“It is but seldom that she does,” said the abbess, “and it is our part to make her welcome.”
“But seldom, indeed, reverend mother. When all goes well—when the crops are fine, and the island all at peace, no one hears of Madame Ogé. She keeps within her coffee-groves—”
“Mourning her sons,” interposed the abbess. “But,” continued the nun, “when any disaster is about to happen, we have notice of it by Madame Ogé coming abroad. She came to this very house the first day of the meeting of the deputies, in that terrible August of ninety-one. She came a day or two before the rising against Hédouville. She came the night before the great hurricane of ninety-seven—”
“That was an accident,” said the abbess, smiling. “Then you think it is not by accident that she always comes out before misfortunes happen?” asked Euphrosyne, trembling as she spoke.
“By no means, my dear. It is easily explained. Madame Ogé looks upon her sons as martyrs in the cause of the mulattoes. When all goes well, as all has done, under L’Ouverture’s rule, with only a few occasional troubles—fewer and slighter than might have been expected during such a change in society as we have witnessed—when all goes well, Madame Ogé feels that her sons are forgotten; and, as my daughter Benoite says, she mourns them alone in the shades of her coffee-groves. She seems, however, to have means of information which persons less interested have not: and when she has reason to believe that troubles will ensue, she hopes that the names of her sons will once more be a watchword, for the humiliation of both blacks and whites; and she comes forth with her hungry maternal heart, and her quick maternal ear, to catch the first echo of the names which are for ever mingled with her prayers.”
“Can she mingle those names with her prayers, and yet not forgive?”
“My child, is it not so with us all? Do we not pray for our enemies, and ask to be forgiven as we forgive, and come out from our closets with ears open to the fresh slanders of the day, and hearts ready to burn at the thought of old injuries? It might be well for us, if we had the excuse of this wretched woman, whose woes have been such as might naturally have shaken her reason, and prostrated her will. If there be any above others with whom God will be long suffering, it is with the mother whose children have been torn from her arms to be tortured and destroyed, and their very names made a term of reproach.”
“You think something is going to happen?”
“As my daughter Benoite says, on one occasion there was a hurricane. To-morrow the sun may rise, or there may be a cloud in the sky.”
“Nay, but—” said sister Benoite.