That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of Government-house—dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the long hours that she had sat there, Thérèse had been alone. Denis had entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to carry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know if he could not yet see Génifrède, to offer her consolation; and had withdrawn, when he found that Génifrède was not yet awake. Madame Dessalines’ maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and that little only in whispers. So Thérèse had been, for the most part, alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionally took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.
In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir, from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight walks met at this fountain—walks hedged in with fences of citron, geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell; and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur and the splash. Here Thérèse permitted herself the indulgence of the tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.
“These young creatures!” thought she. “What a lot! They are to be parted—wrenched asunder by death—by the same cause, for indulgence of the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my heart, and its last struggle—my bosom is quivering with it still. For this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had—alas! not forgetfulness of my child—but a home, and the good fame that a woman cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart—tender to me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which would startle Moyse himself—hates them so that he does not even strive, as I do, to remember that they are human—to be ready to give them the cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him: while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us—among us who, God knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Génifrède’s first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off—and further. God grant she may not have heard it!”
She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was no stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. From the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared not look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his solitude. Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat, and cover her eyes from the light. She was startled by the opening of the door from the corridor. It was L’Ouverture; and she rose, as every one habitually did, at his approach.
“Génifrède?” he said, anxiously, as he approached.
Thérèse pointed to the chamber, saying softly—
“She is there. I do not know what you will think of the means I have taken to procure her sleep. But she was so shaken—she so dreaded this night!”
“You have given her medicine. Is she asleep?”
“I gave her henbane, and she is asleep.”
“Is there a chance of her sleeping till noon?”