, for you have escaped from one. I would say, Here am I, young, strong, and willing; take me and let my father go.”