The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

  ALL EAR.

  Therese was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside thebed on which lay Genifrede. The room was so darkened that nothing wasto be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless,unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life werefalling fast into ruins around her. It seemed treacherous, cruel, thusto beguile her of that tremendous night--to let those last hours of theonly life she prized pass away unused--to deprive her of the lastglances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death--of thelatest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more. It seemedan irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and tosubstitute for them a blank and barren sleep. But it was done. It wasdone to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and shecould not now be wakened to any purpose. With sickening heart, Theresesaw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east. In a fewminutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only thegleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life. Briefas was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of lightappeared so hasty, so peremptory as now. By the rousing up of thebirds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of theflowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretchedchildren, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled. Thereseresolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lestlight and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused toosoon.

  As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher's nerves wereso stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat,she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wingin the gardens, reached her ear. She heard at intervals the tap of adistant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms--not in avolley from the Place d'Armes, as she had expected, but further off, andmere dropping shot. This occurred so often, that she was satisfied itwas not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knewwhether to feel relieved or not. The door from the corridor presentlyopened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from herface. She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could giveher news. Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end.When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interruptedher, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.

  "Tell me--only tell me," said she, "whether it is over."

  "Not the principal execution--it is about going forward now. I cameaway--I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more."

  "You saw L'Ouverture?" said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.

  Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relievehis mind as she was eager to hear.

  "I saw," said he, "what I never could have conceived of, and would neverhave believed upon report. I have seen man as a god among hisfellow-men."

  A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines' face, through itsagony.

  "It was too touching, too mournful to be endured," resumed MonsieurPascal. "The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to mydying hour. Never was man idolised like L'Ouverture. For him, men gowillingly to their deaths--not in the excitement of a common danger; notfor glory or for a bright future--but solitary, in ignominy, in thelight of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude uponthem. Without protest, without supplication--as it appears, withoutobjection--they stoop to death at his word."

  "I do not know--I do not understand what has been done," said Therese."But does not every black know that L'Ouverture has no privateinterests--nothing at heart but the good of us all?"

  "That is the spell," replied Pascal. "This sacrifice of his nephew willconfirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. Thesethirteen others--for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, fordereliction of duty in the late rising--these thirteen are from thegarrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbe.All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are uponthe Place. L'Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He toldthem that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learningfrom his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks tolead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection dueto every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on theprimary duty of a liberated race--that of keeping the peace. They knewtheir duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it shouldsuffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knewthat everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L'Ouverturewalked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you,Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instantdeath, there was passionate love in every face."

  "I believe it," said Therese. "And he?"

  "He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see. He is tenyears older since last night. He spoke aloud the names of the mostguilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him,and the committee, of investigation."

  "And no one of the thirteen resisted?"

  "Not one. One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humblybefore him, and repaired where he pointed--to be shot. There was aspell upon me. I could not come away, though feeling at every moment asif I could endure no more. I did not, however, stay to see GeneralMoyse brought out--"

  As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at adistance, followed by a volley of musketry.

  "That is it," cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone. Therese sank backupon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head. She desired, inthe sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.

  She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened.She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon's soft voice,saying--

  "Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is MademoiselleL'Ouverture?"

  "She is asleep," said Therese, rousing herself--"asleep, if indeed shebe not dead. If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpetof doom will scarcely reach her soul."

  This last sound had roused Genifrede. She did not recognise it; she wasnot aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed itnight, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with aconfused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door tothe salon. There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, andlooking doubtful whether to advance or go back.

  "My daughter--" said Father Laxabon. She came forward with a docile andwistful look. "My daughter," he continued, "I bring you some comfort."

  "Comfort?" she repeated, doubtingly.

  "Not now, Father," interposed Therese. "Spare her."

  "Spare me?" repeated Genifrede in the same tone.

  "I bring her comfort," said the father, turning reprovingly to MadameDessalines. "His conflict is over, my daughter," he continued,advancing to Genifrede. "His last moments were composed; and as for hisstate of mind in confession--"

  He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot,and supported himself against the wall. Genifrede rushed back to thechamber, and drove something heavy against the door. Therese was therein an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it mightbe thought, no one could resist--

  "Let me in, love! It is Therese. No one else shall come. If you loveme, let me in."

  There was no answer.

  "You have killed her, I believe," she said to the priest, who waswalking up and down in great disturbance--not with himself, but with thefaithless creature of passion he had to deal with.

  "The windows!" exclaimed Therese, vexed not to have thought of thisbefore. She stepped out upon the balcony. One of the chamber-windowswas open, and she entered. No one was there. Genifrede must have fleddown the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Theresehastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain,she saw the fluttering of her clothes.

&
nbsp; "The reservoir!" thought Therese, in despair.

  She was not mistaken. Genifrede stood on the brink of the deep andbrimming reservoir--her hands were clasped above her head for theplunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistiblyback. In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.

  "They say," she screamed, "that every one worships you. Not true now!Never true more! I hate--I curse--"

  He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awedher childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shudderingand muttering.

  "That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should haveinterfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily,while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her,holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.

  "This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lyingunder it!"

  "Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.

  "God forgive me!" he replied. "But we are all wretched."

  "You repent, then?" said Genifrede. "Well you may! There are no moresuch, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it istoo late now."

  "I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."

  "There are no more such," pursued she. "He was gallant."

  "He was."

  "He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."

  "He was, my child."

  "And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proudsmile.

  "He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."

  "Such a soldier!" she dreamed on. "War was his sport, while I trembledat home. He had a soldier's heart."

  Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she hadnot appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to herfeet.

  "You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father. "With MadameDessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."

  "Home!" she exclaimed with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said,hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise. I wish you joyof it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of yourparadise!"

  She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Therese,who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father's care, nowintercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint,who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a briefprayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Havingacknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh toohard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolationwhich he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by alife of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where,for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairsof the citizens of Cap. The steadiness of his attention to business wasfelt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wanderingthoughts.