Truce no more.
When Toussaint set foot on the deck of the Héros, on the evening of the next day, the commander stood ready to receive him—and not only the commander. Soldiers also stood ready with chains, with which they lost no time in fettering the old man’s ankles and wrists. While they were doing this, Toussaint quietly said to the commander—
“By my overthrow, the trunk of the tree of negro liberty is laid low; only the trunk. It will shoot out again from the roots; and they are many and deep.”
The moment the soldiers stepped back, and allowed access to him, Aimée was in his arms; and Isaac, in great agitation, presented himself.
“I will never leave you more, father!” said he. “These fetters! Nothing should have made me believe such treatment possible. I trusted Leclerc as firmly as I trusted you. I have been living with him while he meditated chains for you. I am humbled for ever! All I can do now is to devote myself to you, as Placide did at the right time. Would I were Placide! I am humbled for ever!”
“No, my son: not for ever. It is a common lot to be humbled for the credulous confidence of youth. It is a safer and a nobler error, Isaac, than its opposite. It is better than unbelief in the virtue of man.”
“You torture me with your goodness, father!”
“I deal with you as with myself, Isaac. In the young days of my freedom I trusted falsely, as you have done. I believed in Bonaparte, as you have believed in Leclerc. We have both received a lesson; but I do not feel humbled for ever; nor must you.”
“Would I were Placide!” was all that Isaac could say.
“You are so good to Isaac and me,” said Aimée, timidly, “that perhaps you would (could you?) see Vincent.”