CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
DEPARTURE WITHOUT RETINUE.
"Stand where you are, Therese; there, at the foot of the bed! Stir notan inch without my leave? I have let you have your own way too much oflate. I call for hours, and you never come. I will not let you out ofmy sight again?"
So said Monsieur Papalier in the delirium of his fever, as MadameDessalines was nursing him in his chamber at Saint Marc. It was a sadand dreary office; but she had motive to go through with it. The morehe wandered back in his talk to the old days, the more strongly she feltherself called upon to use the present generously. The more imperiousthe tone of command with which he addressed her, the more easily couldshe pass over the error. There was a degree of pleasure in givingmomentary case to him, while he could not recognise the hand thatbestowed it. She dreaded, however, for the sake of both, an hour ofsanity. If he slept for a short interval, she feared to hear him speakcoherently on his waking; and the more because little or no chance ofhis recovery remained. The thought of his carrying forward into thehour of death the insolent temper of his life was terrible. She almosthoped that, if he were to die, it would be without having been awarethat he and his nurse were no longer master and slave.
She was his sole nurse. There was no alternative between this and hernot being with him at all. It was impossible to allow any servant, anystranger, to hear his talk of old times--to witness the mode in which headdressed her. Except the physician, no one but herself entered hischamber during his waking hours.
She now sat, as he desired, full in his view, at the foot of the bed,encouraging repose by her stillness, and gladly turning from the ghastlycountenance of the dying man to the scene without--visible in all itssplendour, as the room had a north aspect, and the window stood wide, toadmit the breathing wind from the sea. The deep blue sea, under theheaven of a lighter blue, looked glorious from the shaded apartment.The rustle of the trees in the courtyard, and the fall of water there,spoke of coolness, and seemed to make themselves heard by the patienteven in the midst of the fever-flames by which he was consumed, for hespoke of trees and fountains, and fancied himself at Arabie. He askedTherese to sing; and told her what to sing. She did not wish to refuse;she would have indulged him; but there was a choking in her throat whichforbade it. Papalier was not long peremptory. From commanding, hisvoice sank to complaining; from complaining, to the muttering oftroubled slumber; and, at length, into the silence of sleep.
Therese sat still, as before, looking out upon the sea, till itsbrightness, combined with the whispers of foliage and waters, made hereyes heavy, and disposed her to sleep too. Leaning back against thebed-post, she was dreaming that she was awake, when she heard her nameso called that she awoke with a start. Papalier was himself again, andwas demanding where he was, and what had been the matter. He felt theblister on his head; he complained of the soreness and stiffness of hismouth and tongue; he tried to raise himself, and could not; and, on thefull discovery of his state, he wept like a child.
Gently, but not tenderly, did Therese endeavour to comfort him. He hadirrecoverably forfeited her tenderness. Gentle, however, she was, asshe told him that his state now, however painful, was better than anhour ago, when he was unconscious of it. Gentle was her hand, when shewrapped fresh, cool leaves round his burning head. Gentle was hervoice, when she persuaded him to drink. Gentle was the expression ofher eye, when she fixed its gaze upon his face, and by its influencecaused him to check, like a child, the sobs that shook his frame.
"Therese," said he, "I am dying. I feel that I am dying. Oh! what mustI do?"
"We must wait upon God's pleasure. Let us wait in quiet. Is thereanything that can give you quiet of mind or body?"
Tears stole again from the heavy, closing eyes.
"We are all familiar with the end of our lives, almost from theirbeginning," said Therese. "There is nothing strange or surprising init. The great thing is to throw off any burden--any anxiety--and thento be still. An easy mind is the great thing, whether recovery is athand, or--"
"Do not talk of recovery. I shall not recover."
"Can I do anything--listen to anything--so as to give you case? Shall Icall father Gabriel? You may find comfort in speaking to him."
"I want to speak to you first. I have not half done the business I camefor: I have not half secured my estates for my daughters."
"I believe you have. I know that L'Ouverture fully intends--"
"What does it matter what L'Ouverture intends? I mean no contempt tohim by saying so. He intends very well, I dare say; but in the scrambleand confusion that are at hand, what chance will my poor orphan girlshave for their rights?"
"Fear nothing for them. If there is to be a struggle, there is no doubtwhatever as to how it will end. The French army will be expelled--"
"You do not say so! You cannot think so!"
"I am certain of it. But the white proprietors will be as safe inperson and property, as welcome to L'Ouverture, as during the years ofhis full authority. You were not here to see it; but the whiteproprietors were very happy, perfectly satisfied, during those years (atleast, all of them who were reasonable men). I can undertake forL'Ouverture that your daughters' income from their estates shall be sentto them at Paris, if you desire them to stay there; or the estates shallbe sold for their benefit; or, if you will trust them to my care--"
"No, no! Impossible!"
"I am the wife of a general, and second to no woman in the island," saidTherese, calmly. "I have power to protect your daughters; and, in anhour like this, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that I have thewill."
"It cannot be, Therese. I do not doubt you--neither your word nor yourwill. But it is impossible, utterly."
"Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the darkrace? Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race! Will younot do this?"
"You talk absurdly, Therese. Do not trouble me with nonsense now. Youwill undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters theestates I have left to them by will. That is, in case of the blacksgetting the upper hand. If they are put down, my will secureseverything. Happily, my will is in safe hands. Speak, Therese. Youengage for what I have just said?"
"As far as warranted by my knowledge of L'Ouverture and his intentions,I do. If, through his death or adversity, this resource should fail,your daughters shall not suffer while my husband and I have property."
"Your husband! property! It is strange," muttered Papalier. "I believeyou, however, I trust you, Therese; and I thank you, love."
Therese started at that old word--that old name. Recovering herself,she inquired--
"Have you more to ask of me? Is there any other service I can renderyou?"
"No, no. You have done too much for me--too much, considering the neworder of affairs."
"I have something to ask of you. I require an answer to one question."
"You require!"
"I do. By the right of an outraged mother, I require to know whodestroyed my child."
"Say nothing of that, Therese. You should know better than to bringsuch subjects before a dying man."
"Such subjects lie before the dead. Better to meet them prepared--atoned for, in as far as atonement is yet possible. For your own sake,and by my own right, I require to be told who destroyed my child?"
"I did not, Therese."
"You did not! Is it possible? Yet in this hour you could not deceiveme. I have accused you of the deed, from that hour to this. Is itpossible that I have wronged you?"
"I do not say that I disapproved of it--that I did not allow it. But Idid not do it."
"Then you know who did it?"
"Of course I do."
"Who was it?"
"I swore long ago that I would not tell; and I never will. But you maylay the blame on me, my dear; for, as I told you, I permitted the deed.It was necessary. Our lives depended on it."
"May you not find your eter
nal death depend on it!" said Therese,agonised by suspicions as to whose hand it was by which her child haddied. In a moment, she formed a resolve which she never broke--neveragain to seek to know that which Papalier now refused to tell. A glanceat the countenance before her filled her with remorse the next instant,at what now seemed the cruel words she had just spoken.
"Let me bring Father Gabriel to you," said she. "He will give youwhatever comfort God permits."
"Do not suppose I shall tell Father Gabriel what you want to discover,"replied Papalier. "He has no business with more than my share of theaffair: which is what you know already. I am too weak to talk--toFather Gabriel, or any one else."
"But you need comfort. You will rest better afterwards."
"Well, well; in the evening, perhaps. I must be quiet now. Comfort,indeed!" he muttered. "Yes, I want comfort enough, in the horridcondition I am in. But there is no comfort till one lies dead. I wishI were dead."
He fell into a restless doze. Moved by his misery and melted by thethought that she had wronged him, all these years, by harbouring theimage of his hand on her infant's throat--distracted, too, by the newdoubts that had arisen--Therese prayed and wept, wept and prayed, onbehalf of Papalier and all sinners. Again and again she implored thatthese wretched hatreds, those miserable strifes, might be all hushed inthe grave,--might be wholly dissolved in death.
She was just stealing to the door, intending to send for Father Gabriel,that he might be in readiness for the dying man's confession, whenPapalier started, cast his eyes round the room hurriedly, andexclaimed--
"It is in vain to talk of attaching them. If one's eye is off them forone moment--Oh! _you_ are there, Therese! I thought, after all I haddone for you--after all I had spent upon you--I thought you would not gooff with the rest. Don't go--Therese--Therese!"
"I am here," said she, perceiving that he no longer saw.
"I knew you would stay," he said, very faintly. "I cannot spare you, mydear."
The last words he said were--
"I cannot spare you--remember--Therese!"
To the pang of the thought that he had died unconfessed succeeded thequestion, more painful still--
"Could religious offices avail anything to a soul wholly unsanctified?Is there a promise that any power can put such a spirit into immediatecongeniality with the temper of Heaven? Among the many mansions, isthere one which would not be a prison to such?--to the proud one whomust there feel himself poor and miserable, and blind and naked?"