“Wait upon each other! His Excellency wait upon me! His Excellency wait upon anybody!”
“There would be nothing new in that. I have endeavoured to wait upon others all my life. Rarely does Providence grant the favour to wait upon so many.”
Mars Plaisir did not comprehend this, and therefore continued—
“These whites think that we blacks are created to be serving, serving always—always serving.”
“And they are right. Their mistake is in not seeing that the same is the case with all other men.”
In his incessant habit of serving those about him, Toussaint now remembered that it would be more kind to poor Mars Plaisir to employ him, than to speak of things which he could not comprehend. He signed to him, therefore, to shake down the straw on each side the fireplace. Mars Plaisir sacrificed some of his own bundle to wipe down the wet walls; but it was all in vain. During the silence, while his master was meditating at the window, the melancholy sound of falling water—drip, drip—plash, plash—was heard all around, within and without the cell. When he had wiped down the walls, from the door in the corner round to the door again, the place from which he had set out was as wet as ever, and his straw was spoiled. He angrily kicked the wet straw into the fire; the consequence of which was that the cell was filled with smoke, almost to suffocation.
“Ask for more,” said Toussaint.
Mars Plaisir shouted, knocked at the door, and used every endeavour to make himself heard; but in vain. No one came.
“Take some of mine,” said Toussaint. “No one can lie on this floor.”
Mars Plaisir shook his head. He proceeded mournfully to spread the other heap of straw; but a large flake of ice had fallen upon it from the corner of the walls, and it was as wet as that which he had burned.