While he was gone, Toussaint stepped back into the piazza, where Thérèse sat quietly watching the birds flitting in and out among the foliage and flowers.
“Thérèse,” said he, “what will you do this night and to-morrow? Who will take care of you?”
“I know not—I care not,” said she. “There are no whites here; and I am well where they are not. Will you not let me stay here?”
“Did Jacques say, and say truly, that you are his wife?”
“He said so, and truly. I have been wretched, for long—”
“And sinful. Wretchedness and sin go together.”
“And I was sinful; but no one told me so. I was ignorant, and weak, and a slave. Now I am a woman and a wife. No more whites, no more sin, no more misery! Will you not let me stay here?”
“I will: and here you will presently be safe, and well cared for, I hope. My wife and my children are coming home—coming, probably in a few hours. They will make this a home to you till Jacques can give you one of your own. You shall be guarded here till my Margot arrives. Shall it be so?”
“Shall it? Oh, thank God! Jacques,” she cried, as she heard her husband’s step approaching. “Oh, Jacques! I am happy. Toussaint Breda is kind—he has forgiven me—he welcomes me—his wife will—”
Tears drowned her voice. Toussaint said gently—