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Madam Fouchère laughed, then frowned; she had meant to detain Dessalines, but not for purposes of politics. She had confided in her husband the ambitions of Dessalines. Fouchère knew that Dessalines had sailed from New York; knew his projects in large measure; intended to employ these projects for purposes of his own. He trusted his wife; his vanity made him believe her incapable of deceiving him. He flattered himself also that she not only loved but feared him.

Madam was not long in recovering from her pique. What the game now lacked in flavor it gained in safety. Madam was an epicure; æsthetic, she was at the same time discreet; she loved life; it held much for her as it might for one of highly developed senses and the mind to use them to the limits of their capacities, and that without surfeit.

She entered the house, held the letter over one of the piano candles, saw it consumed, began to play. She was a skilled and talented musician. "I have received word from Fouchère," she said, still glancing back at Dessalines over her bare, rounded shoulder. She ran her fingers over the keys. Madam was informal; Bohemian.

"Ah!" replied Dessalines eagerly, "he is coming?"

La Fouchère, with a stab of pique, observed the eagerness of his tone. She turned and regarded him with reproach.

"Do you then so fear a tête-à-tête with me, my friend. I am quite harmless; I will not bite." Her white teeth 230