“And you do not?” said Génifrède, timidly.
“I abhor them.”
“Oh! hush! hush! Speak lower. Does my father know this?”
“Why should he? If he once knew it—”
“Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for you; and we might live here, or on the shore.”
“My Génifrède, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks. I love your father. The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as we are strong. If I and others leave L’Ouverture alone to govern, and betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again be masters, and you and I, my Génifrède, shall be slaves. But you shall not be a slave, Génifrède,” he continued, soothing her tremblings at the idea. “The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like the shells on the sea-shore, before my Génifrède shall be a slave. I will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother’s breast, before any one of that race shall lay his grasp upon you. The whites never will, never shall again, be masters: but then, it must be by L’Ouverture having an army always at his command; and of that army I must be one of the officers. We cannot live here, or on the sea-shore, love, while there are whites who may be our masters. So, while I am away, you must pray Christ to humble the whites. Will you? This is all you can do. Will you not?”
“How can I, when my father is always exalting them?”
“You must choose between him and me. Love the whites with him, or hate them with me.”
“But you love my father. Moyse?”
“I do. I adore him as the saviour of the blacks. You adore him, Génifrède. Every one of our race worships him. Génifrède, you love him—your father.”