Thérèse did not yet seem quite clear why this event had determined the moment of her application for Génifrède’s assistance. She was agitated. She could only say that Génifrède had nursed Dessalines well; and she must have her help again now.
“You will go, Génifrède,” said her father; “that Madame Dessalines may be at liberty to nurse Monsieur Papalier herself.”
“No, no,” said Thérèse, trembling. Génifrède also said “No.”
“You would not have me nurse him?” said Thérèse. “Any one else! Ask me to save Rochambeau. Send me to Tortuga, to raise Leclerc from the brink of the grave; but do not expect me to be his nurse again.”
“I do hope it from you. I expect it of you, when you have considered the tenfold mercy of nursing him with your own hands. Think of the opportunity you will give him of retrieving wrongs, if he lives, and of easing his soul, if he dies. How many of us would desire, above all things, to have those whom we have injured beside our dying pillow, to make friends of them at last? Let Monsieur Papalier die grateful to you, if he must die; and give him a new heart towards you, if he survives.”
“It was not this that I intended,” said Thérèse. “Génifrède will do everything, under my care. You shall have my help, Génifrède.”
“No,” said Génifrède. “Do not play the tempter with me. Find some one else. You will have much to answer for, if you make me go.”
“What temptation, Génifrède?” asked her mother.
“Do not press her,” said Toussaint, who read his child’s mind. “You shall not be urged, Génifrède.”
“You do not know—I myself do not know,” said Génifrède, hurriedly, to Madame Dessalines, “what might happen—what I might be tempted to do. You know—you have read what some nurses did in the plague at Milan—in the plague in London—in the night—with wet cloths—”