The Hour and the Man Part 43

Therese shuddered. She remembered that when her infant was taken ill, Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longer surgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledge and skill. Toussaint remembered nothing of this particular incident, and was not aware how he had touched her feelings. He went on:

"I began that study as all of my race have begun it, till of late, in superst.i.tion. With what awe did I handle charms like this! Can it be possible that my poor child has been wrought upon by such jugglery?

What do you know about it?"

"No more than that the charm and the poison were hidden in her bosom."

"It is hard to trouble a dying man," said Toussaint, "but the survivor must be cared for. If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, he would have poisoned her body--But no--it is an atrocious thought. If I wrong him--if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell me what he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended. Father Laxabon is coming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more. I will go with him."

"How you suffer! How you must suffer!" said Therese, again speaking her thoughts, as she looked in his face.

"It is worse than going to my death," replied he; "but for my child's sake--for my poor brother's sake, too--it must be done."

He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room--he listened at the chamber-door--he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Therese well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying--

"Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying--or dead?"

"Indeed, I am not certain," exclaimed Therese, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.

"Here is no pain," whispered Therese. "She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself."

She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.

"No pain, thank G.o.d!" he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.

"Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?"

"Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son."

"And the other sufferers?"

"My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night."

"Are there more doomed?" asked Therese, faintly.

"There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example.

They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master--no retaliation. If not, may G.o.d direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned!

Let us begone."

"One moment," exclaimed Therese, in agitation. "You have not told me when--where--"

"He dies on the Place, at sunrise--a military, not an ignominious death.

Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Genifrede wakes.

Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now."

Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been a.s.signed to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming--

"You have come at last! Oh, Genifrede! to have kept me waiting this last night--"

He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.

"You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.

"I did--naturally."

"She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse."

"Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone--something of triumph in his countenance.

"Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man's face, "that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?"

"She has told, then. A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman's treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Genifrede loved me? And now, when put to the test--"

"Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superst.i.tion--terrified her with spells and charms--"

"You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only--"

"And you wished it--you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost--and now you curse a woman's cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon.

Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Genifrede's."

"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Genifrede from me? She is mine."

"Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intent towards her." And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

"Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together."

"Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours." And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.

"You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse. "How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon. "Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes."

"A few minutes' patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his--he never was severe to me--but on account of a certain awe I felt of him--an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."

"It is well," said Toussaint. "There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment's darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse."

"I ask," said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, "how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide.

If your father's heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a n.o.ble and gallant son, and not for--But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy."

"Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Genifrede? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears--her fears of my ghost--to make her seek refuge with another?

Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?"

"Leave us!" said Laxabon to Toussaint. "He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks."

"Presently, father.--Moyse, what Genifrede hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be a.s.sured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory.

She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life.

When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman's love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from pa.s.sion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Genifrede inquire concerning you."