By this time we had reached the ruined sugar-mill, from the quiet neighbourhood of which our arrival scared away some poor negro women who were weaving pretty baskets of canes and bamboo, and in the lower apartment of which I confined Rouvigny, apart from the other prisoners, as I had a project to put in execution against him.
Circumstanced as he was, I could not challenge him to a duel, and, as I had not yet my epaulettes, the chances were, that natheless his republicanism and boasted spirit of égalité, he would have declined to meet me; yet I was resolved that he should taste all the bitterness of degradation, and all the agony of death, without its actual infliction.
After posting sentinels round the mill, and making other dispositions to preclude an escape, I entered the wretched apartment,—if it could be named so,—a mere vault or storehouse, where Rouvigny was confined. It was littered by heaps of rotting sugar-canes, old casks, and broken packing-boxes. On one of these I found him seated, with a sullen air; his blue uniform coat was open, and his tri-coloured sash was thrown aside for coolness, as the atmosphere was still close and sultry.
"Monsieur de Rouvigny will soon have reason for the exertion of all his philosophy," said I.
"An easy matter for him at all times," he replied, with a gesture of scorn.
"We shall see."
"Bon!" said he, with a grimace.
"Think what you are, sir, and how situated?"
"I am one of the new French school of philanthropists."
"Indeed!"