“As,” said the abbess, “when he stopped in his journey to greet an old negro of ninety-nine, and reconcile to him two who had offended out of his many children. L’Ouverture is never in so much haste but that he can pause to honour old ago: never too busy for works of mercy. If the peace-makers are blessed, so is he.”
“And where,” continued the father, “where are the poor? We can observe his continual admonition to works of mercy, by nursing the sick, and consoling the afflicted; but we have no longer any poor. By his wisdom, he has won over all to labour. The fields are thronged with labourers: the bays are crowded with ships: the store-houses are overflowing with food and merchandise: and there is a portion for all.”
“And it was the French,” said Euphrosyne, “who made this last commotion. If they had let L’Ouverture alone, how happy we might all have been! Now, Génifrède will never be happy again. If L’Ouverture could only have forgiven this once! But, father, I have no comfort—and never shall have comfort, as long as I think that men have been murdered for injuring us.”
“Pray for comfort, my child. In prayer you will find consolation.”
“I dare not pray, now this has happened. If they were but alive, how I would pray for them!”
“They are alive, my daughter, and where they much need your prayers. Pray for them, and your intercession may be heard.”
Euphrosyne saw that her feelings were not understood; and she said no more. She listened to all the teachings that were offered her, and reserved her doubts and troubles for Afra’s ear. Afra would tell her whether it could be right in such a Christian as L’Ouverture to render violence for violence. As for what the father and the abbess said about the effect of example, and the necessity and the benefit of assuring and conciliating the whites, by sacrificing negro offenders for their sakes, she dissented from it altogether. She had witnessed Toussaint’s power—the power with which his spirit of gentleness and forbearance endowed him; and she believed that, if he would but try, he would find he could govern better by declaring always for the right and against the wrong, and leaving vengeance to God, than by the violent death of all the ignorant and violent men in the island. She would ask Afra. She was pretty sure Afra would think as she did: and, if so, the time might come—it made her breathless to think of it, but she could not help thinking of it every day—the time might come when she might ask Toussaint himself what he thought was exactly meant, in all cases, by forgiving our enemies; and particularly whether this did not extend to forgiving other people’s enemies, and using no vengeance and no violence at all.
This idea of seeing Afra gained strength under all the circumstances of her present life. If Father Gabriel offered her comfort which was no comfort, or reproved her when she did not feel herself wrong; if the abbess praised her for anything she had not designed to be particularly right; if the sisters applauded sayings which she was conscious were not wise; if her heart ached for her grandfather’s voice or countenance; if Monsieur Critois visited her, or Pierre did not; if her lesson in history was hard, or her piece of needle-work dull; if her flowers faded, or her bird sang so finely that she would have been proud for the world to hear it—the passion for seeing Afra was renewed. Afra would explain all she could not understand, would teach her what she wanted to know. Afra would blame her where she was aware she was wrong, instead of bidding her be quit of it with a few prayers, while laying much heavier stress upon something that she could cure much more easily. Afra wrote her a few letters, which were read by the abbess before they were delivered to her; and many more which. Pierre slipped into her hand during their occasional interviews. She herself wrote such prodigiously long letters to Afra, that to read them through would have been too great an addition to the reverend mother’s business. She glanced over the first page and the last; and, seeing that they contained criticisms on Alexander the Great, and pity for Socrates, and questions about flower-painting and embroidery, she skipped all that lay between.
It was not that Euphrosyne did not love and trust the abbess. She loved her so as to open to her all but the inner chambers of her heart; and she trusted her with all but other persons’ concerns. The middle pages of her letters contained speculation chiefly: speculation, in the first place, on Afra’s future destiny, names and events being shrouded under mysterious expressions; and, in the second place, on points of morals, which might be referred to Monsieur Pascal, whose opinion was of great value. Euphrosyne had a strong persuasion, all the while, that she should one day tell her reverend mother the whole. She knew that she should not object to her seeing every line that Afra held of hers. Whatever was clandestine in the correspondence was for the sake of avoiding restraint, and not because she was ashamed of any of her thoughts.
One morning the abbess found her in the garden, listlessly watching the hues of a bright lizard, as it lay panting in the sun. The abbess put her arm round her waist, while stooping to look.