Читать книгу The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance - Harriet Martineau - Страница 8

The party of deputies with whom Monsieur Bayou was dining were assembled at the great hotel, at the corner of Place Mont Archer, at Cap Français. Languidly, though gladly, did the guests, especially those from the country, enter the hotel, overpowering as was the heat of the roads and the streets. In the roads, the sand lay so deep, that the progress of horsemen was necessarily slow, while the sun seemed to shed down a deluge of flame. In the streets, there was the shelter of the piazzas; but their pillars, if accidentally touched, seemed to burn the hand; and the hum of traffic, and the sound of feet, appeared to increase the oppression caused by the weather. Within the hotel, all was comparatively cool and quiet. The dining and drawing-rooms occupied by the guests adjoined each other, and presented none but the most welcome images. The jalousies were nearly closed; and through the small spaces that were left open, there might be seen in one direction the fountain playing in the middle of the Place, and in the other, diagonally across the Rue Espagnole, the Jesuits’ Walk, an oblong square laid down in grass, and shaded in the midst by an avenue of palms. Immediately opposite the hotel was the Convent of Religieuses, over whose garden wall more trees were seen; so that the guests might easily have forgotten that they were in the midst of a town.

The rooms were so dark that those who entered from the glare of the streets could at first see nothing. The floor was dark, being of native mahogany, polished like a looking-glass. The walls were green, the furniture green—everything ordered in counter-action of light and heat. In the dining-room more was visible; there was the white cloth spread over the long range of tables, and the plate and glass, glittering in such light as was allowed to enter; and also the gilded balustrade of the gallery, to be used to-day as an orchestra. This gallery was canopied over, as was the seat of the chairman, with palm branches and evergreens, intermixed with fragrant shrubs, and flowers of all hues. A huge bunch of peacocks’ feathers was suspended from the lofty ceiling, and it was waved incessantly to and fro, by strings pulled by two little negroes, at opposite corners of the room, causing a continual fanning of the air, and circulation of the perfumes of the flowers. The black band in the orchestra summoned the company to dinner, and entertained them while at it by playing the popular revolutionary airs which were then resounding through the colony like the hum of its insects, or the dash of its waterfalls. As they took their seats to the air of the “Marseillaise Hymn,” more than one of the guests might be heard by his next neighbour singing to himself:

“Allons, enfans de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”

Before politics, however, there was dinner to be attended to; and the first-fruits of the eloquence of the meeting was bestowed on the delicate turtle, the well-fattened land-crabs, and the rich pasties—on the cold wines, the refreshing jellies, and the piles of oranges, figs, and almonds, pomegranates, melons, and pine-apples. The first vote of compliment was to Henri, the black cook from Saint Christophe, whence he had been brought over by the discerning hotel-keeper, who detected his culinary genius while Henri was yet but a lad. When the table was cleared, a request was sent up to the chairman from various parties at the table, that he would command Henri’s attendance, to receive the testimony of the company respecting the dinner he had sent up, and to take a glass of wine from them.

Dr. Proteau, the chairman, smilingly agreed, saying that such a tribute was no more than Henri’s professional excellence and high reputation deserved; and Henri was accordingly summoned by a dozen of the grinning black waiters, who ran over one another in their haste to carry to the kitchen the message of these, the highest gentry of the land. The waiters presently poured into the room again, and stood in two rows from the door, where Henri appeared, not laughing like the rest, but perfectly grave, as he stood, white apron on, and napkin over his arm, his stout and tall figure erect, to receive the commands of his masters.

“Was your father a cook or a gourmand, Henri? Or are you all good cooks at Saint Christophe?” asked a deputy.

“If it is the air of Saint Christophe that makes men such cooks as Henri, the knights of Saint John of Malta had a goodly gift in it,” said another.

“Can one get such another as you for money, Henri?” asked a third.

“How many boys has your wife brought you, Henri? We shall bid high for them, and make your master’s fortune, if he trains them all to your profession,” said a fourth.

“Tell your master he had better not part with you for any sum, Henri. We will make it worth his while to refuse more for you than was ever offered yet.”

“Your health, Henri! May you live out all the turtle now in Saint Domingo, and the next generation after them.”

Amidst all these questions and remarks, Henri escaped answering any. He stood looking on the ground, till a glass of champagne was brought to him, bowed to the company, drank it off, and was gone.

“How demure the fellow looks!” said Monsieur Papalier, a planter, to Bayou, his neighbour in the plain, who now sat opposite to him; “what an air of infinite modesty he put on! At this moment, I daresay he is snapping his fingers, and telling the women that all the money in Saint Domingo won’t buy him.”

“You are mistaken there,” said Bayou. “He is a singular fellow, is Henri, in more ways than his cookery. I believe he never snapped his fingers in his life, nor told anybody what his master gave for him. I happen to know Henri very well, from his being an acquaintance of my overseer, who is something of the same sort, only superior even to Henri.”

“The fellow looked as if he would have given a great deal more than his glass of wine to have stayed out of the room,” observed Monsieur Leroy. “He has nothing of the mulatto in him, has he? Pure African, I suppose.”

“Pure African—all safe,” replied Bayou. “But observe! the music has stopped, and we are going on to the business of the day. Silence, there! Silence, all!”

Everybody said “Silence!” and Dr. Proteau rose.

He declared himself to be in a most remarkable situation—one in which he was sure every Frenchman present would sympathise with him. Here he stood, chairman of a meeting of the most loyal, the most spirited, the most patriotic citizens of the empire, chairman of an assemblage of members of a colonial parliament, and of their guests and friends—here he stood, in this capacity, and yet he was unable to propose any one of the loyal toasts by which it had, till now, been customary to sanction their social festivities. As for the toast, now never more to be heard from their lips—the health of the king and royal family—the less that was said about that the better. The times of oppression were passing away; and he, for one, would not dim the brightness of the present meeting by recalling from the horizon, where it was just disappearing, the tempest cloud of tyranny, to overshadow the young sunshine of freedom. There had been, however, another toast, to which they had been wont to respond with more enthusiasm than was ever won by despotic monarchy from its slaves. There had been a toast to which this lofty roof had rung again, and to hail which every voice had been loud, and every heart had beat high. Neither could he now propose that toast. With grief which consumed his soul, he was compelled to bury in silence—the silence of mortification, the silence of contempt, the silence of detestation—the name of the National Assembly of France. His language might appear strong; but it was mild, it was moderate; it was, he might almost say, cringing, in comparison with what the National Assembly had deserved. He need not occupy the time of his friends, nor harrow their feelings, by a narrative of the injuries their colony had sustained at the hands of the French National Assembly. Those around him knew too well, that in return for their sympathy in the humbling of a despot, for their zeal in behalf of the eternal principles of freedom, the mother-country had, through the instrumentality of its National Council, endeavoured to strip its faithful whites in this colony of the power which they had always possessed, and which was essential to their very existence in their ancient prosperity—the exclusive power of making or enforcing laws for their own community. The attempt was now made, as they too well knew, to wrest this sacred privilege from their hands, by admitting to share it a degraded race, before whose inroads would perish all that was most dear to his fellow-citizens and to himself—the repose of their homes, the security of their property, the honour of their colour, and the prosperity of the colony. He rejoiced to see around him, and from his heart he bade them welcome, some fellow-labourers with himself in the glorious work of resisting oppression, and defending their ancient privileges, endeared to them by as many ages as had passed since distinctions of colour were made by an Almighty hand. He invited them to pledge themselves with him to denounce and resist such profane, such blasphemous innovations, proposed by shallow enthusiasts, seconded by designing knaves, and destined to be wrought out by the agency of demons—demons in human form. He called upon all patriots to join him in his pledge; and in token of their faith, to drink deep to one now more deserving of their homage than was ever king or National Assembly—he need not say that he alluded to the noblest patriot in the colony—its guardian, its saviour—Governor Blanchelande.

The gentleman who rose, amidst the cheers and jingling of glasses, to say a few words to this toast, was a man of some importance in the colony as a member of its Assembly, though he otherwise held no higher rank than that of attorney to the estate of Monsieur Gallifet, a rich absentee. Odeluc was an old resident, and (though zealous for the privileges of the whites) a favourite with men of all colours, and therefore entitled to be listened to by all with attention, when he spoke on the conflicting interests of races. However his opinions might please or displease, all liked to look upon his bright countenance, and to hear his lively voice. Vincent Ogé had said that Odeluc was a worse foe to the mulattoes than many a worse man—he always so excited their good-will as to make them forget their rights.

As he now rose, the air from the peacock-fan stirring the white hair upon his forehead (for in the heats of Saint Domingo it was permitted to lay wigs aside), and the good wine animating yet further the spirit of his lively countenance, Odeluc was received with a murmur of welcome, before he opened his lips to speak.

“I must acknowledge, my fellow-citizens,” said he, “I never was more satisfied with regard to the state of our colony than now. We have had our troubles, to be sure, like the mother-country, and like all countries where portions of the people struggle for power which they ought not to have. But we have settled that matter for ourselves, by the help of our good Governor, and I firmly believe that we are at the commencement of a long age of peace.”

Here some applauded, while two or three shook their head. Odeluc continued—

“I see some of my friends do not altogether share my hopes. Yet are these hopes not reasonable? The Governor has himself assured me that nothing shall induce him to notice the obnoxious decree, till he has, in the first place, received it under all the official forms—in the next place, written his remonstrance to the government at home—and, in the third place, received an answer. Now, all this will take some time. In three days, we deputies shall begin our session; and never were the members of any assembly more united in their will and in their views, and therefore more powerful. We meet for the express purpose of neutralising the effects of this ill-judged decree; we have the power—we have the will—and who can doubt the results? The management of this colony has always succeeded well in the hands of the whites; they have made its laws, and enforced them—they have allowed the people of colour liberty to pursue their own business, and acquire property if they could, conscious of strength to restrain their excesses, if occasion should arise: and, as for the negro population, where in the world were affairs ever on a better footing between the masters and their force than in the colony of Saint Domingo? If all has worked so well hitherto, is it to be supposed that an ignorant shout in the National Assembly, and a piece of paper sent over to us thence, can destroy the harmony, and overthrow the prosperity which years have confirmed? I, for one, will never believe it. I see before me in my colleagues men to whom the tranquillity of the colony may be safely confided; and over their heads, and beyond the wise laws they are about to pass for the benefit of both the supreme and subordinate interests of our community. I see, stretching beyond the reach of living eye, a scene of calm and fruitful prosperity in which our children’s children may enjoy their lives, without a thought of fear or apprehension of change. Regarding Governor Blanchelande as one of the chief securities of this our long tenure of social prosperity, I beg to propose, not only that we shall now drink his health, but that we shall meet annually in his honour on this day. Yonder is Government-House. If we open our jalousies wide enough, and give the honours loudly enough, perhaps our voices may reach his ears, as the loyal greeting that he deserves.”

“Do not you smell smoke?” asked Bayou of his neighbour, as the blinds were thrown open.

“What a smell of burning!” observed the chairman to Odeluc at the same moment.

“They are burning field-trash outside the town, no doubt,” Odeluc answered. “We choose the nights when there is little wind, you know, for that work.”

There was a small muster of soldiers round the gates of Government-House, and several people in the streets, when the honours were given to the Governor’s name. But the first seemed not to hear, and the others did not turn their heads. The air that came in was so hot, that the blinds were immediately ordered to be closed again. The waiters, however, seemed to have lost their obsequiousness, and many orders and oaths were spent upon them before they did their duty.

While the other gentlemen sat down, a young man remained standing, his eyes flashing, and his countenance heated, either by wine, or by the thoughts with which he seemed big.

“My fellow-citizens,” said Monsieur Brelle, beginning in a very loud voice, “agreeing as I do in my hopes for this colony with Monsieur Odeluc, and, like him, trusting in the protection and blessing of a just Providence, which will preserve our rights, and chastise those who would infringe them—feeling thus, and thus trusting, there is a duty for me to perform. My friends, we must not permit the righteous chastisements of Providence to pass by unheeded, and be forgotten. The finger of Providence has been among us, to mark out and punish the guilty disturber of our peace. But, though dead, that guilty traitor has not ceased to disturb our peace. Do we not know that his groans have moved our enemies in the National Assembly; that his ashes have been stirred up there, to shed their poison over our names? It becomes us, in gratitude to a preserving Providence, in fidelity to that which is dearer to us than life—our fair fame—in regard to the welfare of our posterity, it becomes us to mark our reprobation of treason and rebellion, and to perpetuate in ignominy the name of the rebel and the traitor. Fill your glasses, then, gentlemen, and drink—drink deep with me—Our curse on the memory of Vincent Ogé!”

Several members of the company eagerly filled their glasses; others looked doubtfully towards the chair. Before Dr. Protean seemed to have made up his mind what to do, Monsieur Papalier had risen, saying, in a rather low and conversational tone—

“My young friend will allow me to suggest to him the expediency of withdrawing his toast, as one in which his fellow-citizens cannot all cordially join. We all unite, doubtless, in reprobating treason and rebellion in the person of Ogé; but I, for one, cannot think it good, either in taste or in policy, to curse the memory of the dead in the hearing of those who desire mercy for their fallen enemies (as some here present do), or of others who look upon Ogé as no criminal, but a martyr—which is, I fear, the case with too many outside.” He pointed to the windows as he spoke, where it now appeared that the jalousies had been pushed a little open, so as to allow opportunity for some observation from without. Monsieur Papalier lowered his tone, so as to be heard, during the rest of his speech, only by those who made every effort to catch his words. Not a syllable could be heard in the orchestra outside, or even by the waiters ranged against the wall; and the chairman and others at the extremities of the table were obliged to lean forwards to catch the meaning of the speaker, who proceeded—

“No one more heartily admires the spirit and good-humour of our friend, Monsieur Odeluc, than myself: no one more enjoys being animated by the hilarity of his temper, and carried away by the hopeful enthusiasm which makes him the dispenser of happiness that he is. But I cannot always sympathise in his bright anticipations. I own I cannot to-day. He may be right. God grant he be so! But I cannot take Monsieur Odeluc’s word for it, when words so different are spoken elsewhere. There are observers at a distance—impartial lookers-on, who predict (and I fear there are signs at home which indicate) that our position is far from secure—our prospects far other than serene. There are those who believe that we are in danger from other foes than the race of Ogé; and facts have arisen—but enough. This is not the time and place for discussion of that point. Suffice it now that, as we all know, observers at a distance can often see deeper and farther than those involved in affairs; and that Mirabeau has said—and what Mirabeau says is, at least, worth attention—Mirabeau has said of us, in connection with the events of last October, ‘They are sleeping on the margin of Vesuvius, and the first jets of the volcano are not sufficient to awaken them.’ In compliment to Mirabeau,” he concluded, smiling, and bowing to Monsieur Brelle, “if not in sympathy with what he may think my needless caution, I hope my young friend will reserve his wine for the next toast.”

Monsieur Brelle bowed, rather sulkily. No one seemed ready at the moment to start a new subject. Some attacked Monsieur Papalier in whispers for what he had said; and he to defend himself, told, also in whispers, facts of the murder of a bailiff on an estate near his own, and of suspicious circumstances attending it, which made him and others apprehend that all was not right among the negroes. His facts and surmises went round. As, in the eagerness of conversation, a few words were occasionally spoken aloud, some of the party glanced about to see if the waiters were within earshot. They were not. There was not a negro in the apartment. The band had gone out unnoticed; to refresh themselves, no doubt.

Odeluc took the brief opportunity to state his confidence that all doubts of the fidelity of the negroes were groundless. He agreed with Monsieur Papalier that the present was not the time and place for entering at large into the subject. He would only just say that he was now an old man, that he had spent his life among the people alluded to, and knew them well, if any man did. They were revengeful, certainly, upon occasion, if harshly treated; but, otherwise, and if not corrupted by ignorant demagogues and designing agents, they were the most tractable and attached people on earth. He was confident that the masters in Saint Domingo had nothing to fear.

He was proceeding; but he perceived that the band was re-entering the orchestra, and he sat down abruptly.

The chairman now discovered that it had grown very dark, and called out for lights. His orders were echoed by several of the party, who hoped that the lights would revive some of the spirit of the evening, which had become very flat.

While waiting for lights, the jalousies were once more opened, by orders from the chair. The apartment was instantly pervaded by a dull, changeful, red light, derived from the sky, which glowed above the trees of the Jesuits’ Walk with the reflection of extensive fires. The guests were rather startled, too, by perceiving that the piazza was crowded with heads; and that dusky faces, in countless number, were looking in upon them, and had probably been watching them for some time past. With the occasional puffs of wind, which brought the smell of burning, came a confused murmur, from a distance, as of voices, the tramp of many horses in the sand, and a multitude of feet in the streets. This was immediately lost in louder sounds. The band struck up, unbidden, with all its power, the Marseillaise Hymn; and every voice in the piazza, and, by degrees, along the neighbouring streets and square, seemed to join in singing the familiar words—

“Allons enfants de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”

The consternation of the deputies and their guests was extreme. Every man showed his terror in his own way; but one act was universal. Each one produced arms of one sort or another. Even Odeluc, it appeared, had not come unarmed. While they were yet standing in groups about the table, the door burst open, and a negro, covered with dust and panting with haste, ran in and made for the head of the table, thrusting himself freely through the parties of gentlemen. The chairman, at sight of the man, turned pale, recoiled for a moment, and then, swearing a deep oath, drew the short sword he wore, and ran the negro through the body.

“Oh, master!” cried the poor creature, as his life ebbed out in the blood which inundated the floor.

The act was not seen by those outside, as there was a screen of persons standing between the tables and the windows. To this accident it was probably owing that the party survived that hour, and that any order was preserved in the town.

“Shame, Proteau! shame!” said Odeluc, as he bent down, and saw that the negro was dying. Papalier, Bayou, and a few more, cried “Shame!” also; while others applauded.

“I will defend my deed,” said Proteau, struggling with the hoarseness of his voice, and pouring out a glass of wine to clear his throat. His hand was none of the steadiest as he did so. “Hush that band! There is no hearing oneself speak. Hush! I say; stop!” and swearing, he passionately shook his fist at the musicians, who were still making the air of the Marseillaise peal through the room. They instantly stopped, and departed.

“There! you have sent them out to tell what you have done,” observed a deputy.

“I will defend my deed,” Proteau repeated, when he had swallowed the wine, “I am confident the negroes have risen. I am confident the fellow came with bad intent.”

“No fear but the negroes will rise, anywhere in the world, where they have such as you for masters,” said Odeluc.

“What do you mean, sir?” cried Proteau, laying his hand on the hilt of his dripping sword.

“I mean what I say. And I will tell you, too, what I do not mean. I do not mean to fight to-night with any white: and least of all with one who is standing in a pool of innocent blood, of his own shedding.” And he pointed to Proteau’s feet, which were indeed soaked with the blood of his slave.

“Hush! hush! gentlemen!” cried several voices. “Here is more news!”

“Hide the body!” said Bayou, and as he spoke he stooped to lift it. Monsieur Brelle made shorter work. He rolled it over with his foot, and kicked it under the table. It was out of sight before the master of the hotel entered, followed by several negroes from the plain, to say that the “force” had risen on several plantations, had dismantled the mills, burned the sugar-houses, set fire to the crops, murdered the overseers, and, he feared, in some cases, the proprietors.

“Where?” “Whose estates?” “What proprietors?” asked every voice present.

“Where did it begin?” was the question the landlord applied himself first to answer.

“It broke out on the Noé estate, sir. They murdered the refiner and his apprentice, and carried off the surgeon. They left another young man for dead; but he got away, and told the people on the next plantation; but it was too late then. They had reached Monsieur Clement’s by that time, and raised his people. They say Monsieur Clement is killed; but some of his family escaped. They are here in the town, I believe.”

Some of the deputies now snatched their hats, and went out to learn where the fugitives were, and thus to get information, if possible, at first hand.

“All is safe in our quarter, at present, I trust,” said Papalier to Bayou; “but shall we be gone? Your horse is here, I suppose. We can ride together.”

“In a moment. Let us hear all we can first,” replied Bayou.

“Do you stay for that purpose, then, and look to our horses. I will learn what the Governor’s orders are, and come here for you presently.” And Papalier was gone.

When Bayou turned to listen again, Odeluc was saying—

“Impossible! incredible! Gallifet’s force risen! Not they? They would be firm if the world were crushed flat. Why, they love me as if I were their father!”

“Nevertheless, sir, you owe your safety to being my guest,” said the landlord, with a bow as polite as on the most festive occasion. “I am happy that my roof should—”

“Who brought this report?” cried Odeluc. “Who can give news of Gallifet’s negroes?” And he looked among the black faces which were clustered behind the landlord. No one spoke thence; but a voice from the piazza said—

“Gallifet’s force has risen. The canes are all on fire.”

“I will bring them to their senses,” said Odeluc, with sudden quietness. “I have power over them. The Governor will give me a handful of men from the town guard, and we shall set things straight before morning. The poor fellows have been carried away, while I was not there to stand by them—but making speeches here, like a holiday fool! I will bring them to their senses presently. Make way, friends—make way.”

And Odeluc stepped out among the blacks on the piazza, that being the shortest way to Government-House.

“I hope he is not too confident,” whispered a town deputy to a friend from the south. “But this is bad news. Gallifet’s plantation is the largest in the plain, and only eight miles off.”

A sort of scream, a cry of horror, from one who stood close by, stopped the deputy.

“Boirien! what is the matter?” cried a deputy, as Boirien hid his face with his arms upon the table, and a strong shudder shook his whole frame.

“Do not speak to him! I will tell you,” said another. “Oh, this is horrible! They have murdered his brother-in-law on Flaville’s estate, and carried off his sister and her three daughters into the woods. Something must be done directly. Boirien, my poor fellow, I am going to the Governor. Soldiers shall be sent to bring your sister into the town. We shall have her here before morning; and you must bring her and her family to my house.”

No one could endure to stay and hear more. Some went to learn elsewhere the fate of those in whom they were interested. Some went to offer their services to the Governor; some to barricade their own houses in the town; some to see whether it was yet possible to entrench their plantations. Some declared their intention of conveying the ladies of their families to the convent; the place always hitherto esteemed safe, amidst all commotions. It soon appeared, however, that this was not the opinion of the sisters themselves, on the present occasion, nor of the authorities of the town; for the muffled nuns were seen hurrying down to the quay, under the protection of soldiers, in order to take refuge on board the vessels in the bay. All night long, boats were plying in the harbour, conveying women, children, plate, and money, on board the ships which happened to be in the roads.

The landlord would have been glad of the help of any of his guests, in clearing his house; but they had no sympathy to spare—no time to think of his plate and wines. As the whites disappeared from the room, the blacks poured in. They allowed the landlord to sweep away his plate, but they laid hands on the wines; and many a smart speech, and many a light laugh, resounded within those walls till morning, while consternation reigned without. When these thoughtless creatures sauntered to their several homes in the sunrise, they found that such of their fellow-servants as they had been accustomed to look up to, as abler and more trusted than themselves, had disappeared, and no one would tell whither they were gone—only that they were quite safe.

When Monsieur Papalier returned to the hotel, from his cruise for information, he found his neighbour Bayou impatiently waiting on horseback, while Henri, still in his white apron, was holding the other horse.

“Here, sir—mount, and let us be off,” cried Bayou. “We owe it to my friend Henri, here, that we have our horses. The gentlemen from the country very naturally took the first that came to hand to get home upon. They say Leroy is gone home on a dray-mule. I rather expect to meet Toussaint on the road. If he sees the fires, he will be coming to look after me.”

“He cannot well help seeing the fires,” replied Papalier. “They are climbing up the mountain-side, all the way along the Haut du Cap. We shall be singed like two porkers, if we do not ride like two devils; and then we shall be lucky if we do not meet two thousand devils by the way.”

“Do you suppose the road is safe, Henri?” asked Bayou. “I know you will tell me truth.”

“Indeed, master, I know nothing,” replied Henri. “You say you shall meet Toussaint. I will ride with you till you meet him, if you will. Our people all know him and me.”

“Do so, Henri. Do not wait to look for another horse. Jump up behind me. Mine is a strong beast, and will make no difficulty, even of your weight. Never mind your apron. Keep it for a flag of truce, in case we meet the enemy.”

They were off, and presently emerged from the comparative darkness of the streets into the light of the fires. None of the three spoke, except to urge on the horses up the steep, sandy road, which first presented an ascent from the town, and then a descent to the plain, before it assumed the level which it then preserved to the foot of the opposite mountains, nearly fifty miles off. No one appeared on the road; and the horsemen had, therefore, leisure to cast glances behind them, as they were slowly carried up the ascent. The alarm-bell was now sending its sullen sounds of dismay far and wide in the air, whose stillness was becoming more and more disturbed by the draughts of the spreading fires, as the canes caught, like torches, up the slopes to the right. Pale twinkling lights, sprinkled over the cape and the harbour-lights which looked like glow-worm tapers amidst the fiery atmosphere, showed that every one was awake and stirring in the town, and on board the ships; while an occasional rocket, mounting in the smoky air, from either the Barracks or Government-House, showed that it was the intention of the authorities to intimate to the inhabitants of the remoter districts of the plain that the Government was on the alert, and providing for the public safety.

On surmounting the ridge, Henri stretched out his hand, and pulled the bridle of Monsieur Bayou’s horse to the left, so as to turn it into a narrow, green track which here parted from the road.

“What now, sir?” cried Papalier, in a tone of suspicion, checking his horse, instead of following.

“You may, perhaps, meet two thousand devils, if you keep the high road to the plain,” answered Henri, quietly. To Monsieur Bayou he explained that Toussaint would probably choose this road, through Madame Ogé’s plantation.

“Come on, Papalier; do not lose time. All is right enough,” said Bayou. “The grass-tracks are the safest to-night, depend upon it.”

Papalier followed, in discontented silence. In a few moments, Henri again pulled the bridle—a decided check this time—stopping the horse.

“Voices,” he whispered. Bayou could hear none. In a moment, Henri continued.

“It is Toussaint, I thought we should meet him hereabouts.”

The next turn of the path brought them upon Toussaint, who was advancing with the led horse from Breda. Not far behind him was Madame Ogé’s house, the door standing wide, and, seen by the light within, a woman in the doorway. Toussaint pulled up, Henri leaped down, and ran to shake hands with his friend. Papalier took the opportunity to say, in a low voice, to Bayou—

“You must send your fellow there on board ship. You must, there is no doubt of it. The Governor, and all the householders in Cap, are doing so with their cleverest negroes; and if there is a clever one in the colony, it is Toussaint.”

“I shall do no such thing,” said Bayou. “I have trusted Toussaint for these thirty years; and I shall not distrust him now—now when we most need those we can best confide in.”

“That is exactly what Monsieur Clement said of his postillion; and it was his postillion that struck him to the heart. You must send Toussaint on board ship; and I will tell you how—”

Papalier stopped, perceiving that the two negroes were not talking, but had their eyes fixed on him.

“What is that?” said Henri. “Is Toussaint to go on board ship?”

“No, no; nonsense,” said Bayou; “I am not going to send anybody on board ship. All quiet at Breda, I suppose, Toussaint?”

“All quiet, sir, at present. Monsieur Papalier—on board ship I will not go.”

“As your master pleases. It is no concern of mine, Toussaint,” said Papalier.

“So I think,” replied Toussaint.

“You see your faithful hands, your very obedient friends, have got a will of their own already,” whispered Papalier to Bayou, as they set their horses forward again: Henri turning homewards on the tired horse which had carried double, and Bayou mounting that which Toussaint had brought.

“Will you go round, or pass the house?” Toussaint asked of his master. “Madame Ogé is standing in the doorway.”

Bayou was about to turn his horse’s head, but the person in the doorway came out into the darkness, and called him by his name. He was obliged to go forward.

“Madame,” said he, “I hope you have no trouble with your people. I hope your people are all steady.”

“Never mind me and my people,” replied a tremulous voice. “What I want to know is, what has happened at Cap. Who have risen? Whose are these fires?”

“The negroes have risen on a few plantations: that is all. We shall soon—”

“The negroes!” echoed the voice. “You are sure it is only the negroes?”

“Only the negroes, madame. Can I be of service to you? If you have any reason to fear that your force—”

“I have no reason to fear anything. I will not detain you. No doubt you are wanted at home, Monsieur Bayou.”

And she re-entered her house, and closed the doors.

“How you have disappointed her!” said Papalier. “She hoped to hear that her race had risen, and were avenging her sons on us. I am thankful to-night,” he continued, after a pause, “that my little girls are at Paris. How glad might that poor woman have been, if her sons had stayed there! Strange enough, Paris is called the very centre of disorder, and yet it seems the only place for our sons and daughters in these days.”

“And strangely enough,” said Bayou, “I am glad that I have neither wife, son, nor daughter. I felt that, even while Odeluc, was holding forth about the age of security which we were now entering upon—I felt at the moment that there must be something wrong; that all could not be right, when a man feels glad that he has only himself to take care of. Our negroes are better off than we, so far. Hey, Toussaint?”

“I think so, sir.”

“How many wives and children have you, Toussaint?” asked Papalier.

“I have five children, sir.”

“And how many wives in your time?”

Toussaint made no answer. Bayou said for him—

“He has such a good wife that he never wanted more. He married her when he was five-and-twenty—did not you, Toussaint?”

Toussaint had dropped into the rear. His master observed that Toussaint was rather romantic, and did not like jesting on domestic affairs. He was more prudish about such matters than whites fresh from the mother-country. Whether he had got it out of his books, or whether it really was a romantic attachment to his wife, there was no knowing; but he was quite unlike his race generally in family matters.

“Does he take upon himself to be scandalised at us?” asked Papalier.

“I do not ask him. But if you like to consult him about your Thérèse, I do not doubt he will tell you his mind.”

“Come, cannot we go on faster? This is a horrid road, to be sure; but poor Thérèse will think it is all over with me, if she looks at the red sky towards Cap.”

There were reasons enough for alarm about Monsieur Papalier’s safety, without looking over towards Cap. When the gentlemen arrived at Arabie, his plantation, they found the iron gates down, and lying on the grass—young trees hewn down, as if for bludgeons—the cattle couched in the cane-fields, lapped in the luxury of the sweet tops and sprouts—the doors of the sugar-house and mansion removed, the windows standing wide, and no one to answer call. The slave-quarter also was evidently deserted.

Papalier clapped spurs to his horse, and rode round, faster than his companions could follow him. At length Bayou intercepted his path at a sharp turn, caught his bridle, and said—

“My dear fellow, come with me. There is nothing to be done here. Your people are all gone; and if they come back, they will only cut your throat. You must come with me; and under the circumstances, I cannot stay longer. I ought to be at home.”

“True, true. Go, and I will follow. I must find out whether they have carried off Thérèse. I must, and I will.”

Toussaint pricked his horse into the courtyard, and after a searching look around dragged out from behind the well a young negress who had been crouching there, with an infant in her arms. She shrieked and struggled till she saw Papalier, when she rushed towards him.

“Poor Thérèse!” cried he, patting her shoulder. “How we have frightened you! There is nobody here but friends. At least, so it seems. Where are all the people? And who did this mischief?”

The young creature trembled excessively; and her terror marred for the time a beauty which was celebrated all over the district—a beauty which was admitted as fully by the whites as by people of her own race. Her features were now convulsed by fear, as she told what had happened—that a body of negroes had come, three hours since, and had summoned Papalier’s people to meet at Latour’s estate, where all the force of the plain was to unite before morning—that Papalier’s people made no difficulty about going, only stopping to search the house for what arms and ammunition might be there, and to do the mischief which now appeared—that she believed the whites at the sugar-house must have escaped, as she had seen and heard nothing of bloodshed—and that this was all she knew, as she had hidden herself and her infant, first in one place, and then in another, as she fancied safest, hoping that nobody would remember her, which seemed to have been the case, as no one molested her till Toussaint saw her, and terrified her as they perceived. She had not looked in his face, but supposed that some of Latour’s people had come back for her.

“Now you will come with me,” said Bayou to Papalier, impatiently.

“I will, thank you. Toussaint, help her up behind me, and carry the child, will you? Hold fast, Thérèse, and leave off trembling as soon as you can.”

Thérèse would let no one carry the infant but herself. She kept her seat well behind her master, though still trembling when she alighted at the stables at Breda.

Placide and Denis were on the watch at the stables.

“Run, Denis!” said his brother. And Denis was off to tell his mother that Toussaint and Monsieur Bayou were safe home.

“Anything happened, Placide?” asked Bayou.

“Yes, sir. The people were sent for to Latour’s, and most of them are gone. Not all, sir. Saxe would not go till he saw father; nor Cassius, nor Antoine, nor—”

“Is there any mischief done? Anybody hurt?”

“No, sir. They went off very quietly.”

“Quietly, indeed! They take quietly enough all the kindness I have shown them these thirty years. They quietly take the opportunity of leaving me alone to-night, of all nights, when the devils from hell are abroad, scattering their fire as they go.”

“If you will enter, Monsieur Bayou,” said Toussaint, “my wife will get you supper; and the boys and I will collect the people that are left, and bring them up to the house. They have not touched your arms, sir. If you will have them ready for us—”

“Good, good! Papalier, we cannot do better. Come in. Toussaint, take home this young woman. Your girls will take care of her. Eh! what’s the matter? Well, put her where you will—only let her be taken care of—that is all.”

“I will speak to Jeannette, sir.”

“Ay, do. Jeannette will let Thérèse come to no harm, Papalier. Come in, till Toussaint brings a report of how matters stand with us poor masters.”