“But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse’s enmity towards the whites is mild and harmless—his passions moderation, compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ and cherish—would not this soften you—would it not hold your hand from inflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?”
“I leave it to no priest, Thérèse, but to God Himself, to vindicate His own justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before the eyes of men. He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishments too great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which the prison and the bullet are nothing. You speak of the tempest within the breast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years of imprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it. But no more of this! I only say, Thérèse, that while Jacques—”
“Say me too!”
“While Jacques and you secretly hate, I have no concern with it, except in my secret heart. But if that hatred, be it more or less than that of this young man, should interfere with my duty to friend or foe, you see, from his fate, that I have no mercy to grant. Jacques is my friend: Moyse was to have been my son.”
Neither could immediately speak. At length, Toussaint signed once more to the chamber-door, and once more said—
“Génifrède?”
“I have something to tell you—something to show you,” replied Thérèse. “Her sleep or stupor came upon her suddenly: but she kept a strong grasp upon the bosom of her dress. When I laid her on the bed, she kept her hands clasped one upon the other there. As she slept more heavily, the fingers relaxed; her hands fell, and I saw one end of this.”
She produced a phial.
“Ha! the red water!” exclaimed Toussaint.
“I thought it was,” said Thérèse.