CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
PERCH OF THE RAVEN.
Euphrosyne's life in the convent was dull and weary. It would probablyhave been so anywhere, for some time after the old man's death: butelsewhere there would have been more to do and to amuse herself with.Every one was kind to her--too kind. She had been accustomed to thevoice of chiding during all the years that she had lived with hergrandfather; and she did not mind it. It would now have been somethingof a relief, something welcome and familiar, to have been called "child"and "little fool" at times, instead of being told at every turn that shewas an angel and a love, and finding that she was every one's pet, fromthe abbess to old Raphael.
The kindness of the household had begun from the moment the poor girlappeared, after having been consoled by Father Gabriel, and visited byPierre, and the guardian to whose care her grandfather had confided herperson and her property. Pierre had engaged to see her daily till thefurniture should have been sold, and the house shut up, and he himselfabout to embark for France, with the savings of his long service. Herguardian, Monsieur Critois, knew but little of young people, and how totalk to them. He had assured her that he mourned extremely the loss ofhis old acquaintance--the acquaintance of so many years--and so lost.He declared his desire of discharging his office of guardian so as toprove himself worthy of the trust, and his hope that he and his wardshould be very good friends. At present, it was his wish that sheshould remain where she was; and he asked whether she did not find everyone very kind to her. Euphrosyne could just say, "Yes;" but she wascrying too much to be able to add, that she hoped she should not have toremain in the convent very long. Monsieur Critois saw that she wasstruggling to say something: but, after waiting a minute, he stroked herhair, promised to come again some day soon, hoped she would cheer up,had no doubt she would be very happy--and was gone, glad to have donewith sobbing girls for this day.
When the gates had closed upon him, the petting began. The abbessdecreed that Euphrosyne should have the sole charge of her mocking-bird.Sister Angelique, who made the prettiest artificial flowers in theworld, invited her to her apartment at all reasonable hours, when shemight have a curiosity to see to learn the process. Sister Celestinehad invented a new kind of comfit which she begged Euphrosyne to try,leaving a paper of sweetmeats on her table for that purpose. OldRaphael had gained leave to clear a parterre in the garden which was tobe wholly hers, and where he would rear such flowers as she particularlyadmired. Father Gabriel himself, after pointing out to her theuncertainty of life, the sudden surprises of death, and the care withwhich it becomes social beings to discharge their duties to each other,since they know not how soon they may be parted--the serious FatherGabriel himself recommended her to amuse herself, and to remember howher grandfather had liked to see her gay. She had, no doubt, been agood girl on the whole; and she could not now do better than continuethe conduct which had pleased the departed in the days that were gone.
Petted people generally prove perverse; and so, in the opinion of theuniversal household, did Euphrosyne. There could be no doubt of herlove for her grandfather. One need but see the sudden tears thatsprang, twenty times in a day, when any remembrance of him was awakened.One need but watch her wistful looks cast up towards his balcony,whenever she was in the garden. Yet, when any one expressed indignationagainst his murderers, she was silent, or she ran away, or she protestedagainst it. Such was the representation which sister Claire made to herreverend mother, on the first opportunity.
"I was not aware that it was exactly so," replied the abbess. "Itappears to me that she dislikes to hear any parties made answerable forthe murder but those by whose hands it was actually done. She--"
The abbess stopped, and sister Claire started, at the sound of musketry.
"Another shot!" said the abbess. "It is a fearful execution. I shouldhave been glad to have removed this poor child out of hearing of theseshots; but I had no notice of what was to happen, till the streets weretoo full for her to appear in them."
"A piece of L'Ouverture's haste!" said sister Claire.
"A fresh instance, perhaps, of his wise speed," observed the abbess."Events seem to show that he understands the conduct of affairs betterthan you and I, my daughter."
"Again! Hark! Oh, mercy!" cried sister Claire, as the sound of aprolonged volley reached them.
"Let us hope it is the last," said the abbess, with changing colour."Christ save their sinful souls!"
The door opened, and Euphrosyne entered, in excessive agitation.
"Madame," she cried, gasping for breath, "do you hear that? Do you knowwhat it is? They have shot General Moyse! Father Gabriel says so.--Ohno, no! L'Ouverture never would do anything so cruel."
Sister Claire looked at the abbess.
"My daughter," said the abbess, "L'Ouverture's duty is to executejustice."
"Oh, Genifrede! Poor, poor Genifrede! She will die too. I hope she isdead."
"Hush, my child! Her life is in God's hands."
"Oh, how cruel! how cruel!" the girl went on, sobbing.
"What would L'Ouverture say," interposed sister Claire, "if he knew thatyou, of all people, called him cruel? Have you to-day put on this?" shecontinued, calling Euphrosyne's attention to her new mourning; "and doyou call it cruel to execute justice on the rebels and their officers?"
"It is a natural and amiable grief in Euphrosyne," said the abbess; "andif it is not quite reasonable, we can give her time to reflect. She isamong friends, who will not report the words of her hours of sorrow."
"You may--you may," cried Euphrosyne. "You may tell the whole worldthat it is cruel to--to--They were to have been married so very soon!--Afra wrote me all about it."
The abbess repeated what she had said about L'Ouverture's office, andthe requirements of justice.
"Justice! justice!" exclaimed Euphrosyne. "There has been no justicetill now; and so the first act is nothing but cruelty."
The abbess with a look dismissed sister Claire, who, by her report ofEuphrosyne's rebellion against justice, sent in Father Gabriel.
"Euphrosyne thinks, father," reported the abbess, "that these negroes,in consideration of their ignorance, and of their anger at having oncebeen slaves, should be excused for whatever they may do now, inrevenge."
"I am surprised," said Father Gabriel.
So was Euphrosyne when she heard her argument thus stated.
"I only mean," said she, striving to subdue her sobs; "I only mean thatI wish sister Claire, and sister Benoite, and all of them, would notwant me to be glad and revengeful."
"Glad and revengeful!" repeated Father Gabriel. "That would bedifficult."
"It makes me very miserable--it can do no good now--it could not bringgrandpapa to life again, if every negro in Limbe were shot," shecontinued, as tears rained down her cheeks. "Dear grandpapa neverwished any ill to anybody--he never did anybody any harm--"
The priest and the abbess exchanged glances.
"Why do you suppose these wretched blacks killed him, my dear?"
"I do not know why they rose, this one particular time. But I believethey have always risen because the whites have been proud and cruel;because the whites used to put them in chains, and whip them, and partmothers and children. After doing all this, and after bringing them upignorant and without religion, we expect them to forgive everything thathas passed, while we will not forgive them ourselves. But I will--Iwill forgive them my share. For all that you religious people may say,I will forgive them: and I am not afraid of what grandpapa would think.I hope he is in a place now where there is no question about forgivingthose who have injured us. The worst thing is, the thing that I cannotunderstand is, how L'Ouverture could do anything so cruel."
"I have a word to say to you, my dear," said the priest, with a sign tothe abbess.
"Oh, father!" replied the abbess, in an imploring tone.
"We must bring her to a right view, reverend sister. Euphrosyne, ifyour grandfather had not been the kind
master you suppose him--if he hadbeen one of the cruel whites you spoke of just now, if his own slaveshad always hated him, and--"
"Do stop!" said Euphrosyne, colouring crimson. "I cannot bear to hearyou speak so, father."
"You must bear, my child, to listen to what it is good for you to hear.If he had been disliked by every black in the colony, and they hadsought his life out of revenge, would you still be angry that justicewas done, and ungrateful that he is avenged?"
"You talk of avenging--you, a Christian priest!" said Euphrosyne. "Youtalk of justice--you, who slander the dead!"
"Peace, my daughter," said the abbess, very gently. "Remember where youare, and whom you speak to."
"Remember where my grandfather is," cried Euphrosyne. "Remember that heis in his grave, and that I am left to speak for him. However," shesaid--and, in these few moments, a thousand confirmations of thepriest's words had rushed upon her memory--a thousand tokens of themutual fear and hatred of her grandfather and the black race, a thousandsigns of his repugnance to visit Le Bosquet--"however," she resumed, ina milder tone, and with an anxious glance at Father Gabriel's face,"Father Gabriel only said `if'--_if_ all that he described had been so."
"True, my child," replied the abbess: "Father Gabriel only said `if ithad been so.'"
"And if it had," exclaimed Euphrosyne, who did not wish to hear thefather speak again at the moment--"if it had been so, it would have beenwicked in the negroes to do that act in revenge; but it could never,never excuse us from forgiving them--from pitying them because they hadbeen made cruel and revengeful. I am sure I wish they had all lived--that they might live many, many years, till they could forget thosecruel old times, and, being old men themselves, might feel what it is totouch an old man's life. This is the kind of punishment I wish them;and I am sure it would be enough."
"It is indeed said," observed the abbess, "`Vengeance is mine; I willrepay, saith the Lord.'"
"And oh! poor Genifrede!" pursued Euphrosyne. "She no more wished illto my parent than I do to hers; and her lover--it was not he that didit: and yet--Oh, Father Gabriel, are you sure that that firing--thatlast volley--"
"It was certainly the death stroke of Moyse. I perceive how it is, mychild. I perceive that your friendships among this new race haveblinded your eyes, so that you cannot see that these executions are,indeed, God's avenging of the murder by which you are made a second timean orphan."
"Do you think L'Ouverture right, then? I should be glad to believe thathe was not cruel--dreadfully cruel."
"There is no doubt of L'Ouverture's being wise and right--of his havingfinally assured the most unwilling of the inhabitants of their security,and his stern justice. There is no doubt that L'Ouverture is right."
"I could not have believed," said the abbess, "that my daughter wouldhave required a justification of anything done by L'Ouverture."
"Nor I," said Euphrosyne, sighing.
"Under him," said Father Gabriel, "there is less crime in the colonythan, I verily believe, in any other part of the empire. Under him havehomes become sacred, children are instructed, and brethren are taught todwell together in unity."
"As," said the abbess, "when he stopped in his journey to greet an oldnegro of ninety-nine, and reconcile to him two who had offended out ofhis many children. L'Ouverture is never in so much haste but that hecan pause to honour old ago: never too busy for works of mercy. If thepeace-makers are blessed, so is he."
"And where," continued the father, "where are the poor? We can observehis continual admonition to works of mercy, by nursing the sick, andconsoling the afflicted; but we have no longer any poor. By his wisdom,he has won over all to labour. The fields are thronged with labourers:the bays are crowded with ships: the store-houses are overflowing withfood and merchandise: and there is a portion for all."
"And it was the French," said Euphrosyne, "who made this last commotion.If they had let L'Ouverture alone, how happy we might all have been!Now, Genifrede will never be happy again. If L'Ouverture could onlyhave forgiven this once! But, father, I have no comfort--and nevershall have comfort, as long as I think that men have been murdered forinjuring us."
"Pray for comfort, my child. In prayer you will find consolation."
"I dare not pray, now this has happened. If they were but alive, how Iwould pray for them!"
"They are alive, my daughter, and where they much need your prayers.Pray for them, and your intercession may be heard."
Euphrosyne saw that her feelings were not understood; and she said nomore. She listened to all the teachings that were offered her, andreserved her doubts and troubles for Afra's ear. Afra would tell herwhether it could be right in such a Christian as L'Ouverture to renderviolence for violence. As for what the father and the abbess said aboutthe effect of example, and the necessity and the benefit of assuring andconciliating the whites, by sacrificing negro offenders for their sakes,she dissented from it altogether. She had witnessed Toussaint's power--the power with which his spirit of gentleness and forbearance endowedhim; and she believed that, if he would but try, he would find he couldgovern better by declaring always for the right and against the wrong,and leaving vengeance to God, than by the violent death of all theignorant and violent men in the island. She would ask Afra. She waspretty sure Afra would think as she did: and, if so, the time mightcome--it made her breathless to think of it, but she could not helpthinking of it every day--the time might come when she might askToussaint himself what he thought was exactly meant, in all cases, byforgiving our enemies; and particularly whether this did not extend toforgiving other people's enemies, and using no vengeance and no violenceat all.
This idea of seeing Afra gained strength under all the circumstances ofher present life. If Father Gabriel offered her comfort which was nocomfort, or reproved her when she did not feel herself wrong; if theabbess praised her for anything she had not designed to be particularlyright; if the sisters applauded sayings which she was conscious were notwise; if her heart ached for her grandfather's voice or countenance; ifMonsieur Critois visited her, or Pierre did not; if her lesson inhistory was hard, or her piece of needle-work dull; if her flowersfaded, or her bird sang so finely that she would have been proud for theworld to hear it--the passion for seeing Afra was renewed. Afra wouldexplain all she could not understand, would teach her what she wanted toknow. Afra would blame her where she was aware she was wrong, insteadof bidding her be quit of it with a few prayers, while laying muchheavier stress upon something that she could cure much more easily.Afra wrote her a few letters, which were read by the abbess before theywere delivered to her; and many more which. Pierre slipped into herhand during their occasional interviews. She herself wrote suchprodigiously long letters to Afra, that to read them through would havebeen too great an addition to the reverend mother's business. Sheglanced over the first page and the last; and, seeing that theycontained criticisms on Alexander the Great, and pity for Socrates, andquestions about flower-painting and embroidery, she skipped all that laybetween.
It was not that Euphrosyne did not love and trust the abbess. She lovedher so as to open to her all but the inner chambers of her heart; andshe trusted her with all but other persons' concerns. The middle pagesof her letters contained speculation chiefly: speculation, in the firstplace, on Afra's future destiny, names and events being shrouded undermysterious expressions; and, in the second place, on points of morals,which might be referred to Monsieur Pascal, whose opinion was of greatvalue. Euphrosyne had a strong persuasion, all the while, that sheshould one day tell her reverend mother the whole. She knew that sheshould not object to her seeing every line that Afra held of hers.Whatever was clandestine in the correspondence was for the sake ofavoiding restraint, and not because she was ashamed of any of herthoughts.
One morning the abbess found her in the garden, listlessly watching thehues of a bright lizard, as it lay panting in the sun. The abbess puther arm round her waist, while stooping to look.
"How it glit
ters!" said she. "It is a pretty piece of God's handiwork:but we must leave it now, my dear. This sun is too hot for you. Yourchamber, or sister Claire's room, is the fittest place for you at thishour. You find your chamber cool?"
"Yes, madam."
"The new ventilator works well?"
"Yes, madam."
"You find--this way, my dear--this alley is the most shady--you findyour little bed comfortable?"
"Yes, madam."
"And your toilet-cover--sister Marie's work--is, I think, extremelypretty: and the book-shelf that Father Gabriel gave you very convenient.Your friends here, my dear, are fond of you. They are anxious to makeyou happy."
"They are all very kind to me, madam."
"I am glad you are sensible of it. You are not of an ungrateful nature,we all know."
"I hope not: but, madam, I cannot stay here always."
"I was going to say, my dear, that we have not done everything in ourpower for you yet. We must not forget that we grave women must be dullcompanions for a girl like you."
"It is not that, reverend mother. But I cannot stay here always."
"You will find it a very different thing when you have a companion ofyour own age, which I hope will be the case very soon. There is anegotiation on foot respecting a sweet girl, every way worthy of beingyour companion--"
"But, madam, I do not want that--I do not wish for any companion while Iam here. I had much rather be alone; but--"
"But you would like to leave us--eh? You would like to be on aplantation, where you could amuse yourself with playing with the littlenegroes, and driving about the country, and visiting your neighbours twoor three times a week?"
Euphrosyne smiled, and plucked a twig to play with.
"You would like," continued the abbess, "to live with accomplishedpeople--to have a fine library, to lie on a couch and read during thehot hours; and to sing gay songs in the piazza in the evening."
Euphrosyne smiled again.
"You would like," the abbess went on, "to dance, night after night, andto make pic-nic parties to the cacao walks, and to the shore. You wouldlike to win over your guardian to let you have your own way ineverything: and, to be sure, in comparison with his house, ourconvent--"
"My guardian!" exclaimed Euphrosyne. "Live at Monsieur Critois'! Ohno!" And she laughed as she went on--
"He would be telling me every day that we should be very good friends.He would be saying all day long that it was his desire fully todischarge his duty to me. I can hardly help shaking off his hand now,when he strokes my hair: and, if it came to his doing it every morning,we should certainly quarrel. They say Madame Critois never speaks; so Isuppose she admires his conversation too much to interrupt it. Thereshe and I should never agree.--Live at my guardian's! Oh no!"
"You were thinking of some other house while I was describing yourguardian's, my dear. What were you thinking of? Where would you live?"
Euphrosyne plucked another twig, having pulled the first to pieces. Shesmiled again, blushed, and said she would tell her reverend mother verysoon what home she was thinking of: she could not tell to-day; but in alittle while--
"In the meantime," said the abbess, with a scrutinising gaze,--"in themeantime, I conclude Father Gabriel knows all that is in your mind."
"You will know in good time what I am thinking of, madam: everybody willknow."
The abbess was troubled.
"This is beginning early," she said, as if thinking aloud; "this isbeginning early with the mysteries and entanglements of life and theworld! How wonderful it is to look on, to be a witness of these thingsfor two or three successive generations! How every young creaturethinks her case something wholly new--the emotions of her awakened heartsomething that God never before witnessed, and that man never conceivedof! After all that has been written about love, upon the cavern wallsof Hindoo temples, and in the hieroglyphics of old Egypt, and printedover all the mountains and valleys of the world by that deluge which wassent to quench unhallowed love, every young girl believes in her daythat something unheard-of has happened when the dream has fallen uponher. My dear child, listen to one who knows more of life than you do--to one who would have you happy, not only in the next world, but inthis."
"Thank you, reverend mother."
"Love is holy and blessed, my dear, when it comes in its due season--when it enters into a mind disciplined for new duties, and a heartwaiting for new affections. In one who has no mother to help andcomfort--"
"No mother, it is true," said Euphrosyne.
"The mother is the parent naturally most missed," said the abbess,supposing she was reading her pupil's mind. "Where there is no motherby a young girl's side, and no brothers and sisters to serve, the fancyand the heart are apt to fix prematurely on some object--too likely, inthat case, to be one which will deceive and fail. But, my dear, such ayoung girl owes duty to herself, if God has seen fit to make hersolitary in the world."
"One cannot say solitary," interposed Euphrosyne, "or without duties."
"You are right, my love. No one is, indeed, solitary in life, (blessedbe God!) nor without duties. As I was going to say, such a young girl'sbusiness is to apply herself diligently to her education, during theyears usually devoted to instruction. This is the work appointed to heryouth. If, while her mind is yet ignorant, her judgment inexperienced,and her tastes actually unformed, she indulges any affection or fancywhich makes her studies tedious, her companions dull, and her mind andspirits listless, she has fallen into a fearful snare."
"How long then would you have a girl's education go on? And if herlover be very particularly wise and learned, do not you think she maylearn more from him than in any other way? And if she be not dull andlistless, but very happy--"
"Every girl," interrupted the abbess, with a grave smile, "thinks herlover the wisest man in the world: and no girl in love would exchangeher dreams for the gayest activity of the fancy-free."
"Well, but, as to the age," persisted Euphrosyne; "how soon--"
"That depends upon circumstances, my dear. But in all cases, I considersixteen too early."
"Sixteen! Yes. But nineteen--or, one may say, twenty. Twenty, nextmonth but one."
"My dear," said the abbess, stopping short, "you do not mean to say--"
"Indeed, madam," said Euphrosyne, very earnestly, "Afra will be twentyin two months. I know her ago to a day, and--"
"And you have been speaking of Mademoiselle Raymond all this time!Well, well--"
"And you were thinking of me, I do believe. Oh, madam, how could you!Why, I never saw anybody."
"I was wondering how it could be," said the abbess, striving to concealher amusement and satisfaction. "I was surprised that you should haveseen any one yet; and I was going to give you a lecture abouthalf-confidences with Father Gabriel."
"And I could not conceive what Father Gabriel had to do with Afra'saffairs, or how you came to know anything about it. I have let it outnow, however; and I do not know what Afra will say."
"You have not told me who the gentleman is, you know; so there is notmuch harm done. No, do not tell me, my dear, till Mademoiselle Raymonddesires it."
"Oh, I may as well, now you know so much. I dare say Afra would have noobjection; particularly as you will then understand what I meant aboutliving somewhere else. When you talked of a fine library," shecontinued, laughing, "how could I suppose you were thinking of any inthe colony but Monsieur Pascal's?"
"So he is the gentleman," said the abbess. "How times are changed! Alady of colour may be Madame Pascal now, without reproach."
"I am glad it is out," said Euphrosyne, gaily. "I can speak now tosomebody about Afra. Oh, madam, you do not know, you cannot imagine,how they love one another."
"Cannot I?"--and the abbess sighed.
"And I may look forward to living with them. They say I may, madam.They say I must. And surely my guardian will have no objection. Do youthink he can, madam?"
"Indeed I do not
know. I am acquainted with the parties only byhearsay. Report speaks highly of Monsieur Pascal. Some persons atParis, and some formerly in office here, are surprised at hisunqualified adherence to the Ouverture system; but I never heardanything worse of him than that."
"And that is nothing but good, as any one would say who really knew allthose dear people. L'Ouverture and Monsieur Pascal are almost likefather and son. Afra says--"
"My dear," interposed the abbess, "you wondered how I knew of thisaffair. You must allow me to wonder how you have gained all thisintelligence. Mademoiselle Raymond must have crossed her letters withsympathetic inks, which the warmth of your friendship brought out; fornot a syllable of what you have told me have her letters conveyed tome."
The abbess did not mean to press for an answer; so indulgent was shemade by the complacency of discovering that her charge was not entangledin a love affair. While Euphrosyne was blushing, and hunting for areply which should be true and yet guarded, she was relieved by therapid approach of sister Benoite.
"Something is amiss," said the abbess, assuming the look of calmnesswith which she was wont to await bad news. "What has happened to alarmyou, my daughter?"
"There is a message, reverend mother," said the breathless nun, "fromMadame Oge. She invites herself to our evening repast. If you cannotreceive her to-day, she will come to-morrow."
"She shall be welcome," said the abbess; without, however, much of thespirit of welcome in her tone.
"So this is our calamity!" said Euphrosyne, laughing.
"There is calamity at hand, assuredly," sighed sister Benoite. "Nay,nay, my daughter. This is superstition," said the abbess.
"Whatever it be, reverend mother, do we not all, does not every onequake when Madame Oge comes abroad?"
"It is but seldom that she does," said the abbess, "and it is our partto make her welcome."
"But seldom, indeed, reverend mother. When all goes well--when thecrops are fine, and the island all at peace, no one hears of Madame Oge.She keeps within her coffee-groves--"
"Mourning her sons," interposed the abbess. "But," continued the nun,"when any disaster is about to happen, we have notice of it by MadameOge coming abroad. She came to this very house the first day of themeeting of the deputies, in that terrible August of ninety-one. Shecame a day or two before the rising against Hedouville. She came thenight before the great hurricane of ninety-seven--"
"That was an accident," said the abbess, smiling. "Then you think it isnot by accident that she always comes out before misfortunes happen?"asked Euphrosyne, trembling as she spoke.
"By no means, my dear. It is easily explained. Madame Oge looks uponher sons as martyrs in the cause of the mulattoes. When all goes well,as all has done, under L'Ouverture's rule, with only a few occasionaltroubles--fewer and slighter than might have been expected during such achange in society as we have witnessed--when all goes well, Madame Ogefeels that her sons are forgotten; and, as my daughter Benoite says, shemourns them alone in the shades of her coffee-groves. She seems,however, to have means of information which persons less interested havenot: and when she has reason to believe that troubles will ensue, shehopes that the names of her sons will once more be a watchword, for thehumiliation of both blacks and whites; and she comes forth with herhungry maternal heart, and her quick maternal ear, to catch the firstecho of the names which are for ever mingled with her prayers."
"Can she mingle those names with her prayers, and yet not forgive?"
"My child, is it not so with us all? Do we not pray for our enemies,and ask to be forgiven as we forgive, and come out from our closets withears open to the fresh slanders of the day, and hearts ready to burn atthe thought of old injuries? It might be well for us, if we had theexcuse of this wretched woman, whose woes have been such as mightnaturally have shaken her reason, and prostrated her will. If there beany above others with whom God will be long suffering, it is with themother whose children have been torn from her arms to be tortured anddestroyed, and their very names made a term of reproach."
"You think something is going to happen?"
"As my daughter Benoite says, on one occasion there was a hurricane.To-morrow the sun may rise, or there may be a cloud in the sky."
"Nay, but--" said sister Benoite.
"Nay, but," said the abbess, smiling, "I will have nothing said whichshall make Euphrosyne look upon my guest as a sorceress, or as theinstrument of any evil one. I wish all my daughters to meet Madame Ogewith cheerfulness. It is the best I have to offer her,--thecheerfulness of my family; and that of which she has least at home. Youhear, Euphrosyne?"
"Madam, you do not mean that I am to see her. Indeed I cannot,--indeedI dare not. It is no disrespect--quite the contrary. But I could nothold up my head before one who--"
"Poor Madame Oge, if all said so!" exclaimed the abbess.
"That is true," said Euphrosyne. "I will be there: but, dear mother, donot speak particularly to me. Do not draw her attention upon me."
"I will not, my dear."
"Do you think she will speak angrily of the Ouvertures? I hope she willsay nothing about poor General Moyse."
"You must hear what she says, be it what it may."
"True. And it is only for one evening. But I wish it was over. Ishall be glad when to-morrow morning is come, and I shall be in thisalley again."
"Meantime, my dear, you have been long enough here for this morning.Let us go in."
The prospect of any guest was in itself acceptable to the sisterhood.It gave them something to do, and afforded one day of variety. Theabbess's parlour and the refectory had to be adorned with fresh flowers.Napkins, of the workmanship of one sister, were laid beside the plates;and on the table were fruits gathered by another, sweetmeats made by athird, and chocolate prepared by the careful hands of a fourth. Eventhe abbess's veil looked whiter, and more exactly put on than usual.Everything within the walls was in its nicest order some time beforeMadame Oge's carriage drew up before the gate.
Two or three of the sisters and Euphrosyne were with the abbess in herparlour, when Madame Oge entered. Euphrosyne had permission to bring inher work; so that she could sit plying her needle, and listening to whatwent on, without many nervous feelings about being observed by a personwhom she could become acquainted with only by stealing glances at herface.
That face, she thought, must in its youth have had much of the beautycommon among mulattoes, if not natural to them, in a favourable climate,it was now deeply impressed with sorrow. Every line, every feature,told of sorrow. There was no other painful expression in it. There wasgreat solemnity, but stillness rather than passion;--nothing whichwarranted, in itself, the superstitious fears which the sisters had ofthe unhappy lady. She was handsomely dressed, and her manner was quiet.
The conversation turned first upon the state of the coffee and sugarcrops, about which little could be said, because the prospect of everykind of produce was excellent. So much regard was everywhere paid tothe processes of cultivation; and the practice of ten years, under thevigilant eye of Toussaint and his agents, had so improved the methods oftillage and the habits of the cultivators, that the bounties of the soiland climate were improved instead of being intercepted. Every year,since the revolution, the harvests had been richer; and this was thecrowning year.
"Yes," said Madame Oge: "we have heard a great deal of all that; and Ifancy we have nearly heard the last of it."
"There must, indeed," replied the abbess, "be some limit to thefruitfulness of the soil, and to the industry of those who till it: andit does seem as if the earth could yield no more than it is bringingforth this year."
"Father Gabriel says," observed sister Claire, "that in his journeys hecould almost believe that the fields sing, and the hills rejoice withmusic, as the Scripture says--the cultivators are so hidden among thecorn and the canes, and the groves and the vines, that their songsreally seem to come out of the ground."
"It is in the woods," added sister Ben
oite, "as if the very treesshouted--"
She stopped abruptly before the name L'Ouverture, remembering that itwould not be acceptable to all the present company.
"I have no doubt," said Madame Oge, "that all the monkeys and parrotsare taught to shout L'Ouverture. Like his people, they are quick atlearning that much. But I imagine there will be something else forToussaint to do presently, than teaching the birds of the woods topraise him."
As no one asked what was likely to happen, she reserved for the presentthe news they trembled to hear; and went on--
"It is grievous to see so good a negro as Toussaint lost and spoiled. Iknew him of old, when he was at Breda: and many a time has MonsieurBayou told me that he was the most faithful, decent, clever,well-mannered negro on the estate."
"I believe he preserves those qualities still," observed the abbess,reproving with a glance the laugh which was rising at this descriptionof the Commander-in-chief.
"If those had been masters who ought to have been masters," pursuedMadame Oge, "Toussaint would, no doubt, have been placed at the head ofthe negroes: for we knew him well--I and they whom I have lost. Then,without insubordination,--without any being lifted out of their properplaces, to put down others--we should have had a vast improvement in thenegroes. Toussaint would have been made their model, and perhaps wouldhave been rewarded with his freedom, some day or other, for an example.This would have satisfied all the ambition he had by nature. He wouldhave died a free man, and perhaps have emancipated his family. As itis, they will all die slaves: and they will feel it all the harder forthe farce of greatness they have been playing these ten years. I amvery sorry for them: and I always was; for I foresaw from the beginninghow it would end."
"Do you really imagine that any one thinks of enslaving this wonderfulman again? And what should make him submit to it?"
"He would sooner lay a train to the root of Cibao, and blow up theisland," exclaimed Euphrosyne.
"Are you one of his party, young lady? You look too much as if you werebut just landed from France for me to suppose that I was speaking beforea friend of L'Ouverture's. If you really are lately from France, youmay know that there is a greater than our poor Toussaint, to whom hemust yield at command."
"I have never been at Paris, madame; and I do not believe that there isa greater than L'Ouverture, there, or anywhere else."
"You have been a happy child, I see: you have lived so retired from ourmiserable world as not to have heard of Bonaparte. It was by Bonaparte,my dear, for Bonaparte's convenience, and (it is my idea) for hisamusement, that Toussaint was made what he is, and allowed to gallopabout with his trumpeters behind him, for so long. You look as if youdid not believe me, my dear. Well: time will show."
"I thought," said Euphrosyne, "that Toussaint was the First of theBlacks before Bonaparte was the First of the Whites. I have no doubt,however, that it has been very convenient to Bonaparte, and verysurprising to him and everybody, that the colony has been so perfectlywell governed by one from whom they could have expected nothing. I hopeBonaparte will be too wise and too grateful to injure him, or even tohurt his feelings; and I feel very sure that Bonaparte is not strongenough, with all the world to help him, to make L'Ouverture and hisfamily slaves again."
"We shall see. Even I may live to see it; and I have no doubt you will.Bonaparte is going to try; and, if he cannot, as you say, do it byhimself, he may now persuade all the world to help him: for he is makingpeace on all hands."
"You have that news from France?" inquired the abbess.
"I have it from a sure quarter--never mind how. It will soon begenerally known that the preliminaries of peace between France andEngland are signed: and I happen to know two things more: that Bonapartehas agreed to maintain negro slavery in Martinique, Guadaloupe, andCayenne: and that--(pray listen, young lady)--he declares to the Englishthat he can do what he pleases in Saint Domingo. I wish he could seethat angry blush. Pray look at her, Madame! I see she thinks Bonapartea very impertinent fellow."
"I do," replied Euphrosyne; "and I hope he will know better, and feelbetter, before he is L'Ouverture's ago."
"Ha! he ought to know what disloyal little hearts there are beatingagainst him in this Saint Domingo that he thinks all his own."
"Perhaps," observed the abbess, "he used these words when he was notspeaking of slavery; but rather from being aware of the loyalty of theOuverture family; which is, I believe, exemplary."
"It is," declared Euphrosyne, looking up with glowing eyes. "He has notonly served, but worshipped Bonaparte, all the years that they have bothruled. In his own family, Monsieur Pascal says--"
"What is Monsieur Pascal to do under the changes that are coming?"interrupted Madame Oge. "He has placed himself in a difficulty, itseems to me. Will he go under the yoke with his father-in-law? (for Isuppose, in his devotion, he will be marrying one of Toussaint'sdaughters). Will he take the hoe, and go into the field--? You aresmiling, my dear young lady."
Euphrosyne was indeed smiling. She could not but hope that, as MadameOge was so ill-informed about the affairs of Monsieur Pascal, and of theRaymonds, who were of her own colour, she might be mistaken about thewhole of her news.
"You are smiling," repeated Madame Oge. "Though you stoop your headover your work, I see that you have some droll thought."
"It would be strange, certainly," replied Euphrosyne, "to see thephilosophical Monsieur Pascal hoeing canes, or working at the mill. YetI believe we may be certain that he will be a slave as soon asToussaint, or any negro in Saint Domingo."
"Young people like to be positive," said Madame Oge to the abbess. "Butit does not much matter, as they have life before them; time enough tosee what is true, and what is not. Is it your doctrine, my dear younglady, that God has given over His wrath towards this island; and that itis to be happy henceforth, with the negroes for masters?"
"With the negroes for equals, I think it may be happy. But I neverthought of God being wrathful towards us. I thought our miseries hadarisen out of men's wrath with each other."
"If ever," said Madame Oge, in a low tone, but yet so that every wordwas heard--"if ever there was a place set apart by cursing--if everthere was a hell upon this earth, it is this island. Men can tell uswhere paradise was--it was not here, whatever Columbus might say. Thereal paradise where the angels of God kept watch, and let no evil thingenter, was on the other side of the globe: and I say that this place wasmeant for a hell, as that was for a heaven, upon earth. It looked likeheaven to those who first came: but that was the devil's snare. It wasto make lust sweeter, and cruelty safer, that he adorned the place as hedid. In a little while, it appeared like what it was. The innocentnatives were corrupted; the defenceless were killed; the strong weremade slaves. The plains were laid waste, and the valleys and woods wererifled. The very bees ceased to store their honey: and among the wildgame there was found no young. Then came the sea-robbers, and hauntedthe shores: and many a dying wretch screamed at night among thecaverns--many a murdered corpse lies buried in our sands. Then thenegroes were brought in from over the sea; and from among their chains,from under the lash, grew up the hatred of races. The whites hated themulattoes, and despised the blacks. The mulattoes hated both the whitesand the blacks; and--"
"And," interposed Euphrosyne, courageously, "the blacks hated neither.They loved where they could; and where they could not love, theyforgave; and there lies the proof that this island is not hell."
"You have proved nothing, my dear, but that you do not know what hashappened, even since you were born. Any white will tell you what thenegroes did, so late as the year ninety-one--how they killed theirmasters by inches--how they murdered infants--how they carried offladies into the woods--"
A sign from the abbess availed to stop Madame Oge, even in the midst ofa subject on which none usually dared to interrupt her. Euphrosyne, insome agitation, replied, "I am aware of all that you say: but every oneallows that the most ignorant and cruel of the negroes di
d over againexactly what they had seen the whites do to their race. But theserevengeful blacks were few, very few, in comparison with the numbers whospared their masters, helped and comforted them, and are now working ontheir estates--friends with all who will be friends with them. Theplace is not hell where thousands of men forgot the insults of alifetime, and bind up the wounds of their oppressors."
"I cannot doubt," said the abbess, "that ever since there was aChristian in the island, there have been angels of God at hand, tosanctify the evil which they were not commissioned to prevent. Violenceis open to the day. Patience is hidden in the heart. Revenge hasshouted his battle-cry at noon, while Forgiveness breathes her lowlyprayer at midnight. Spirits from hell may have raged along our highroads; but I trust that in the fiercest times, the very temper of Christmay have dwelt in a thousand homes, in a thousand nooks of our valleysand our woods."
"Besides," sister Benoite ventured to say, "our worst troubles were solong ago! For ten years now we have been under the holy rule of adevout man; and, for the most part, at peace."
"Peace!" exclaimed Madame Oge, contemptuously.
"There have been disputes among the rulers, as Father Gabriel says thereare among all the rulers in the world; but he says (and no one knowsbetter than Father Gabriel) that the body of the people have not beentroubled by these disputes, and are not even aware of them."
"Does not Father Gabriel tell you that ten years are but a day in heavenand hell? Yes, in hell--they may be long for suffering; but they areshort for revenge. The cruel master, who saw one slave faint under thelash, and let another die in the stocks, and tore the husband from thewife, and the child from the mother, might escape for the time with thedestruction of his family, punished for his sake:--he might live safelyin the midst of the city, for the ten years you speak of; but, let himventure out for a single day--let him but drive to his own estate andback again, and grey as his head is, he is shot in his own carriage, assoon as it is dark."
Before the abbess could anticipate what was coming, the words were out.Before she could make a sign, Euphrosyne had rushed from the room.
It was not long before the abbess entered the chamber of her charge.She found her stretched on the bed, not weeping, but shuddering withhorror.
"My daughter," said she, "I grieve that this trial should have come uponyou already. If one could have foreseen--"
"But, madam, is it true? She meant _him_, I know. Tell me faithfully,is it true?"
"It is, my daughter."
"What, all? Every one of those things?"
"All true. Perhaps it is well that you should know it, that thedeparted may have the benefit of your prayers. But how differentlywould I have had you told!"
"Never mind that! Whatever is true, I can and will bear. I will prayfor him, madam, day and night--as long as I live will I pray for him:for he was to me--Oh, madam, how he loved me! I will make reparationfor him; the reparation that he would make if he could. I will find outwho were the poor creatures--I will make them happy for as long as theylive, for his sake. You will help me, madam?"
"I will. It is a pious intention."
"I owe him all that I can do. I ask one favour of you, madam. Let noone speak to me about him--never again. No one can understand what hewas to me--what care he took of me--how he used to love me. Oh, madam,is it quite certain--are you quite sure that those things are true?"
"My child, do not give me the pain of explaining more. As you say, letthis never again be spoken of.--I propose to you, Euphrosyne, to make avirtuous effort."
"Not to come down this evening, madam?"
"Yes, my child, to come down this evening. I think it of importancethat Madame Oge should not discover how she has wounded you, and thatnothing should occur to fix her attention on the descendant of one whowas active in procuring the death of her sons. Trust me, my dear, it isworth an effort to prevent Madame Oge leaving this house your enemy."
"I do not care for it, madam. Let her hate me. She is quite welcome."
"You are thinking only of yourself, Euphrosyne. I am thinking also ofher. Consider how sore a heart she carries within her. Consider howwretched her life has been made by the enmities in which she has lived.Will you not save her one more? You have professed to pity her. Nowyou can show if your pity is real, by saving her from a new enmity."
"I am willing to do that: but how can I speak to her? How can we knowwhat things she may say?"
"You shall not converse with her again. The table is spread. Go downnow, and take your place at the foot, beside sister Claire. When werise from table, I will dismiss you to your room as in course."
"I wish that time was come," sighed Euphrosyne, as she languidlyarranged her hair.
The abbess stroked her pale cheek, as she said that in an hour she wouldbe glad the effort was made.
"You can spend the evening in writing to your friend," said she; "and ifyou think proper to tell her that I know her secret, you may assure herof my blessing and my prayers. They are due to one who loves my dearcharge as she does."
Euphrosyne's cheeks were now no longer pale.
"And may I tell her, madam, what Madame Oge has been declaring aboutBonaparte and his threats?"
"It will be needless, my dear. If there be any truth in the matter,Monsieur Pascal, doubtless, knows more than Madame Oge."
"In that case there can be no harm in mentioning it."
Still the abbess thought it would be safer to say nothing about it; andEuphrosyne gave up the point for to-night, remembering that she couldperhaps send a private despatch afterwards by the hands of Pierre.
During the meal, while the length of the table was between them,Euphrosyne nearly escaped the notice of Madame Oge. When it was over,and the sisters rose, while the guest and the abbess passed out to theparlour, the abbess stopped at Euphrosyne, kissed her forehead, andcommended her to her studies. Madame Oge stopped too, and put in anintercession that the young lady might be excused studying this evening,and permitted to return to her pretty fancy-work in the parlour. Thecolour rushed to Euphrosyne's temples--a sign of ardent hope of aholiday in Madame Oge's eyes. She therefore thought the abbessgrievously strict when she replied that her charge would prefer spendingthe evening in her own chamber.
"As you please," said Madame Oge. "It was my wish to do the child akindness; and perhaps to have the pleasure myself of seeing a young facefor an hour or two--the rarest of all sights to me. I seldom go out;and when I do, all the young and cheerful faces seem to have hiddenthemselves."
The abbess regulated her invitations for the evening by this speech.Sisters Debora and Marie, one the youngest, and the other the merriestof the family, were requested to bring their work-bags, and join theparty in the parlour.
"Good evening, young lady," said Madame Oge to Euphrosyne, holding outher hand. "I hoped to have procured you a little freedom, and to havehad _more_ conversation about your hero; but--"
"If there are to be great changes in the colony," observed theabbess--"it may yet be in your power, madam, to show kindness to mycharge."
"If so, command me, my dear. But it is more likely that the changes tocome will have the opposite effect. Then pretty young white ladies mayhave all their own way; while the storm will burst again on the heads ofthe dark people."
"If so, command me, madam," Euphrosyne exerted herself to say. Theabbess's smile made her eyes fill with tears, almost before she hadspoken.
"Are your eyes wet for me, my dear?" said Madame Oge, with surprise."Let the storm burst upon me; for I am shattered and stricken already,and nothing can hurt me. But I shall remember your offer. Meantime,you may depend upon it, the news I told you is true--the times I warnedyou of are coming."
"What news? what warning?" eagerly asked the sisters of Euphrosyne, assoon as the guest was out of hearing.
"That there were hurricanes last November, and there will be more thenext," replied she, escaping to her chamber. Before she slept, she hadwritten all h
er news and all her thoughts to Afra, leaving it fordecision in the morning, whether she should send entire what she hadwritten.
The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance Page 25
