The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

by Harriet Martineau

“We will do what you will, my child, to-day. I feel strong enough to be your humble servant.”

“It is a splendid day, grandpapa. It must be charming at Le Bosquet. If I order the carriage now, we can get there before the heat; and we need not come home till the cool of the evening. We will fill the carriage with fruit and flowers for the abbess. May I order the carriage?”

Le Bosquet was only twelve miles off. They arrived when the cultivators were settling to their work after breakfast. It was now, as on every former occasion, a perplexity, an embarrassment to Euphrosyne, that the negroes lost all their gaiety, and most of their civility, in the presence of her grandfather. She could hardly wonder, when she witnessed this, at his intolerance of the very mention of the blacks, at his ridicule of all that she ever told him about them, from her own observation. When she was in any other company, she saw them merry, active, and lavish of their kindness and politeness; and whenever this occurred, she persuaded herself that she must have been mistaken the last time she and Monsieur Revel were at Le Bosquet, and that they ought to go again soon. The next time they went, there was the same gloom, listlessness, and avoidance on the part of the negroes; the same care on her grandfather’s that she should not stir a step without the escort of Pierre or the agent. He would not even let her go with Portia, the dairy-woman, to gather eggs; nor with little Sully, to see his baby-brother. She made up her mind that this was all wrong—that all parties would have been more amiable and happy, if there had been the same freedom and confidence that she saw on other estates. Poor girl! she little knew what was in all minds but her own—what recollections of the lash and the stocks, and hunger and imprisonment on the one hand, and of the horrors of that August night on the other. She little knew how generally it was supposed that she owed it to the grandfather whom she loved so much that she was the solitary orphan whom every one pitied.

It was, as Euphrosyne had said, a splendid day; and all went well. Monsieur Revel would not go out much; but as he sat in the shaded room, looking forth upon the lawn, the agent satisfied him with accounts of the prosperity of the estate, the fine promise of the cacao walks, and the health and regular conduct of the negroes. Euphrosyne showed herself from time to time, now in the midst of a crowd of children, now with a lapful of eggs, and then with a basket of fruit. In honour of the master and young mistress, the dinner was very superb, and far too long; so that the day had slipped away before Euphrosyne felt at all disposed to return. She was glad that the agent was engaged in a deep discussion with his employer when the carriage came round; so that she was able to make one more short circuit in the twilight while they were settling their point.

The gentlemen were talking over the two late proclamations—L’Ouverture’s and Hédouville’s. The agent wished that Hédouville had never come, rather than that he should have set afloat the elements of mischief contained in his proclamation. Monsieur Revel could not believe that a Commissary, sent out for the very purpose of regulating such matters, could have got very far wrong upon them; and besides, the proclamation had never been issued. Never formally issued, the agent said; but it had been circulated from hand to hand of those who were interested in its provisions. Some were, at that moment, preparing to act upon it; and he feared that mischief might come of it yet. It was certain that L’Ouverture knew more about claims to deserted estates, and about the proper regulations as to tillage, than any novice from France could know; and it was no less certain that he was ever more eager to gratify the whites than the blacks. It would have been by far the wisest plan to leave that class of affairs in the hands of the person who understood them best; and, if he was not much mistaken, the Government at home would yet rue Hédouville’s rashness in acting without so much as consulting L’Ouverture. Monsieur Revel was so amazed at finding that L’Ouverture was not only worshipped by romantic young ladies and freed negroes, but approved and confided in by such practical and interested whites as his own agent, that he could only say again what he said every day—that the world was turned upside down, and that he expected to be stripped, before he died, of Le Bosquet, and of everything else that he had; so that his poor child would be left dependent on the charity of France. To this the agent replied, as usual, that the property had never before been so secure, nor the estate so prosperous; and that all would go well, if only the Government at home would employ competent people to write its proclamations.

“Where is this child?” cried Monsieur Revel at last. “I am always kept waiting by everybody. It is dark already, and the carriage has been standing this hour. Where is she?”

“Mademoiselle is in the carriage,” said Pierre, from the hall. “I made Prince light the lamps, though he thinks we shall not want them.”

“Come, come! let us lose no more time,” said Monsieur Revel, as if every one had not been waiting for him.

Euphrosyne jumped from the carriage, where she had been packing her basket of eggs, her fruit, and her flowers, so that they might be out of her grandfather’s way. He could not admire any of them, and found them all in his way. While the road lay under the dark shadow of the groves on the estate, he cast anxious glances among the tall stems on which the carriage lamps cast a passing gleam. He muttered a surly good-night to the negroes who held open the gates; but, when the last of these swung-to, when the carriage issued upon the high road, and the plain lay, though dim in the starlight, yet free and lovely to the eye, while the line of grey sea was visible to the left, the old man’s spirits seemed to rise. It was seldom that he quitted the town; and when he did, and could throw off his cares, he was surprised to find how reviving were the influences of the country.

“It is a lovely night, really,” said he. “If you ever go to Paris, my dear, you will miss this starlight. There the stars seem to have shrunk away from you, a myriad of miles. Let those flowers be, child. Why may not I have the pleasure of smelling them? There! Let them lie. Who would believe that that sea, which looks so quiet now, will be rolling and dashing upon the beach in November, as if it meant to swallow up the plain? How it seems to sleep in the starlight! You found little Sully grown, my dear, I dare say.”