He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering and muttering.
"That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should have interfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily, while seating her on the fresh gra.s.s. He threw himself down beside her, holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.
"This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lying under it!"
"Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.
"G.o.d forgive me!" he replied. "But we are all wretched."
"You repent, then?" said Genifrede. "Well you may! There are no more such, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it is too late now."
"I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."
"There are no more such," pursued she. "He was gallant."
"He was."
"He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."
"He was, my child."
"And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proud smile.
"He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."
"Such a soldier!" she dreamed on. "War was his sport, while I trembled at home. He had a soldier"s heart."
Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had not appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to her feet.
"You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father. "With Madame Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."
"Home!" she exclaimed with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said, hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise. I wish you joy of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your paradise!"
She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Therese, who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father"s care, now intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint, who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Having acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a life of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where, for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairs of the citizens of Cap. The steadiness of his attention to business was felt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wandering thoughts.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
PERCH OF THE RAVEN.
Euphrosyne"s life in the convent was dull and weary. It would probably have been so anywhere, for some time after the old man"s death: but elsewhere 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 the voice of chiding during all the years that she had lived with her grandfather; and she did not mind it. It would now have been something of a relief, something welcome and familiar, to have been called "child"
and "little fool" at times, instead of being told at every turn that she was an angel and a love, and finding that she was every one"s pet, from the abbess to old Raphael.
The kindness of the household had begun from the moment the poor girl appeared, after having been consoled by Father Gabriel, and visited by Pierre, and the guardian to whose care her grandfather had confided her person and her property. Pierre had engaged to see her daily till the furniture should have been sold, and the house shut up, and he himself about to embark for France, with the savings of his long service. Her guardian, Monsieur Critois, knew but little of young people, and how to talk to them. He had a.s.sured her that he mourned extremely the loss of his old acquaintance--the acquaintance of so many years--and so lost.
He declared his desire of discharging his office of guardian so as to prove himself worthy of the trust, and his hope that he and his ward should be very good friends. At present, it was his wish that she should remain where she was; and he asked whether she did not find every one very kind to her. Euphrosyne could just say, "Yes;" but she was crying too much to be able to add, that she hoped she should not have to remain in the convent very long. Monsieur Critois saw that she was struggling to say something: but, after waiting a minute, he stroked her hair, 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 done with sobbing girls for this day.
When the gates had closed upon him, the petting began. The abbess decreed that Euphrosyne should have the sole charge of her mocking-bird.
Sister Angelique, who made the prettiest artificial flowers in the world, invited her to her apartment at all reasonable hours, when she might have a curiosity to see to learn the process. Sister Celestine had invented a new kind of comfit which she begged Euphrosyne to try, leaving a paper of sweetmeats on her table for that purpose. Old Raphael had gained leave to clear a parterre in the garden which was to be wholly hers, and where he would rear such flowers as she particularly admired. Father Gabriel himself, after pointing out to her the uncertainty of life, the sudden surprises of death, and the care with which it becomes social beings to discharge their duties to each other, since they know not how soon they may be parted--the serious Father Gabriel himself recommended her to amuse herself, and to remember how her grandfather had liked to see her gay. She had, no doubt, been a good girl on the whole; and she could not now do better than continue the conduct which had pleased the departed in the days that were gone.
Petted people generally prove perverse; and so, in the opinion of the universal household, did Euphrosyne. There could be no doubt of her love for her grandfather. One need but see the sudden tears that sprang, 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 indignation against his murderers, she was silent, or she ran away, or she protested against it. Such was the representation which sister Claire made to her reverend mother, on the first opportunity.
"I was not aware that it was exactly so," replied the abbess. "It appears to me that she dislikes to hear any parties made answerable for the 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 should have been glad to have removed this poor child out of hearing of these shots; but I had no notice of what was to happen, till the streets were too 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 better than you and I, my daughter."
"Again! Hark! Oh, mercy!" cried sister Claire, as the sound of a prolonged 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 know what it is? They have shot General Moyse! Father Gabriel says so.--Oh no, 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 execute justice."
"Oh, Genifrede! Poor, poor Genifrede! She will die too. I hope she is dead."
"Hush, my child! Her life is in G.o.d"s hands."
"Oh, how cruel! how cruel!" the girl went on, sobbing.
"What would L"Ouverture say," interposed sister Claire, "if he knew that you, of all people, called him cruel? Have you to-day put on this?" she continued, calling Euphrosyne"s attention to her new mourning; "and do you call it cruel to execute justice on the rebels and their officers?"
"It is a natural and amiable grief in Euphrosyne," said the abbess; "and if it is not quite reasonable, we can give her time to reflect. She is among friends, who will not report the words of her hours of sorrow."
"You may--you may," cried Euphrosyne. "You may tell the whole world that 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, and the requirements of justice.
"Justice! justice!" exclaimed Euphrosyne. "There has been no justice till now; and so the first act is nothing but cruelty."
The abbess with a look dismissed sister Claire, who, by her report of Euphrosyne"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 once been slaves, should be excused for whatever they may do now, in revenge."
"I am surprised," said Father Gabriel.