“I will keep it from breaking, father, trust me.”
And the mother and daughter tasted something like happiness, even in an hour like this, in their re-union. It was a strange kind of comfort to Aimée to hear from her mother how long ago her father had foreseen, at Pongaudin, that the day might come when her heart would be torn between her lover and her family. The impending blow had been struck—the struggle had taken place: and it only remained now to endure it.
“Father!” said Génifrède, appealing to Toussaint, with a grave countenance, “you say that none but brave and steady souls must go with you on your way to martyrdom. You know me to be cowardly as a slave, and unstable as yonder boat now tossing on the waves. Do you see that boat, father?”
“Surely—yes; it is Paul;” said Toussaint, looking through his glass. “Paul is coming to say farewell.”
“Let me return with him, father. Let me become his child. I am unworthy to be yours. And he and I are so forlorn!”
Her father’s tender gaze encouraged her to say more. Drawing closer, she whispered—
“I have seen Moyse—I have seen him more than once in the Morne; and I cannot leave this place. Let me stay.”
“Stay, my child. Seek consolation in your own way. We will all pray for you; we will all console your mother for your absence. We shall not meet again on earth, Génifrède.”
“I know it, father. But the time of rest—how long it is in coming!”
“My child, our rest is in the soul—it lies not either in place or time. Do not look for it in the grave, unless you have it first in the soul.”