“I will not go with him—I will not go with him to Paris, to see his young ladies. He shall not take care of me. I will take care of myself. I will drown myself sooner than go with him. I do not care what becomes of me, but I will not go.”
“Yes, you will care what becomes of you, Thérèse, because your own people care,” said Jacques. “I will protect you. If you will be my wife, no white shall molest you again.”
“Be your wife!”
“Yes. I love the blacks; and none so much as those whom the whites have oppressed—no one so much as you. If you will be my wife, we will—”
Here, remembering the presence of a white, Jacques explained to Thérèse in the negro language (which she understood, though she always spoke French), the new hopes which had arisen for the blacks, and his own intention of following Toussaint, to make him a chief. He concluded in good French, smiling maliciously at Papalier as he spoke—
“You will come with me now to the priest, and be my wife.”
“I will,” replied Thérèse, calmly.
“Go,” said Papalier. “You have my leave. I am thus honourably released from the care of you till times shall change. I am glad that you will not remain unprotected, at least.”
“Unprotected!” exclaimed Thérèse, as she threw on the Spanish mantle which she was now accustomed to wear abroad. “Unprotected! And what has your protection been?”
“Very kind, my dear, I am sure. I have spent on your education money which I should be very glad of now. When people flatter you, Thérèse (as they will do; for there is not a negress in all the island to compare with you),—remember who made you a lady. You will promise me that much, Thérèse, at parting?”