“He has disappeared from the city. He did not yield; but he could do nothing by himself, or with only his guard. He disappeared in the night, and is thought to have put off! by water. You will soon hear from him, I doubt not. Now I have told my news, and I am faint. Where is Thérèse?”
“She is here. Look more like yourself, and she shall be called. You have told all your news?”
“All; and I am glad it is out.”
“Keep up your heart, Dessalines! I have you and Henri; and God is with the faithful.—Now to your bed, my friend.”
Instead of the attendants who were summoned, Thérèse entered. She spoke no word, but aided by her servant, had her husband carried to his chamber. When the door was closed, sad and serious as were the tidings which had now to be acted upon, the secretary could not help asking L’Ouverture if he had ever seen Madame Dessalines look as she did just now.
“Yes,” he replied, “on certain occasions, some years since.—But here she is again.”
Thérèse came to say that her husband had yet something to relate into Toussaint’s own ear before he could sleep; but, on her own part, she entreated that she might first be permitted to dress his wounds.
“Send for me when you think fit, and I will come, madame. But, Thérèse, one word. I am aware that Monsieur Papalier is here. Do not forget that you are a Christian, and pledged to forgive injuries.”
“You think you read my thoughts, L’Ouverture; but you do not. Listen, and I am gone. His voice once had power over me through love, and then through hatred. I never miss the lightest word he speaks. I heard him tell his old friends from Cap that I was his slave, and that the time was coming when masters would claim their own again. Now you know my thoughts.”
And she was gone.