Monsieur Bayou had no words ready. He stared round him upon the black officers in their splendid uniforms, upon the trains of liveried servants, handing coffee and fruits and sangaree on trays and salvers of massive silver, and on the throng of visitors who crowded upon one another’s heels, all anxious, not merely to pay their respects, but to offer their enthusiastic homage at the feet of his former slave. His eye at length fixed upon the windows, through which he saw something of the outline of the group of ladies.
“You desire to greet Madame L’Ouverture?” said Toussaint, kindly. “You shall be conducted to her.” And one of the aides stepped forward to perform the office of introducer.
Monsieur Bayou pulled from his pocket, on his way to the window, a shagreen jewel-case; and, by the time he was in front of Madame he had taken from it a rich gold chain, which he hung on her neck, saying, with a voice and air strangely made up of jocoseness, awkwardness, and deference—
“I have not forgotten, you see, though I suppose you have, what you gave me, one day long ago. I tried to bring back something prettier than I carried away—something for each of you—but—I don’t know—I find everything here so different from what I had any idea of—so very strange—that I am afraid you will despise my little presents.”
While speaking, he shyly held out little parcels to Génifrède and Aimée, who received them graciously, while their mother replied—
“In those old days, Monsieur Bayou, we had nothing really our own to give; and you deserved from us any aid that was in our power. My daughters and I now accept with pleasure the tokens of friendship that you bring. I hope no changes have taken place which need prevent our being friends, Monsieur Bayou.”
He scarcely heard her.
“Is it possible,” cried he, “that these can be your girls? Aimée I might have known—but can this lady be Génifrède?”
Génifrède looked up with a smile, which perplexed him still further.
“I do not know that I ever saw a smile from her before; and she would not so much as lift up her head at one of my jokes. One could never gain her attention with anything but a ghost story. But I see how it is,” he added, stooping, and speaking low to her mother, while he glanced at Moyse—“she has learned at last the old song that she would not listen to when I wanted to tell her fortune:—