She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened. She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon’s soft voice, saying—
“Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is Mademoiselle L’Ouverture?”
“She is asleep,” said Thérèse, rousing herself—“asleep, if indeed she be not dead. If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpet of doom will scarcely reach her soul.”
This last sound had roused Génifrède. She did not recognise it; she was not aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed it night, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with a confused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door to the salon. There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, and looking doubtful whether to advance or go back.
“My daughter—” said Father Laxabon. She came forward with a docile and wistful look. “My daughter,” he continued, “I bring you some comfort.”
“Comfort?” she repeated, doubtingly.
“Not now, Father,” interposed Thérèse. “Spare her.”
“Spare me?” repeated Génifrède in the same tone.
“I bring her comfort,” said the father, turning reprovingly to Madame Dessalines. “His conflict is over, my daughter,” he continued, advancing to Génifrède. “His last moments were composed; and as for his state of mind in confession—”
He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot, and supported himself against the wall. Génifrède rushed back to the chamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Thérèse was there in an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it might be thought, no one could resist—