“Are we to welcome in you,” asked Toussaint, “a messenger of mirth to our society?”
The group of Frenchmen could scarcely restrain their laughter at this question. Monsieur Molière had a most lugubrious countenance—a thing not always inconsistent with a merry humour: but Monsieur Molière’s heart was believed never to have laughed, any more than his face. He answered, as if announcing a misfortune, that he claimed no connection with the dramatist, though he believed some of his family had attempted to do so.
“Monsieur Molière discharges the duty of a pious descendant, however,” said Vincent. “He laughs himself into such a state of exhaustion every night over those immortal comedies, that he has to be carried to bed. That is the reason we see him so grave in the morning.”
“Think of Monsieur Molière as a trusted secretary of the messenger from the republic to yourself,” said General Michel.
“I come,” said Michel, assuming a pompous tone, “I come associated with an officer of the republican army, Monsieur Pétion—a native of this colony, but a stranger to yourself.”
Monsieur Pétion paid his respects. He was a mulatto, with shy and reserved manners, and an exceedingly intellectual countenance.
“We lost you early,” said Toussaint; “but only to offer you the warmer welcome back. It was, as I remember, to attend the military schools of France that you left your home. Such scholars are welcome here.”
“And particularly,” observed Michel, “when they have also had the fortune to serve in the army of Italy, and immediately under the eye of the First Consul himself.”
“Is it so? Is it really so?” exclaimed Toussaint. “I can never hear enough of the ruler of France. Tell us—but that must be hereafter. Do you come to me from him?”
“From the government generally,” replied Pétion.