“Yes, I did. Every one who loves the blacks hates the whites.”
“I think not,” said Toussaint. “At least, it is not so with Him who made them both. He is pleased with mercy, Jacques, and not with murder.”
Jacques laughed, and muttered something about the priests having been brought in by the whites for a convenience; to which Toussaint merely replied that it was not a priest, nor an ally of white masters, who forgave His enemies on the cross.
“Father,” said Placide, joining the group, “why is Jean commanding your march? He speaks to you as if you were under him.”
“Because he considers it his march.”
“He praised your father—very much, Placide,” said his mother.
“Yes—just as if my father were under him—as if the march were not ours. We began it.”
“I command those who began it—that is, my own family, Placide. I command you to obey Jean, while you are with him. On the other side the river, you shall be commander, all the way to your uncle’s house. You will follow his lead, Margot?”
“Oh, yes, if he leads straight. Jean is a commander, Placide. Look at his cocked hat.”
“And he calls himself commander-in-chief of the armies of France.”