"In human affections; by which he thinks more in the end is done than by their pa.s.sions."
"Did you learn this from himself?" asked Azua, who listened with much surprise and curiosity to this explanation from the girl by whose side he rode. "Does your father explain to you his views of men, and his purposes with regard to them?"
"There is no need," she replied. "From the books he has always read, we know what he thinks of men"s minds and ways: and from what happens, we learn his purposes; for my father always fulfils his purposes."
"And who led you to study his books, and observe his purposes?"
"My brother Isaac."
"One of those who is studying at Paris? Does he make you study here, while he is being educated there?"
"No; he does not make me study. But I know what he is doing--I have books--Isaac and I were always companions--He learns from me what my father does--But I was going to tell you, when you began asking about my father, that this plain will not appear to you throughout so, flourishing as it does now, from the road. When we reach the Etoile estate, you will see enough of the ravages of war."
"I have perceived some signs of desertion in a house or two that we have pa.s.sed," said Azua. "But these brothers of yours--when will they return?"
"Indeed I wish I knew," sighed Aimee. "I believe that depends on the First Consul."
"The First Consul has so much to do, it is a pity their return should depend upon his memory. If he should forgot, you will go and see Paris, and bring your brothers home."
"The First Consul forgets nothing," replied Aimee. "He knows and heeds all that we do here, at the distance of almost half the world. He never forgets my brothers: he is very kind to them."
"All that you say is true," said Vincent, who was now on the other side of Aimee. "Everything that you can say in praise of the First Consul is true. But yet you should go and see Paris. You do not know what Paris is--you do not know what your brothers are like in Paris--especially Isaac. He tells you, no doubt, how happy he is there?"
"He does; but I had rather see him here."
"You have fine scenery here, no doubt, and a climate which you enjoy: but there! what streets and palaces--what theatres--what libraries and picture-galleries--and what society!"
"Is it not true, however," said Azua, "that all the world is alike to her where her brother is?"
"This is L"Etoile," said Aimee. "Of all the country houses in the island, this was, not perhaps the grandest, but the most beautiful. It is now ruined; but we hear that enough remains for Monsieur Loisir to make out the design."
She turned to Vincent, and told him that General Christophe was about to build a house; and that he wished it to be on the model of L"Etoile, as it was before the war. Monsieur Loisir was to furnish the design.
The Europeans of the party were glad to be told that they had nearly arrived at their resting place; for they could scarcely sit their horses, while toiling in the heat through the deep sand of the road.
They had left far behind them both wood and swamp; and, though the mansion seemed to be embowered in the green shade, they had to cross open ground to reach it. At length Azua, who had sunk into a despairing silence, cried out with animation--
"Ha! the opuntia! what a fence! what a wall!"
"You may know every deserted house in the plain," said Aimee, "by the cactus hedge round it."
"What ornament can the inhabited mansion have more graceful, more beautiful?" said Azua, forgetting the heat in his admiration of the blossoms, some red, some snow-white, some blush-coloured, which were scattered in profusion over the thick and high cactus hedge which barred the path.
"Nothing can be more beautiful," said Aimee, "but nothing more inconvenient. See, you are setting your horse"s feet into a trap." And she pointed to the stiff, p.r.i.c.kly green shoots which matted all the ground. "We must approach by some other way. Let us wait till the servants have gone round."
With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known throughout the island for his defence of the Etoile estate against Rigaud. Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his fitness for freedom. He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation, bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the Commander-in-chief--the idol of their colour. The heir of the Etoile estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim. Bellair, therefore, and two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.
Bellair hastened to lead Madame L"Ouverture"s horse round to the other side of the house, where no p.r.i.c.kly vegetation was allowed to encroach.
His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the colonnade--once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire, and at one end crumbling into ruins.
"Minerve!" cried Madame, on seeing her.
"Deesha is her name," said Bellair, smiling.
"Oh, you call her by her native name! Would we all knew our African names, as you know hers! Deesha!"
Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the Ouverture family. Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of the abode--a corner of the palace-like mansion--a corner well covered in from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and luxury.
The courtyard through which they pa.s.sed was strewed with ruins, which, however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out. The whole was shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once was. Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this natural ladder, when he was called back again. The jalousies were decayed--starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and the dew. The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the desolation. The gilding of the bal.u.s.trades of the hall was tarnished; and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight and clean. The saloon to the right const.i.tuted the family dwelling.
Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars. An alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking. The kitchen corner was part.i.tioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise, and the blue rivers and gilt paG.o.das of China. The other part.i.tions were the work of Bellair"s own hands, woven of bamboo and long gra.s.s, dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true African, acquainted. The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or with ladies" work-boxes. The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair"s axe.
On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden spoons, and knives with enamelled handles. A harp, with its strings broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall. It was altogether a curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.
The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its coolness might have appeared. At one side of the mansion was the colonnade, which engrossed the architect"s attention; on the other bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist--least of all those who were lovers. Moyse and his Genifrede stepped first to the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon lost sight of among the shrubs.
Genifrede had her sketch-book in her hand. She and her sister were here partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a garden-house which they pa.s.sed, saying--
"You can draw while I am away. For this hour you are all my own."
"And when will you be away? Wherever you go, I will follow you. If we once part, we shall not meet again."
"We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet again. Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to gain you--only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy for over."
"Then you will be killed--or you will be sent to France, or you will love some one else and forget me--"
"Forgot you!--love some one else! Oh! Heaven and earth!" cried Moyse, clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he impressed on her forehead. "And what," he continued, in a voice which thrilled her heart, "what would you do if I were killed?"
"I would die. Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me! Let your spirit wait for mine! It shall not be long."
"Shall my spirit come--shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am dead? Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?"
"Oh! no, no!" she cried, shuddering. "I will follow--you need not fear.
But a ghost--oh! no, no!" And she looked up at him, and clasped him closer.
"And why?" said Moyse. "You do not fear me now--you cling to me. And why fear me then? I shall be yours still. I shall be Moyse. I shall be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not. Why not see and hear me?"
"Why not?" said Genifrede, in a tone of a.s.sent. "But I dare not--I will not. You shall not die. Do not speak of it."
"It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it. Well, I will not die.
But tell me--if I forget you--if I love another--what then?" And he looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the blossom-strewn path--
"Then I will forget you too."
Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs. The walk, once a smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown with the vegetation which encroached on either hand. As the dark beauty forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet. Her lover was soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying--
"The very flowers worship you: but they and all--all must yield you to me. You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your father. Genifrede, how shall I distinguish myself? Show me the way, and I shall succeed."
"Do not ask me," she replied, sighing.
"Nay, whom should I ask?"