“Can I do anything—listen to anything—so as to give you case? Shall I call father Gabriel? You may find comfort in speaking to him.”
“I want to speak to you first. I have not half done the business I came for: I have not half secured my estates for my daughters.”
“I believe you have. I know that L’Ouverture fully intends—”
“What does it matter what L’Ouverture intends? I mean no contempt to him by saying so. He intends very well, I dare say; but in the scramble and confusion that are at hand, what chance will my poor orphan girls have for their rights?”
“Fear nothing for them. If there is to be a struggle, there is no doubt whatever as to how it will end. The French army will be expelled—”
“You do not say so! You cannot think so!”
“I am certain of it. But the white proprietors will be as safe in person and property, as welcome to L’Ouverture, as during the years of his full authority. You were not here to see it; but the white proprietors were very happy, perfectly satisfied, during those years (at least, all of them who were reasonable men). I can undertake for L’Ouverture that your daughters’ income from their estates shall be sent to them at Paris, if you desire them to stay there; or the estates shall be sold for their benefit; or, if you will trust them to my care—”
“No, no! Impossible!”
“I am the wife of a general, and second to no woman in the island,” said Thérèse, calmly. “I have power to protect your daughters; and, in an hour like this, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that I have the will.”
“It cannot be, Thérèse. I do not doubt you—neither your word nor your will. But it is impossible, utterly.”