“Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the dark race? Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race! Will you not do this?”
“You talk absurdly, Thérèse. Do not trouble me with nonsense now. You will undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters the estates I have left to them by will. That is, in case of the blacks getting the upper hand. If they are put down, my will secures everything. Happily, my will is in safe hands. Speak, Thérèse. You engage for what I have just said?”
“As far as warranted by my knowledge of L’Ouverture and his intentions, I do. If, through his death or adversity, this resource should fail, your daughters shall not suffer while my husband and I have property.”
“Your husband! property! It is strange,” muttered Papalier. “I believe you, however, I trust you, Thérèse; and I thank you, love.”
Thérèse started at that old word—that old name. Recovering herself, she inquired—
“Have you more to ask of me? Is there any other service I can render you?”
“No, no. You have done too much for me—too much, considering the new order of affairs.”
“I have something to ask of you. I require an answer to one question.”
“You require!”
“I do. By the right of an outraged mother, I require to know who destroyed my child.”