“It was not so at Breda,” said Toussaint, smiling. “I was just speaking of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon will shine.—News, Monsieur Pascal?”
“News from Cap,” replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. “Bad news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost.”
“There is light enough,” said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight fell upon the page.
While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L’Ouverture that messengers had brought news of a quarrel at Cap—a quarrel between the races, unhappily, about Hédouville’s proclamation again;—a quarrel in which several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites were crying out for vengeance.
“No peace, as you say, Margot,” observed Toussaint, when he had run over the letters. “See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people require! The curse of slavery is still upon us.”
“How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?”
“I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing,” said Toussaint gloomily. “Monsieur Pascal—”
“Your horses are coming round,” said Pascal, “and I shall be there almost as soon as you.”
“Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Génifrède. Farewell!”
As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Génifrède standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.