“Then they sent Saint Leger, the Irishman,” continued Moyse, “who kept his hand in every man’s pocket, whether black or white.”
Denis forthwith had his hands, one in Vincent’s pocket, the other in Azua’s. Azua, however, was drawing so fast that he did not find it out.
“Then there was Roume.”
“Roume. My father speaks well of Roume,” said Aimée.
“He was amiable enough, but so weak that he soon had to go home, where he was presently joined by his successor, Santhonax, whom, you know, L’Ouverture had to get rid of, for the safety of the colony. Then came Polverel. What the tranquillity of Saint Domingo was in his day we all remember.”
Denis took off Polverel, spying from his ship at the island, on which he dared not land.
“For shame, Denis?” said Aimée. “You are ridiculing him who first called my father L’Ouverture.”
“And do you suppose he knew the use that would be made of the word?” asked Génifrède. “If he had foreseen its being a tide, he would have contented himself with the obsequious bows I remember so well, and never have spoken the word.”
Denis was forthwith bowing, with might and main.
“Now, Denis, be quiet! Raymond, dear Raymond, came next;” and she looked up at Vincent as she praised his friend.