Vincent was off to see it. He found the drawing party more eager in conversation than about their work. Aimée was saying as he approached—
“General Vincent declares that he is as affectionate to us as if we were the nearest to him of all the children of the empire.—Did you not say so?” she asked, eagerly. “Is not the First Consul’s friendship for us real and earnest? Does he not feel a warm regard for my father? Is he not like a father to my brothers?”
“Certainly,” said Vincent. “Do not your brothers confirm this in their letters?”
“Do they not, Génifrède?” repeated Aimée.
“They do; but we see that they speak as they think: not as things really are.”
“How can you so despise the testimony of those who see what we only hear of?”
“I do not despise them or their testimony. I honour their hearts, which forget injuries, and open to kindness. But they are young; they went from keeping cattle, and from witnessing the desolations of war here, to the first city of the world, where the first men lavish upon them instructions, and pleasures, and flatteries; and they are pleased. The greatest of all—the First of the Whites, smiles upon the sons of the First of the Blacks; and their hearts beat with enthusiasm for him. It is natural. But, while they are in Paris, we are in Saint Domingo; and we may easily view affairs, and judge men differently.”
“And so,” said Aimée, “distrust our best friends, and despise our best instructors; and all from a jealousy of race!”
“We think the jealousy of race is with them,” said Moyse, bitterly. “There is not a measure of L’Ouverture’s which they do not neutralise—not a fragment of authority which they will yield. As to friends, if the Consul Bonaparte is our best friend among the Whites, may we be left thus far friendless!”
“You mean that he has not answered my father’s letters. Monsieur Vincent doubts not that an answer is on the way. Remember, my brothers have been invited to his table.”