The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance. Harriet Martineau

of his sword, as he showed how this advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand years ago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history of freedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than by himself—that he was learning from their natural ardour something of higher value than all that he had to impart.

      As he was thus engaged, late one spring evening—late, because the rains would soon come on, and suspend all out-door meetings—he was stopped in the midst of explaining a diagram by an authoritative tap on the shoulder. Roused by an appeal to his attention now so unusual, he turned quickly, and saw a black, who beckoned him away.

      “Why cannot you speak!—Or do you take me for some one else? Speak your business.”

      “I cannot,” said the man, in a voice which, though too low to be heard by anyone else, Toussaint knew to be Papalier’s. “I cannot speak here—I must not make myself known. Come this way.”

      Great was the surprise of the group at seeing Toussaint instantly follow this black, who appeared in the dusk to be meanly clothed. They entered the tent, and let down the curtain at the entrance. Some saw that a woman stood within the folds of the tent.

      “Close the tent,” said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had been wont to order his plate to be changed at home. “And now, give me some water to wash off this horrid daubing. Some water—quick! Pah! I have felt as if I were really a negro all this day.”

      Toussaint said nothing; nor did he summon any one. He saw it was a case of danger, led the way into the inner part of the tent, poured out water, pointed to it, and returned to the table, where he sat down, to await further explanation.

      Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to his clothes, which Thérèse must have brought in the bundle which she carried. She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, looking grievously altered—worn and wearied.

      “Will you not sit down, Thérèse?” said Toussaint, pointing to a chair near his own, Papalier having seated himself on the other side of the table.

      Thérèse threw herself on a couch at some distance, and hid her face.

      “I must owe my safety to you again, Toussaint,” said Papalier. “I understand General Hermona is here at present.”

      “He is.”

      “You have influence with him, and you must use it for me.”

      “I am sorry you need it. I hoped you would have taken advantage of the reception he gave you to learn the best time and manner of going to Europe. I hoped you had been at Paris long ago.”

      “I ought to have been there. If I had properly valued my life, I should have been there. But it seemed so inconceivable that things should have reached a worse pass than when I crossed the frontier! It seemed so incredible that I should not be able to preserve any wreck of my property for my children, that I have lingered on, staying month after month, till now I cannot get away. I have had a dreadful life of it. I had better have been anywhere else. Why, even Thérèse,” he continued, pointing over his shoulder towards the couch, “Thérèse, who would not be left behind at Fort Égalité, the night we came from Breda—even Thérèse has not been using me as she should do. I believe she hates me.”

      “You are in trouble, and therefore I will not speak with you to-night about Thérèse,” said Toussaint. “You are in danger, from the determination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the late king to—”

      “Rather say to deliver up the masters to their revolted slaves. They make politics the pretence; but they would not be sorry to see us all cut to pieces, like poor Odeluc and Clement, and fifty more.”

      “However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards—is it?”

      “Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so I was obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was no other way than—pah! it was horrid!”

      “No other way than by looking like a negro,” said Toussaint, calmly. “Well, now you are here, what do you mean to do next?”

      “I mean, by your influence with General Hermona, to obtain protection to a port, that I may proceed to Europe. I do not care whether I go from Saint Domingo, or by Saint Iago, so as to sail from Port Plate. I could find a vessel from either port. You would have no difficulty in persuading General Hermona to this?”

      “I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter his territory. I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning. To-night you are safe, if you remain here. I request that you will take possession of the inner apartment, and rely upon my protection.”

      “Thankyou. I knew my best way was to come here,” said Papalier, rising. “Thérèse will bring me some refreshment; and then I shall be glad of rest, for we travelled half last night.”

      “For how many shall the safe-conduct be?” asked Toussaint, who had also risen. “For yourself alone, or more?”

      “No one knows better than you,” said Papalier, hastily, “that I have only one servant left,” pointing again to the couch. “And,” lowering his voice, so that Thérèse could not hear, “she, poor thing, is dreadfully altered, you see—has never got over the loss of her child, that night.” Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: “My daughters at Paris will be glad to see Thérèse, I know; and she will like Paris, as everybody does. All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but Thérèse goes with me.”

      “No,” said Thérèse, from the conch, “I will go nowhere with you.”

      “Hey-day! what is that?” said Papalier, turning in the direction of the voice. “Yes, you will go, my dear. You are tired to-night, as you well may be. You feel as I do—as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow or the next day. But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the time comes.”

      “I am ready at this moment to go anywhere else—anywhere away from you,” replied Thérèse.

      “What do you mean, Thérèse?” asked her master, sharply.

      “I mean what you said just now—that I hate you.”

      “Oh! silence!” exclaimed Toussaint. He then added in a mild tone to Thérèse, “This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christ adored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken.” He then addressed himself to Papalier, saying, “You have then fully resolved that it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than to attempt to reach Cap?”

      “To reach Cap! What! after the decree? Upon my soul, Toussaint, I never doubted you yet; but if—”

      He looked Toussaint full in the face.

      “I betray no one,” said Toussaint. “What decree do you speak of?”

      “That of the Convention of the 4th of February last.”

      “I have not heard of it.”

      “Then it is as I hoped—that decree is not considered here as of any importance. I trusted it would be so. It is merely a decree of the Convention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, and declaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France. It is a piece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can never be enforced. No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present it has the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me to cross the frontier.”

      “True,” said Toussaint, in a voice which made Papalier look in his face, which was working with some strong emotion. He turned away from the light, and desired Thérèse to follow him. He would commit her to the charge of one of the suttlers’ wives for the night.

      Having put on the table such fruit, bread, and wine as remained from his own meal (Papalier forbidding further preparation, for fear of exciting observation without), Toussaint went out with Thérèse, committed her to safe hands, and then