With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known throughout the island for his defence of the Étoile estate against Rigaud. Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his fitness for freedom. He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation, bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the Commander-in-chief—the idol of their colour. The heir of the Étoile estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim. Bellair, therefore, and two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.
Bellair hastened to lead Madame L’Ouverture’s horse round to the other side of the house, where no prickly vegetation was allowed to encroach. His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the colonnade—once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire, and at one end crumbling into ruins.
“Minerve!” cried Madame, on seeing her.
“Deesha is her name,” said Bellair, smiling.
“Oh, you call her by her native name! Would we all knew our African names, as you know hers! Deesha!”
Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the Ouverture family. Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of the abode—a corner of the palace-like mansion—a corner well covered in from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and luxury.
The courtyard through which they passed was strewed with ruins, which, however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out. The whole was shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once was. Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this natural ladder, when he was called back again. The jalousies were decayed—starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and the dew. The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the desolation. The gilding of the balustrades of the hall was tarnished; and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight and clean. The saloon to the right constituted the family dwelling. Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars. An alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking. The kitchen corner was partitioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise, and the blue rivers and gilt pagodas of China. The other partitions were the work of Bellair’s own hands, woven of bamboo and long grass, dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true African, acquainted. The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or with ladies’ work-boxes. The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair’s axe. On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden spoons, and knives with enamelled handles. A harp, with its strings broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall. It was altogether a curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.
The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its coolness might have appeared. At one side of the mansion was the colonnade, which engrossed the architect’s attention; on the other bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist—least of all those who were lovers. Moyse and his Génifrède stepped first to the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon lost sight of among the shrubs.
Génifrède had her sketch-book in her hand. She and her sister were here partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse. He snatched the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a garden-house which they passed, saying—
“You can draw while I am away. For this hour you are all my own.”