“Shame, Proteau! shame!” said Odeluc, as he bent down, and saw that the negro was dying. Papalier, Bayou, and a few more, cried “Shame!” also; while others applauded.
“I will defend my deed,” said Proteau, struggling with the hoarseness of his voice, and pouring out a glass of wine to clear his throat. His hand was none of the steadiest as he did so. “Hush that band! There is no hearing oneself speak. Hush! I say; stop!” and swearing, he passionately shook his fist at the musicians, who were still making the air of the Marseillaise peal through the room. They instantly stopped, and departed.
“There! you have sent them out to tell what you have done,” observed a deputy.
“I will defend my deed,” Proteau repeated, when he had swallowed the wine, “I am confident the negroes have risen. I am confident the fellow came with bad intent.”
“No fear but the negroes will rise, anywhere in the world, where they have such as you for masters,” said Odeluc.
“What do you mean, sir?” cried Proteau, laying his hand on the hilt of his dripping sword.
“I mean what I say. And I will tell you, too, what I do not mean. I do not mean to fight to-night with any white: and least of all with one who is standing in a pool of innocent blood, of his own shedding.” And he pointed to Proteau’s feet, which were indeed soaked with the blood of his slave.
“Hush! hush! gentlemen!” cried several voices. “Here is more news!”
“Hide the body!” said Bayou, and as he spoke he stooped to lift it. Monsieur Brelle made shorter work. He rolled it over with his foot, and kicked it under the table. It was out of sight before the master of the hotel entered, followed by several negroes from the plain, to say that the “force” had risen on several plantations, had dismantled the mills, burned the sugar-houses, set fire to the crops, murdered the overseers, and, he feared, in some cases, the proprietors.
“Where?” “Whose estates?” “What proprietors?” asked every voice present.