CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
A LOVER'S LOVE.
This new violence had for its object the few whites who were rash andweak enough to insist on the terms of Hedouville's intendedproclamation, instead of abiding by that of L'Ouverture. Thecultivators on the estates of these whites left work, rather than bereduced to a condition of virtual slavery. Wandering from plantation toplantation, idle and discontented, they drew to themselves others who,from any cause, were also idle and discontented. They exasperated eachother with tales, old and new, of the tyranny of the whites. Still,further mischief might have been prevented by due vigilance and firmnesson the part of him in whose charge the town and district of Cap Francaisnow lay. Stories, however, passed from mouth to mouth respectingGeneral Moyse--anecdotes of the words he had dropped in dislike of thewhites--of the prophecies he had uttered of more violence before the oldmasters would be taught their new place--rumours like these spread, tillthe gathering mob at length turned their faces towards the town, as ifto try how far they might go. They went as far as the gates, havingmurdered some few of the obnoxious masters, either in their own houses,or, as in the case of Monsieur Revel, where they happened to meet them.
On the Haut-du-Cap they encountered General Moyse coming out againstthem with soldiery. At first he looked fierce; and the insurgents beganto think each of getting away as he best might. But in a few moments,no one seemed to know how or why, the aspect of affairs changed. Therewas an air of irresolution about the Commander. It was plain that hewas not really disposed to be severe--that he had no deadly intentionstowards those he came to meet. His black troops caught his mood. Someof the inhabitants of the town, who wore on the watch with glasses fromthe gates, from the churches, and from the roofs of houses, afterwardstestified to there having been a shaking of hands, and other amicablegestures. They testified that the insurgents crowded round GeneralMoyse, and gave, at one time cheers, at another time groans, evidentlyon a signal from him. No prisoners were made--there was not a shotfired. The General and his soldiers returned into the town, and eveninto their quarters, protesting that no further mischief would happen,but the insurgents remained on the heights till daylight; and theinhabitants, feeling themselves wholly unprotected, sent off expressesto the Commander-in-Chief, and watched, with arms loaded, till he, orone of his more trustworthy Generals, should arrive. These expresseswere stopped and turned back, by order of General Moyse, who ridiculedthe idea of further danger, and required the inhabitants to be satisfiedwith his assurances of protection. Fortunately, however, one or twomessengers who had been sent off a few hours before, on the first alarm,had reached their destination, while General Moyse was yet on theHaut-du-Cap.
The first relief to the anxious watchers was on seeing the heightsgradually cleared at sunrise. The next was the news that L'Ouverturewas entering the town, followed by the ringleaders from Limbe, whom hewas bringing in as prisoners. He had proceeded directly to the scene ofinsurrection, where the leaders of the mob were delivered up to him athis first bidding. It now remained to be seen what he would do withthose, within the town, high or low in office, who were regarded by theinhabitants as accessories.
This kind of speculation was not abated by the sight of L'Ouverture, ashe passed through the streets. Grave as his countenance usually was,and at times melancholy, never had it been seen so mournful as to-day.Years seemed to have sunk down upon him since he was last seen--solately that the youngest prattler in the Cap had not ceased to talk ofthe day. As he walked his horse through the streets, many citizensapproached, some humbly to ask, others eagerly to offer information.With all these last he made appointments, and rode on. His way lay pastMonsieur Revel's door; and it happened to be at the very time that thefuneral (an affair of hurry in that climate) was about to take place.At the sight, L'Ouverture stopped, opposite the door. When the coffinwas brought out, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered till itmoved on, when he turned his horse, and followed the train to the cornerof the street. There were many present who saw his face, and by whomits expression of deep sorrow was never afterwards forgotten. When heagain turned in the direction of Government-house, he proceeded at arapid pace, as if his purposes had been quickened by the sight.
His aides, who had been dispersed on different errands, entered the townby its various avenues; and some of them joined him in the Jesuits'Walk. At the gate of Government-house he was received by General Moyse,who had been almost the last person in Cap to hear of his arrival.L'Ouverture acknowledged his military greeting; and then, turning to hisaides, said in a calm tone, which yet was heard half-way down the Walk,and thence propagated through the town, as if by echoes--
"General Moyse is under arrest."
As Moyse was moving off towards the apartment in which he was to beguarded, he requested an interview with the Commander-in-Chief.
"After your business with the court-martial is concluded," was thereply. "On no account before."
General Moyse bowed, and proceeded to his apartment.
For some hours after, there was every indication of the rapidtransaction of business in Government-house. Messengers were sent toFort Dauphin, to the commanding officer at Limbe, and to every militarystation within thirty miles. Orders were issued for the garrison of Capto be kept close within their quarters. Not a man was to be allowed, onany pretence whatever, to pass the barrack-gates, which werewell-guarded by the Commander-in-Chief's own guards, till troops for theservice of the town could arrive from Fort Dauphin. As L'Ouverture wascloseted with his secretary, message after message was reported; letterupon letter was delivered by his usher. Among these messages came, atlength, one which made him start.
"Mademoiselle L'Ouverture begs to be permitted to see General Moyse."
Before he could reply, a note by another messenger was put into hishands.
"I implore you to let me see Moyse. I do not ask to see you. I do not wish it. I will disturb no one. Only give me an order to see Moyse--for his sake, and that of your unhappy
"Genifrede."
Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by thecountenances of his servants to the room where Genifrede was lying, withher face hidden, upon a sofa. Denis was standing silent at a windowwhich overlooked the Walk. Both were covered with dust from theirjourney.
Genifrede looked up, on hearing some one enter. When she saw that itwas her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only--
"Oh, why did you come?"
"Stay, my child, why did you come? How--why--"
"I always know," said she, "when misery is near; and where misery is,there am I. Do not be angry with Denis, father. I made him come."
"I am angry with no one, Genifrede. I am too much grieved to be angry.I am come to take you to Moyse. I cannot see him myself, at present;but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is."
"The salon!" said Genifrede, as if relieved. She had probably imaginedhim chained in a cell. This one word appeared to alter the course ofher ideas. She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated. Herfather said--
"I will send a servant to you. Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour Iwill come again."
When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appearedfar less wretched than before.
"Genifrede!" cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall,unable to go farther. "Genifrede! And was not that your father whoadmitted you? Oh, call him, Genifrede! Call him back! I must see him.If you ask him, he will come. Call him back, Genifrede!"
"If you are engaged, Moyse," said she in a sickening voice, "if I am inyour way, I will go."
"No, no, my love. But I must see your father. Everything may dependupon it."
"I will go--as soon as I can," said the poor girl, beginning to sink tothe floor.
"You shall not go, my love--my Genifrede," cried Moyse, supporting herto a sofa. "I did not know--I little thought--Are you all here?"
"No; I cam
e to see you, Moyse. I told you how it would be if weparted."
"And how will it be, love?"
"Oh, how can you make me say it? How can you make me think it?"
"Why, Genifrede, you cannot suppose anything _very_ serious will happen.What frightens you so? Once more I ask you the old question that wemust both be weary of--what frightens you so?"
"What frightens me!" she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face."Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from yourcommand here? And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial--and thattrial for--for--for your life?"
"Never believe so, Genifrede! Have they not told you that the poorblacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me? They did notdo a single act of violence after I went to them. Not a hand was raisedwhen they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour,they all went to their homes."
"Oh, is it so? Is it really so? But you said just now that everythingdepended on your seeing my father."
"To a soldier, his honour, his professional standing, are everything--"
Seeing a painful expression in Genifrede's face, he explained that evenhis private happiness--the prosperity of his love, depended on hisprofessional honour and standing. She must be as well aware as himselfthat he was now wholly at her father's mercy, as regarded all hisprospects in life; and that this would justify any eagerness to see him.
"At his mercy," repeated Genifrede; "and he is merciful. He does actsof mercy every day."
"True--true. You see now you were too much alarmed."
"But, Moyse, how came you to need his mercy? But two days ago how proudhe was of you! and now--Oh! Moyse, when you knew what depended on thesefew days, how could you fail?"
"How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for? Heshould have seen--"
"Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us somiserable. Let us go to your father. He will let us live at SaintDomingo in peace."
Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at SaintDomingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was,he could not live where there were whites.
"How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hedouville wentaway? He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next tohimself, you saved the town--that many whites owed their lives and theirfortunes to you."
"I repent," cried Moyse, bitterly, "I repent of my deeds of that day. Irepent that any white ever owed me gratitude. I thank God, I haveshaken them off, like the dust from my feet! Thank God, the whites areall cursing me now!"
"What do you mean? How was it all?" cried Genifrede, fearfully.
"When Hedouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself,that I might gain you, as your father promised. This prospect, so nearand so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces fromwhite. For the hour, one passion put the other out."
"And when--how soon did you begin to forget me?" asked Genifrede,sorrowfully.
"I have never forgotten you, love--not for an hour, in the church amongthe priests--in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as aprisoner. But I thought my point was gained when your father stoopedfrom his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at homeon hearing of my charge. I doubted no more that all was safe. Then Iheard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbe--acting as if Hedouville was still here to countenance them. I sawexultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap. Thepoor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, staredat me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if--"
"Was his grandchild with him? She was? Then he was laughing at some ofher prattle. Nothing else made him even smile."
"It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function. I was growingmore angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbe. Iknew it was forced on by the whites. I knew the mischief was begun byHedouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expectedthat I should draw the sword for them against our own people? Could Ihave done so, Genifrede?"
"Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword atall?"
"That was what I did. I went out to meet the insurgents; and the momentthey saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returnedto quietness, and to their homes. Not another blow was struck."
"And the murderers--what did you do with them?"
Moyse was silent for a moment, and then replied--
"Those may deal with them who desire to live side-by-side with whites.As for me, I quarrel with none who avenge our centuries of wrong."
"Would to God my father had known that this was in your heart! Youwould not then have been a wretched prisoner here. Moyse, the momentyou are free, let us fly to the mornes. I told you how it would be, ifwe parted. You will do as I wish henceforward; you will take me to theMornes?"
"My love, where and how should we live there? In a cave of the rocks,or roosting in trees?"
"People do live there--not now, perhaps, under my father's government:but in the old days, runaways did live there."
"So you would institute a new race of banditti, under your father'sreign. How well it will sound in the First Consul's council-chamber,that the eldest daughter of the ambitious Commander-in-Chief is thefirst bandit's wife in the mornes!"
"Let them say what they will: we must have peace, Moyse. We have beenwretched too long. Oh, if we could once be up there, hidden among therocks, or sitting among the ferns in the highest of those valleys, withthe very clouds between us and this weary world below--never to see awhite face more! Then, at last, we could be at peace. Everywhere elsewe are beset with this enemy. They are in the streets, in the churches,on the plain. We meet them in the shade of the woods, and have to passthem basking on the sea-shore. There is no peace but high up in themornes--too high for the wild beast, and the reptile, and the whiteman."
"The white man mounts as high as the eagle's nest, Genifrede. You willnot be safe, even there, from the traveller or the philosopher, climbingto measure the mountain or observe the stars.--But while we are talkingof the free and breezy heights--"
"You are a prisoner," said Genifrede, mournfully. "But soon, very soon,we can go. Why do you look so? You said there was no fear--thatnothing serious could happen--nothing more than disgrace; and, for eachother's sake, we can defy disgrace. Can we not, Moyse? Why do not youspeak?"
"Disgrace, or death, or anything. Even death, Genifrede. Yes--I saidwhat was not true. They will not let me out but to my death. Do notshudder so, my love: they shall not part us. They shall not rob me ofeverything. You did well to come, love. If they had detained you, andI had had to die with such a last thought as that you remained to becomforted, sooner or later, by another--to be made to forget me by amore prosperous lover--O God! I should have been mad!"
"You are mad, Moyse," cried Genifrede, shrinking from him in terror. "Ido not believe a word you say. I love another!--they kill you! It isall false! I will not hear another word--I will go."
To go was, however, beyond her power. As she sank down again,trembling, Moyse said in the imperious tone which she both loved andfeared--
"I am speaking the truth now. I shall be tried to-night before acourt-martial, which will embody your father's opinion and will. Theywill find me a traitor, and doom me to death upon the Place. I mustdie--but not on the Place--and you shall die with me. In one moment, weshall be beyond their power. You hear me, Genifrede? I know you hearme, though you do not speak. I can direct you to one, near at hand, whoprepares the red water, and knows me well. I will give you an order forred water enough for us both. You will come--your father will notrefuse our joint request--you will come to me as soon as the trial isover; and then, love, we will never be parted more."
Genifrede sat long with her face hidden on her lover's shoulder,speechless. After repeated entreaties that she would say one word,Moyse rais
ed her up, and, looking in her face, said authoritatively--
"You will do as I say, Genifrede?"
"Moyse, I dare not. No, no, I dare not! If, when we are dead, youshould be dead to me too! And how do we know? If, the very nextmoment, I should see only your dead body with my own--if you should besnatched away somewhere, and I should be alone in some wide place--if Ishould be doomed to wander in some dreadful region, calling upon you forever, and no answer! Oh, Moyse! we do not know what fearful things arebeyond. I dare not; no, no, I dare not! Do not be angry with me,Moyse!"
"I thought you had been ready to live and die with me."
"And so I am--ready to live anywhere, anyhow--ready to die, if only wecould be sure--Oh! if you could only tell me there is nothing beyond--"
"I have little doubt," said Moyse, "that death is really what it is toour eyes--an end of everything."
"Do you think so? If you could only assure me of that--But, if you werereally quite certain of that, would you wish me to die too?"
"Wish it! You must--you shall," cried he, passionately. "You aremine--mine for ever; and I will not let you go. Do not you see--do notyou feel," he said, moderating his tone, "that you will die a slow deathof anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Placestrikes upon your ear? You cannot live without love--you know youcannot--and you shall not live by any other love than mine. This littlesign," said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from hispocket-book, "This little sign will save you from the anguish of athousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days ofdespair. Take it. If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in myname, you will receive what will suffice for us both. Take it,Genifrede."
She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.
"You do not care for me," said Moyse, bitterly. "You are like allwomen. You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everythingfor you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shutout your lover into the storm."
Genifrede was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character ofhis love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:--
"If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have donedifferently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did younot bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and whatfor? If you had put it to my lips--if you had not given me a moment tofancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it--oh, sothankfully! But now--I dare not."
"You are not afraid to live without me."
"Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying--of everything."
"You once asked me about--"
"I remember--about your spirit coming."
"Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?"
"Why did you not kill me? You know I should have been thankful. I wishthe roof would fall and bury us now."
She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door. It washer father's servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived,and that L'Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend. Theservant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only foranother word.
"Remember," said Moyse, "they are not to seduce or force you back toPongaudin to-day. Remember, you are not fit to travel. Remember," heagain said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into herbosom, "you come to me as soon as the trial is over. I depend uponyou."
He led her, passive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand,saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, "For once, I cannotaccompany you further. Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay myrespects to her soon." He added, to the servant--
"See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L'Ouverture's orders, till I needhis services myself."
The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission todischarge for a prisoner. Before he had closed the door, Genifrede wasin the arms of Therese.
The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance Page 22