The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing eyes and listening ears. He was never long pent up in the city, or detained by affairs within the walls of his palace. His business lay abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on horseback, throughout every part of the island. Admirable as were his laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of every description, there was no security for the working of his system so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people. The same love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at home. There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.
At length, when Hédouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from another—when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain—it seemed to be time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to enjoy a little of it himself. He allowed his children, therefore, to fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the little island of Gonaïves, which was a beautiful object from the windows of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.
The excursion had answered completely. General Vincent, leaving the south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to enjoy his honours in the presence of L’Ouverture and his family. Madame Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc. As Afra was of the party, Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few hours. Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul himself. He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him; and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport. It was a day too soon gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at Pongaudin, at ten o’clock. The moon was high, the gardens looked lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys of the shrubbery.
“I want to know what you think,” exclaimed Madame L’Ouverture, as they emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay, clear and strong—“I want to ask you”—and as she spoke, she looked round to see that no one was at hand—“whether you do not think that General Vincent loves Aimée.”
“I think he does. I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it.”
“And are not you glad?”
“That partly depends on whether Aimée loves him. I doubt whether Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the matter as you are.”
“Aimée is not one who will ever show herself too ready— Aimée is very quiet—”
“Well, but, is she ready in her heart? Does she care about Vincent?”
“I do not know that she does quite, yet—though I think she likes him very much, too. But surely she will love him—she must love him—so much as he loves her—and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is, in every way!”