The door opened, and Euphrosyne entered, in excessive agitation.
“Madame,” she cried, gasping for breath, “do you hear that? Do you know what it is? They have shot General Moyse! Father Gabriel says so.—Oh no, no! L’Ouverture never would do anything so cruel.”
Sister Claire looked at the abbess.
“My daughter,” said the abbess, “L’Ouverture’s duty is to execute justice.”
“Oh, Génifrède! Poor, poor Génifrède! She will die too. I hope she is dead.”
“Hush, my child! Her life is in God’s hands.”
“Oh, how cruel! how cruel!” the girl went on, sobbing.
“What would L’Ouverture say,” interposed sister Claire, “if he knew that you, of all people, called him cruel? Have you to-day put on this?” she continued, calling Euphrosyne’s attention to her new mourning; “and do you call it cruel to execute justice on the rebels and their officers?”
“It is a natural and amiable grief in Euphrosyne,” said the abbess; “and if it is not quite reasonable, we can give her time to reflect. She is among friends, who will not report the words of her hours of sorrow.”
“You may—you may,” cried Euphrosyne. “You may tell the whole world that it is cruel to—to— They were to have been married so very soon!—Afra wrote me all about it.”