“There are blacks in Paris, who look on,” replied Moyse, drily.
“And are there not whites too, from this island, who watch every movement?”
“Yes: and those whites are in the private closet, at the very ear of Bonaparte, whispering to him of L’Ouverture’s ambition; while your brothers penetrate no further than the saloon.”
“My brothers would lay down their lives for Bonaparte and France,” said Aimée; “and you speak treason. I am with them.”
“And with me,” said Vincent, in a whisper at her ear. “Where I find the loyal heart in woman, mine is ever loyal too.”
Aimée was too much excited to understand in this what was meant. She went on—
“Here is Monsieur Vincent, of our own race, who has lived here and at Paris—who has loved my father.—You love my father and his government?” she said, with questioning eyes, interrupting herself.
“Certainly. No man is more devoted to L’Ouverture.”
“Devoted to my father,” pursued Aimée, “and yet devoted to Bonaparte. He is above the rivalry of races—as the First Consul is, and as Isaac is.”
“Isaac and the First Consul—these are the idols of Aimée’s worship,” said Génifrède. “Worship Isaac still; for that is a harmless idolatry; but give up your new religion, Aimée; for it is not sound.”