Chapter Fifty Six.The Faro Bank.We entered the saloon. The gamevoilà!At one end was the table—the bank. We could see neither bank nor dealer; both were hidden by the double ring of bettors, who encircled the table—one line seated, the other standing behind. There were women, too, mingled in the crowd—seated and standing in every attitude—gay and beautiful women, decked out in the finery of fashion, but with a certainbraverieof manner that betokened their unfortunate character.D’Hauteville had guessed aright—the game was at its height. The look and attitudes of the betters—their arms constantly in motion, placing their stakes—the incessant rattling of the ivory cheques, and the clinking together of dollars—all told that the game was progressing briskly.A grand chandelier, suspended above the table, cast its brilliant light over the play and the players.Near the middle of the saloon stood a large table, amply furnished with “refreshments.” Cold fowls, ham and tongue, chicken salad, and lobsters, cut-glass decanters tilled with wine, brandy, and other liquors, garnished this table. Some of the plates and glasses bore the traces of having been already used, while others were clean and ready for anyone who chose to play knife and fork a while. It was, in fact, a “free lunch,” or rather supper—free to any guest who chose to partake of it. Such is the custom of an American gambling-house.The rich viands did not tempt either my companion or myself. We passed the table without halting, and walked directly up to the “bank.”We reached the outer circle, and looked over the shoulders of the players. “Shade of Fortuna! Chorley and Hatcher!”Yes—there sat the two sharpers, side by side, behind the faro-table—not as mere bettors, but acting respectively as banker and croupier of the game! Chorley held the dealing-box in his fingers, while Hatcher sat upon his right, with cheques, dollars, and bank-notes piled upon the table in front of him! A glance around the ring of faces showed us the pork-merchant as well. There sat he in his loose jeans coat and broad white-hat, talking farmer-like, betting bravely, and altogether a stranger to both banker and croupier!My companion and I regarded each other with a look of surprise.After all, there was nothing to surprise us. A faro bank needs no charter, no further preliminaries to its establishment than to light up a table, spread a green baize over it, and commence operations. The sportsmen were no doubt quite at home here. Their up-river excursion was only by way of a little variety—an interlude incidental to the summer. The “season” of New Orleans was now commencing, and they had just returned in time for it. Therefore there was nothing to be surprised at, in our finding them where we did.At first seeing them, however, I felt astonishment, and my companion seemed to share it. I turned towards him, and was about proposing that we should leave the room again, when the wandering eye of the pseudo pork-merchant fell upon me.“Hilloa, stranger!” he cried out, with an air of astonishment, “you hyar?”“I believe so,” I replied unconcernedly.“Wal! wal! I tho’t you war lost. Whar did you go, anyhow?” he inquired in a tone of vulgar familiarity, and loud enough to turn the attention of all present upon myself and my companion.“Ay—whardid I go?” I responded, keeping my temper, and concealing the annoyance I really felt at the fellow’s impudence.“Yes—that’s jest what I wanted to know.”“Are you very anxious?” I asked.“Oh, no—not particklerly so.”“I am glad of that,” I responded, “as I don’t intend telling you.”With all his swagger I could see that his crest fell a little at the general burst of laughter that my somewhatbizarreremark had called forth.“Come, stranger,” he said, in a half-deprecatory, half-spiteful tone, “you needn’t a be so short-horned about it, I guess; I didn’t mean no offence—but you know you left us so suddintly—never mind—’taint no business o’ mine. You’re going to take a hand at faro, ain’t you?”“Perhaps.”“Wal, then, it appears a nice game. I’m jest trying it for the first time myself. It’s all chance, I believe—jest like odds and evens. I’m a winnin’ anyhow.”He turned his face to the bank, and appeared to busy himself in arranging his bets.A fresh deal had commenced, and the players, drawn off for a moment by our conversation, became once more engaged in what was of greater interest to them—the little money-heaps upon the cards.Of course, both Chorley and Hatcher recognised me; but they had restricted their recognitions to a friendly nod, and a glance that plainly said—“He’s here! all right! he’ll not go till he has tried to get back his hundred dollars—he’ll have a shy at the bank—no fear but he will.”If such were their thoughts they were, not far astray. My own reflections were as follows:—“I may as well risk my money here as elsewhere. A faro bank is a faro bank all the same. There is no opportunity for cheating, where cards are thus dealt. The arrangement of the bets precludes every possibility of such a thing. Where one player loses to the bank, another may win from it by the very same turn, and this of course checks the dealer from drawing the cards falsely, even if it were possible for him to do so. So I may as well play against Messrs Chorley and Hatcher’s bank as any other—better, indeed; for if I am to win I shall have the satisfaction of therevanche, which those gentlemen owe me. I shall play here then. Do you advise me, Monsieur?”Part of the above reflections, and the interrogatory that wound them up, were addressed in a whisper to the young Creole.He acknowledged their justice. He advised me to remain. He was of the opinion I might as well tempt fortune there as go farther.Enough—I took out a five-dollar gold-piece, and placed it upon the ace.No notice was taken of this—neither banker nor croupier even turning their eyes in the direction, of the bet. Such a sum as five dollars would not decompose the well-practised nerves of these gentlemen—where sums of ten, twenty, or even fifty times the amount, were constantly passing to and from their cash-box.The deal proceeded, Chorley drawing the cards with that air of imperturbablesang-froidso characteristic of his class.“Ace wins,” cried a voice, as two aces came forth together.“Pay you in cheques, sir?” asked the croupier.I assented, and a flat round piece of ivory, of a red colour, with the figure 5 in its centre, was placed upon my half-eagle. I permitted both to remain upon the ace. The deal went on, and after a while two aces came out together, and two more of the red cheques were mine.I suffered all four pieces, now worth twenty dollars, to lie. I had not come there to amuse myself. My purpose was very different; and, impelled by that purpose, I was resolved not to waste time. If Fortune was to prove favourable to me, her favours were as likely to be mine soon as late; and when I thought of the real stake for which I was playing, I could not endure the suspense. No more was I satisfied at contact with the coarse and bawd company that surrounded the table.The deal went on—and after some time aces again came out. This time I lost.Without a word passing from his lips, the croupier drew in the cheques and gold-piece, depositing them in his japanned cash-box, I took out my purse, and tried ten dollars upon the queen, I won. I doubled the bet, and lost again.Another ten dollars won—another lost—another and another, and so on, now winning, now losing, now betting with cheques, now with gold-pieces—until at length I felt to the bottom of my purse without encountering a coin!
We entered the saloon. The gamevoilà!
At one end was the table—the bank. We could see neither bank nor dealer; both were hidden by the double ring of bettors, who encircled the table—one line seated, the other standing behind. There were women, too, mingled in the crowd—seated and standing in every attitude—gay and beautiful women, decked out in the finery of fashion, but with a certainbraverieof manner that betokened their unfortunate character.
D’Hauteville had guessed aright—the game was at its height. The look and attitudes of the betters—their arms constantly in motion, placing their stakes—the incessant rattling of the ivory cheques, and the clinking together of dollars—all told that the game was progressing briskly.
A grand chandelier, suspended above the table, cast its brilliant light over the play and the players.
Near the middle of the saloon stood a large table, amply furnished with “refreshments.” Cold fowls, ham and tongue, chicken salad, and lobsters, cut-glass decanters tilled with wine, brandy, and other liquors, garnished this table. Some of the plates and glasses bore the traces of having been already used, while others were clean and ready for anyone who chose to play knife and fork a while. It was, in fact, a “free lunch,” or rather supper—free to any guest who chose to partake of it. Such is the custom of an American gambling-house.
The rich viands did not tempt either my companion or myself. We passed the table without halting, and walked directly up to the “bank.”
We reached the outer circle, and looked over the shoulders of the players. “Shade of Fortuna! Chorley and Hatcher!”
Yes—there sat the two sharpers, side by side, behind the faro-table—not as mere bettors, but acting respectively as banker and croupier of the game! Chorley held the dealing-box in his fingers, while Hatcher sat upon his right, with cheques, dollars, and bank-notes piled upon the table in front of him! A glance around the ring of faces showed us the pork-merchant as well. There sat he in his loose jeans coat and broad white-hat, talking farmer-like, betting bravely, and altogether a stranger to both banker and croupier!
My companion and I regarded each other with a look of surprise.
After all, there was nothing to surprise us. A faro bank needs no charter, no further preliminaries to its establishment than to light up a table, spread a green baize over it, and commence operations. The sportsmen were no doubt quite at home here. Their up-river excursion was only by way of a little variety—an interlude incidental to the summer. The “season” of New Orleans was now commencing, and they had just returned in time for it. Therefore there was nothing to be surprised at, in our finding them where we did.
At first seeing them, however, I felt astonishment, and my companion seemed to share it. I turned towards him, and was about proposing that we should leave the room again, when the wandering eye of the pseudo pork-merchant fell upon me.
“Hilloa, stranger!” he cried out, with an air of astonishment, “you hyar?”
“I believe so,” I replied unconcernedly.
“Wal! wal! I tho’t you war lost. Whar did you go, anyhow?” he inquired in a tone of vulgar familiarity, and loud enough to turn the attention of all present upon myself and my companion.
“Ay—whardid I go?” I responded, keeping my temper, and concealing the annoyance I really felt at the fellow’s impudence.
“Yes—that’s jest what I wanted to know.”
“Are you very anxious?” I asked.
“Oh, no—not particklerly so.”
“I am glad of that,” I responded, “as I don’t intend telling you.”
With all his swagger I could see that his crest fell a little at the general burst of laughter that my somewhatbizarreremark had called forth.
“Come, stranger,” he said, in a half-deprecatory, half-spiteful tone, “you needn’t a be so short-horned about it, I guess; I didn’t mean no offence—but you know you left us so suddintly—never mind—’taint no business o’ mine. You’re going to take a hand at faro, ain’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Wal, then, it appears a nice game. I’m jest trying it for the first time myself. It’s all chance, I believe—jest like odds and evens. I’m a winnin’ anyhow.”
He turned his face to the bank, and appeared to busy himself in arranging his bets.
A fresh deal had commenced, and the players, drawn off for a moment by our conversation, became once more engaged in what was of greater interest to them—the little money-heaps upon the cards.
Of course, both Chorley and Hatcher recognised me; but they had restricted their recognitions to a friendly nod, and a glance that plainly said—
“He’s here! all right! he’ll not go till he has tried to get back his hundred dollars—he’ll have a shy at the bank—no fear but he will.”
If such were their thoughts they were, not far astray. My own reflections were as follows:—
“I may as well risk my money here as elsewhere. A faro bank is a faro bank all the same. There is no opportunity for cheating, where cards are thus dealt. The arrangement of the bets precludes every possibility of such a thing. Where one player loses to the bank, another may win from it by the very same turn, and this of course checks the dealer from drawing the cards falsely, even if it were possible for him to do so. So I may as well play against Messrs Chorley and Hatcher’s bank as any other—better, indeed; for if I am to win I shall have the satisfaction of therevanche, which those gentlemen owe me. I shall play here then. Do you advise me, Monsieur?”
Part of the above reflections, and the interrogatory that wound them up, were addressed in a whisper to the young Creole.
He acknowledged their justice. He advised me to remain. He was of the opinion I might as well tempt fortune there as go farther.
Enough—I took out a five-dollar gold-piece, and placed it upon the ace.
No notice was taken of this—neither banker nor croupier even turning their eyes in the direction, of the bet. Such a sum as five dollars would not decompose the well-practised nerves of these gentlemen—where sums of ten, twenty, or even fifty times the amount, were constantly passing to and from their cash-box.
The deal proceeded, Chorley drawing the cards with that air of imperturbablesang-froidso characteristic of his class.
“Ace wins,” cried a voice, as two aces came forth together.
“Pay you in cheques, sir?” asked the croupier.
I assented, and a flat round piece of ivory, of a red colour, with the figure 5 in its centre, was placed upon my half-eagle. I permitted both to remain upon the ace. The deal went on, and after a while two aces came out together, and two more of the red cheques were mine.
I suffered all four pieces, now worth twenty dollars, to lie. I had not come there to amuse myself. My purpose was very different; and, impelled by that purpose, I was resolved not to waste time. If Fortune was to prove favourable to me, her favours were as likely to be mine soon as late; and when I thought of the real stake for which I was playing, I could not endure the suspense. No more was I satisfied at contact with the coarse and bawd company that surrounded the table.
The deal went on—and after some time aces again came out. This time I lost.
Without a word passing from his lips, the croupier drew in the cheques and gold-piece, depositing them in his japanned cash-box, I took out my purse, and tried ten dollars upon the queen, I won. I doubled the bet, and lost again.
Another ten dollars won—another lost—another and another, and so on, now winning, now losing, now betting with cheques, now with gold-pieces—until at length I felt to the bottom of my purse without encountering a coin!
Chapter Fifty Seven.The Watch and Ring.I rose from my seat, and turned towards D’Hauteville with a glance of despair. I needed not to tell him the result. My look would have announced it, but he had been gazing over my shoulder and knew all.“Shall we go, Monsieur?” I asked.“Not yet—stay a moment,” replied he, placing his hand upon my arm.“And why?” I asked; “I have not a dollar. I have lost all. I might have known it would be so. Why stay here, sir?”I spoke somewhat brusquely. I confess I was at the moment in anything but an amiable mood. In addition to my prospects for the morrow, a suspicion had flashed across my mind that my new friend was not loyal. His knowledge of these men—his having counselled me to play there—the accident, to say the least, a strange one, of our again meeting with the “sportsmen” of the boat, and under such a new phase—the great celerity with which my purse had been “cleared out”—all these circumstances passing rapidly through my mind, led me naturally enough to suspect D’Hauteville of treason. I ran rapidly over our late conversation. I tried to remember whether he had said or done anything to guide me into this particular hell. Certainly he had not proposed my playing, but rather opposed it; and I could not remember that by word or act he had endeavoured to introduce me to the game. Moreover, he seemed as much astonished as myself at seeing these gentlemen behind the table.What of all that? The surprise might have been well feigned. Possibly enough; and after my late experience of the pork-merchant, probably enough, Monsieur D’Hauteville was also a partner in the firm of Chorley, Hatcher, and Co. I wheeled round with an angry expression on my lips, when the current of my thoughts was suddenly checked, and turned into a new channel. The young Creole stood looking up in my face—he was not so tall as I—gazing upon me out of his beautiful eyes, and waiting until my moment of abstraction should pass. Something glittered in his outstretched hand. It was a purse. I could see the yellow coins shining through the silken network. It was a purse of gold!“Take it!” he said, in his soft silvery voice.My heart fell abashed within me. I could scarce stammer forth a reply. Had he but known my latest thoughts, he might have been able to read the flush of shame that so suddenly mantled my cheeks.“No, Monsieur,” I replied; “this is too generous of you. I cannot accept it.”“Come—come! Why not? Take it, I pray—try Fortune again. She has frowned on you of late, but remember she is a fickle goddess, and may yet smile on you. Take the purse, man!”“Indeed, Monsieur, I cannot after what I—pardon me—if you knew—”“Then mustIplay for you—remember the purpose that brought us here! Remember Aurore!”“Oh!”This ejaculation, wrung from my heart, was the only answer I could make, before the young Creole had turned to the faro-table, and was placing his gold upon the cards.I stood watching him with feelings of astonishment and admiration, mingled with anxiety for the result.What small white hands! What a brilliant jewel, sparkling on his finger—a diamond! It has caught the eyes of the players, who gloat upon it as it passes back and forward to the cards. Chorley and Hatcher have both noticed it. I saw them exchange their peculiar glance as they did so. Both are polite to him. By the large bets he is laying he has won their esteem. Their attention in calling out the card when he wins, and in handing him his cheques, is marked and assiduous. He is the favoured better of the ring; and oh! how the eyes of those fair lemans gleam upon him with their wild and wicked meaning! Not one of them that would not love him for that sparkling gem!I stood on one side watching with great anxiety—greater than if the stake had been my own. But itwasmy own. It wasfor me. The generous youth was playing away his gold forme.My suspense was not likely to be of long duration. He was losing rapidly—recklessly losing. He had taken my place at the table, and along with it my ill-luck. Almost every bet he made was “raked” into the bank, until his last coin lay upon the cards. Another turn, and that, too, chinked as it fell into the cash-box of the croupier!“Come now, D’Hauteville! Come away!” I whispered, leaning over, and laying hold of his arm.“How much against this?” he asked the banker, without heeding me—“how much, sir?”As he put the question, he raised the gold guard over his head, at the same time drawing forth his watch.I suspected this was his intention when I first spoke. I repeated my request in a tone of entreaty—all in vain. He pressed Chorley for a reply.The latter was not the man to waste words at such a crisis.“A hundred dollars,” said he, “for the watch—fifty more upon the chain.”“Beautiful!” exclaimed one of the players.“They’re worth more,” muttered another.Even in theblazéhearts around that table there were human feelings. There is always a touch of sympathy for him who loses boldly; and an expression of this in favour of the Creole youth could be heard, from time to time, as his money parted from him.“Yes, that watch and chain are worth more,” said a tall dark-whiskered man, who sat near the end of the table. This remark was made in a firm confident tone of voice, that seemed to command Chorley’s attention.“I’ll look at it again, if you please?” said he, stretching across the table to D’Hauteville, who still held the watch in his hand.The latter surrendered it once more to the gambler, who opened the case, and commenced inspecting the interior. It was an elegant watch, and chain also—of the fashion usually worn by ladies. They were worth more than Chorley had offered, though that did not appear to be the opinion of the pork-merchant.“It’s a good pile o’ money, is a hundred an’ fifty dollars,” drawled he; “a good biggish pile, I reckon. I don’t know much about such fixins meself, but it’s full valley for that ar watch an’ chain, I shed say.”“Nonsense!” cried several: “two hundred dollars—it’s worth it all. See the jewels!”Chorley cut short the discussion.“Well,” said he, “I don’t think it worth more than what I’ve bid, sir. But since you wish to get back what you’ve already lost, I don’t mind staking two hundred against watch and chain together. Does that satisfy you?”“Play on!” was the only answer made by the impatient Creole, as he took back his watch, and laid it down upon one of the cards.It was a cheap watch to Chorley. It cost him but the drawing out of half-a-dozen cards, and it became his!“How much against this?”D’Hauteville drew off his ring, and held it before the dazzled eyes of the dealer.At this crisis I once more interfered, but my remonstrance was unheeded. It was of no use trying to stay the fiery spirit of the Creole.The ring was a diamond, or rather a collection of diamonds in a gold setting. It, like the watch, was also of the fashion worn by ladies; and I could hear some characteristic remarks muttered around the table, such as, “That young blood’s got a rich girl somewhere,” “There’s more where they come from,” and the like!The ring was evidently one of much value, as Chorley, after an examination of it, proposed to stake four hundred dollars. The tall man in dark whiskers again interfered, and put it at five hundred. The circle backed him, and the dealer at length agreed to give that sum.“Will you take cheques, sir?” he inquired, addressing D’Hauteville, “or do you mean to stake it at one bet?”“At one bet,” was the answer.“No, no!” cried several voices, inclined to favour D’Hauteville.“At one bet,” repeated he, in a determined tone. “Place it upon the ace!”“As you wish, sir,” responded Chorley, with perfectsang-froid, at the same time handing back the ring to its owner.D’Hauteville took the jewel in his slender white fingers, and laid it on the centre of the card. It was the only bet made. The other players had become so interested in the result, that they withheld their stakes in order to watch it.Chorley commenced drawing the cards. Each one as it came forth caused a momentary thrill of expectancy; and when aces, deuces, or trés with their broad white margins appeared outside the edge of that mysterious box, the excitement became intense.It was a long time before two aces came together. It seemed as if the very importance of the stakes called for more than the usual time to decide the bet.It was decided at length. The ring followed the watch.I caught D’Hauteville by the arm, and drew him away from the table. This time he followed me unresistingly—as he had nothing more to lay.“What matters it?” said he, with a gay air as we passed together out of the saloon. “Ah! yes,” he continued, changing his tone, “ah, yes, it does matter! It matters toyou, andAurore!”
I rose from my seat, and turned towards D’Hauteville with a glance of despair. I needed not to tell him the result. My look would have announced it, but he had been gazing over my shoulder and knew all.
“Shall we go, Monsieur?” I asked.
“Not yet—stay a moment,” replied he, placing his hand upon my arm.
“And why?” I asked; “I have not a dollar. I have lost all. I might have known it would be so. Why stay here, sir?”
I spoke somewhat brusquely. I confess I was at the moment in anything but an amiable mood. In addition to my prospects for the morrow, a suspicion had flashed across my mind that my new friend was not loyal. His knowledge of these men—his having counselled me to play there—the accident, to say the least, a strange one, of our again meeting with the “sportsmen” of the boat, and under such a new phase—the great celerity with which my purse had been “cleared out”—all these circumstances passing rapidly through my mind, led me naturally enough to suspect D’Hauteville of treason. I ran rapidly over our late conversation. I tried to remember whether he had said or done anything to guide me into this particular hell. Certainly he had not proposed my playing, but rather opposed it; and I could not remember that by word or act he had endeavoured to introduce me to the game. Moreover, he seemed as much astonished as myself at seeing these gentlemen behind the table.
What of all that? The surprise might have been well feigned. Possibly enough; and after my late experience of the pork-merchant, probably enough, Monsieur D’Hauteville was also a partner in the firm of Chorley, Hatcher, and Co. I wheeled round with an angry expression on my lips, when the current of my thoughts was suddenly checked, and turned into a new channel. The young Creole stood looking up in my face—he was not so tall as I—gazing upon me out of his beautiful eyes, and waiting until my moment of abstraction should pass. Something glittered in his outstretched hand. It was a purse. I could see the yellow coins shining through the silken network. It was a purse of gold!
“Take it!” he said, in his soft silvery voice.
My heart fell abashed within me. I could scarce stammer forth a reply. Had he but known my latest thoughts, he might have been able to read the flush of shame that so suddenly mantled my cheeks.
“No, Monsieur,” I replied; “this is too generous of you. I cannot accept it.”
“Come—come! Why not? Take it, I pray—try Fortune again. She has frowned on you of late, but remember she is a fickle goddess, and may yet smile on you. Take the purse, man!”
“Indeed, Monsieur, I cannot after what I—pardon me—if you knew—”
“Then mustIplay for you—remember the purpose that brought us here! Remember Aurore!”
“Oh!”
This ejaculation, wrung from my heart, was the only answer I could make, before the young Creole had turned to the faro-table, and was placing his gold upon the cards.
I stood watching him with feelings of astonishment and admiration, mingled with anxiety for the result.
What small white hands! What a brilliant jewel, sparkling on his finger—a diamond! It has caught the eyes of the players, who gloat upon it as it passes back and forward to the cards. Chorley and Hatcher have both noticed it. I saw them exchange their peculiar glance as they did so. Both are polite to him. By the large bets he is laying he has won their esteem. Their attention in calling out the card when he wins, and in handing him his cheques, is marked and assiduous. He is the favoured better of the ring; and oh! how the eyes of those fair lemans gleam upon him with their wild and wicked meaning! Not one of them that would not love him for that sparkling gem!
I stood on one side watching with great anxiety—greater than if the stake had been my own. But itwasmy own. It wasfor me. The generous youth was playing away his gold forme.
My suspense was not likely to be of long duration. He was losing rapidly—recklessly losing. He had taken my place at the table, and along with it my ill-luck. Almost every bet he made was “raked” into the bank, until his last coin lay upon the cards. Another turn, and that, too, chinked as it fell into the cash-box of the croupier!
“Come now, D’Hauteville! Come away!” I whispered, leaning over, and laying hold of his arm.
“How much against this?” he asked the banker, without heeding me—“how much, sir?”
As he put the question, he raised the gold guard over his head, at the same time drawing forth his watch.
I suspected this was his intention when I first spoke. I repeated my request in a tone of entreaty—all in vain. He pressed Chorley for a reply.
The latter was not the man to waste words at such a crisis.
“A hundred dollars,” said he, “for the watch—fifty more upon the chain.”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed one of the players.
“They’re worth more,” muttered another.
Even in theblazéhearts around that table there were human feelings. There is always a touch of sympathy for him who loses boldly; and an expression of this in favour of the Creole youth could be heard, from time to time, as his money parted from him.
“Yes, that watch and chain are worth more,” said a tall dark-whiskered man, who sat near the end of the table. This remark was made in a firm confident tone of voice, that seemed to command Chorley’s attention.
“I’ll look at it again, if you please?” said he, stretching across the table to D’Hauteville, who still held the watch in his hand.
The latter surrendered it once more to the gambler, who opened the case, and commenced inspecting the interior. It was an elegant watch, and chain also—of the fashion usually worn by ladies. They were worth more than Chorley had offered, though that did not appear to be the opinion of the pork-merchant.
“It’s a good pile o’ money, is a hundred an’ fifty dollars,” drawled he; “a good biggish pile, I reckon. I don’t know much about such fixins meself, but it’s full valley for that ar watch an’ chain, I shed say.”
“Nonsense!” cried several: “two hundred dollars—it’s worth it all. See the jewels!”
Chorley cut short the discussion.
“Well,” said he, “I don’t think it worth more than what I’ve bid, sir. But since you wish to get back what you’ve already lost, I don’t mind staking two hundred against watch and chain together. Does that satisfy you?”
“Play on!” was the only answer made by the impatient Creole, as he took back his watch, and laid it down upon one of the cards.
It was a cheap watch to Chorley. It cost him but the drawing out of half-a-dozen cards, and it became his!
“How much against this?”
D’Hauteville drew off his ring, and held it before the dazzled eyes of the dealer.
At this crisis I once more interfered, but my remonstrance was unheeded. It was of no use trying to stay the fiery spirit of the Creole.
The ring was a diamond, or rather a collection of diamonds in a gold setting. It, like the watch, was also of the fashion worn by ladies; and I could hear some characteristic remarks muttered around the table, such as, “That young blood’s got a rich girl somewhere,” “There’s more where they come from,” and the like!
The ring was evidently one of much value, as Chorley, after an examination of it, proposed to stake four hundred dollars. The tall man in dark whiskers again interfered, and put it at five hundred. The circle backed him, and the dealer at length agreed to give that sum.
“Will you take cheques, sir?” he inquired, addressing D’Hauteville, “or do you mean to stake it at one bet?”
“At one bet,” was the answer.
“No, no!” cried several voices, inclined to favour D’Hauteville.
“At one bet,” repeated he, in a determined tone. “Place it upon the ace!”
“As you wish, sir,” responded Chorley, with perfectsang-froid, at the same time handing back the ring to its owner.
D’Hauteville took the jewel in his slender white fingers, and laid it on the centre of the card. It was the only bet made. The other players had become so interested in the result, that they withheld their stakes in order to watch it.
Chorley commenced drawing the cards. Each one as it came forth caused a momentary thrill of expectancy; and when aces, deuces, or trés with their broad white margins appeared outside the edge of that mysterious box, the excitement became intense.
It was a long time before two aces came together. It seemed as if the very importance of the stakes called for more than the usual time to decide the bet.
It was decided at length. The ring followed the watch.
I caught D’Hauteville by the arm, and drew him away from the table. This time he followed me unresistingly—as he had nothing more to lay.
“What matters it?” said he, with a gay air as we passed together out of the saloon. “Ah! yes,” he continued, changing his tone, “ah, yes, it does matter! It matters toyou, andAurore!”
Chapter Fifty Eight.My Forlorn Hope.It was pleasant escaping from that hot hell into the cool night air—into the soft light of a Southern moon. It would have been pleasant under other circumstances; but then the sweetest clime and loveliest scene would have made no impression upon me.My companion seemed to share my bitterness of soul. His words of consolation were not without their influence; I knew they were the expressions of a real sympathy. His acts had already proved it.It was, indeed, a lovely night. The white moon rode buoyantly through fleecy clouds, that thinly dappled the azure sky of Louisiana, and a soft breeze played through the now silent streets. A lovely night—too sweet and balmy. My spirit would have preferred a storm. Oh! for black clouds, red lightning, and thunder rolling and crashing through the sky. Oh! for the whistling wind, and the quick pattering of the rain-drops. Oh! for a hurricane without, consonant to the storm that was raging within me!It was but a few steps to the hotel; but we did not stop there. We could think better in the open air, and converse as well. Sleep had no charms for me, and my companion seemed to share my impulses; so passing once more from among the houses, we went on towards the Swamp, caring not whither we went.We walked side by side for some time without exchanging speech. Our thoughts were running upon the same theme,—the business of to-morrow. To-morrow no longer, for the tolling of the great cathedral clock had just announced the hour of midnight. In twelve hours more thevente de l’ençanwould commence—in twelve hours more they would be bidding, for my betrothed!Our steps were towards the “Shell Road,” and soon our feet crunched upon the fragments of unios and bivalves that strewed the path. Here was a scene more in unison with our thoughts. Above and around waved the dark solemn cypress-trees, fit emblems of grief—rendered doubly lugubrious in their expression by the hoarytillandsia, that draped them like a couch of the dead. The sounds, too, that here saluted our ears had a soothing effect; the melancholy “coowhoo-a” of the swamp-owl—the creaking chirp of the tree-crickets and cicadas—the solemn “tong-tong” of the bell-frog—the hoarse trumpet-note of the greater batrachian—and high overhead the wild treble of the bull-bat, all mingled together in a concert, that, however disagreeable under other circumstances, now fell upon my ears like music, and even imparted a kind of sad pleasure to my soul.And yet it was not my darkest hour. A darker was yet in store for me. Despite the very hopelessness of the prospect, I still clung to hope. A vague feeling it was; but it sustained me against despair. The trunk of a taxodium lay prostrate by the side of our path. Upon this we sat down.We had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell. I was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom I now regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the same.What generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice!Ah! little did I then know of the vast extent—the noble grandeur of that sacrifice!“There now remains but one chance,” I said; “the chance that to-morrow’s mail, or rather to-day’s, may bring my letter. It might still arrive in time; the mail is due by ten o’clock in the morning.”“True,” replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts to give much heed to what I had said.“If not,” I continued, “then there is only the hope that he who shall become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her tome. I care not at what price, if I—”“Ah!” interrupted D’Hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; “it is just that which troubles me—that is exactly what I have been thinking upon. I fear, Monsieur, I fear—”“Speak on!”“I fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell her again.”“And why? Will not a large sum—?”“No—no—I fear that he who buys will not give her up again,at any price.”“Ha! Why do you think so, Monsieur D’Hauteville.”“I have my suspicion that a certain individual designs—”“Who?”“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.”“Oh! heavens! Gayarre! Gayarre!”“Yes; from what you have told me—from what I know myself—for I, too, have some knowledge of Dominique Gayarre.”“Gayarre! Gayarre! Oh, God!”I could only ejaculate. The announcement had almost deprived me of the power of speech. A sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me—a prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh, and I without the power to avert it.Strange this thought had not occurred to me before. I had supposed that the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some one who would be disposed toresellat a profit—perhaps an enormous one; but in time I should be prepared for that. Strange I had never thought of Gayarre becoming the purchaser. But, indeed, since the hour when I first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything.Now it was clear. It was no longer a conjecture; most certainly, Gayarre would become the master of Aurore. Ere another night her body would be his property. Her soul—Oh, God! Am I awake?—do I dream?“I had a suspicion of this before,” continued D’Hauteville; “for I may tell you I know something of this family history—of Eugénie Besançon—of Aurore—of Gayarre the avocat. I had a suspicion before that Gayarre might desire to be the owner of Aurore. But now that you have told me of the scene in the dining-room, I no longer doubt this villain’s design. Oh! it is infamous.”“Still further proof of it,” continued D’Hauteville. “There was a man on the boat—you did not notice him, perhaps—an agent for Gayarre in such matters. A negro-trader—a fit tool for such a purpose. No doubt his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale—to bid for the poor girl.”“But why,” I asked, catching at a straw of hope,—“why, since he wishes to possess Aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract?—why send her to the slave-market to public auction?”“The law requires it. The slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be sold publicly to the highest bidder. Besides, Monsieur, bad as may be this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have suggested. He is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness, wishes to stand well before the world. There are many who believe Gayarre a good man! He dare not act openly in this villainous design, and will not appear in it. To save scandal, the negro-trader will be supposed to purchase for himself. It is infamous!”“Beyond conception! Oh! what is to be done to save her from this fearful man? to save me—”“It is of that I am thinking, and have been for the last hour. Be of good cheer, Monsieur! all hope is not lost. There is still one chance of saving Aurore. There is one hope left. Alas! I have known the time,—I, too, have been unfortunate—sadly—sadly—unfortunate. No matter now. We shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been relieved. Perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs—no more of that now. There is still one chance for Aurore, and she and you—both—may yet be happy. It must be so; I am resolved upon it. ’Twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story. Enough—I have no time to spare—I must be gone. Now to your hotel!—go and rest. To-morrow at twelve I shall be with you—at twelve in the Rotundo. Good night! Adieu.”Without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply, the Creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon passed out of sight!Pondering over his incoherent words—over his unintelligible promise—upon his strange looks and manner,—I walked slowly to my hotel.Without undressing I flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going to sleep.
It was pleasant escaping from that hot hell into the cool night air—into the soft light of a Southern moon. It would have been pleasant under other circumstances; but then the sweetest clime and loveliest scene would have made no impression upon me.
My companion seemed to share my bitterness of soul. His words of consolation were not without their influence; I knew they were the expressions of a real sympathy. His acts had already proved it.
It was, indeed, a lovely night. The white moon rode buoyantly through fleecy clouds, that thinly dappled the azure sky of Louisiana, and a soft breeze played through the now silent streets. A lovely night—too sweet and balmy. My spirit would have preferred a storm. Oh! for black clouds, red lightning, and thunder rolling and crashing through the sky. Oh! for the whistling wind, and the quick pattering of the rain-drops. Oh! for a hurricane without, consonant to the storm that was raging within me!
It was but a few steps to the hotel; but we did not stop there. We could think better in the open air, and converse as well. Sleep had no charms for me, and my companion seemed to share my impulses; so passing once more from among the houses, we went on towards the Swamp, caring not whither we went.
We walked side by side for some time without exchanging speech. Our thoughts were running upon the same theme,—the business of to-morrow. To-morrow no longer, for the tolling of the great cathedral clock had just announced the hour of midnight. In twelve hours more thevente de l’ençanwould commence—in twelve hours more they would be bidding, for my betrothed!
Our steps were towards the “Shell Road,” and soon our feet crunched upon the fragments of unios and bivalves that strewed the path. Here was a scene more in unison with our thoughts. Above and around waved the dark solemn cypress-trees, fit emblems of grief—rendered doubly lugubrious in their expression by the hoarytillandsia, that draped them like a couch of the dead. The sounds, too, that here saluted our ears had a soothing effect; the melancholy “coowhoo-a” of the swamp-owl—the creaking chirp of the tree-crickets and cicadas—the solemn “tong-tong” of the bell-frog—the hoarse trumpet-note of the greater batrachian—and high overhead the wild treble of the bull-bat, all mingled together in a concert, that, however disagreeable under other circumstances, now fell upon my ears like music, and even imparted a kind of sad pleasure to my soul.
And yet it was not my darkest hour. A darker was yet in store for me. Despite the very hopelessness of the prospect, I still clung to hope. A vague feeling it was; but it sustained me against despair. The trunk of a taxodium lay prostrate by the side of our path. Upon this we sat down.
We had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell. I was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom I now regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the same.
What generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice!Ah! little did I then know of the vast extent—the noble grandeur of that sacrifice!
“There now remains but one chance,” I said; “the chance that to-morrow’s mail, or rather to-day’s, may bring my letter. It might still arrive in time; the mail is due by ten o’clock in the morning.”
“True,” replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts to give much heed to what I had said.
“If not,” I continued, “then there is only the hope that he who shall become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her tome. I care not at what price, if I—”
“Ah!” interrupted D’Hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; “it is just that which troubles me—that is exactly what I have been thinking upon. I fear, Monsieur, I fear—”
“Speak on!”
“I fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell her again.”
“And why? Will not a large sum—?”
“No—no—I fear that he who buys will not give her up again,at any price.”
“Ha! Why do you think so, Monsieur D’Hauteville.”
“I have my suspicion that a certain individual designs—”
“Who?”
“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.”
“Oh! heavens! Gayarre! Gayarre!”
“Yes; from what you have told me—from what I know myself—for I, too, have some knowledge of Dominique Gayarre.”
“Gayarre! Gayarre! Oh, God!”
I could only ejaculate. The announcement had almost deprived me of the power of speech. A sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me—a prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh, and I without the power to avert it.
Strange this thought had not occurred to me before. I had supposed that the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some one who would be disposed toresellat a profit—perhaps an enormous one; but in time I should be prepared for that. Strange I had never thought of Gayarre becoming the purchaser. But, indeed, since the hour when I first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything.
Now it was clear. It was no longer a conjecture; most certainly, Gayarre would become the master of Aurore. Ere another night her body would be his property. Her soul—Oh, God! Am I awake?—do I dream?
“I had a suspicion of this before,” continued D’Hauteville; “for I may tell you I know something of this family history—of Eugénie Besançon—of Aurore—of Gayarre the avocat. I had a suspicion before that Gayarre might desire to be the owner of Aurore. But now that you have told me of the scene in the dining-room, I no longer doubt this villain’s design. Oh! it is infamous.”
“Still further proof of it,” continued D’Hauteville. “There was a man on the boat—you did not notice him, perhaps—an agent for Gayarre in such matters. A negro-trader—a fit tool for such a purpose. No doubt his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale—to bid for the poor girl.”
“But why,” I asked, catching at a straw of hope,—“why, since he wishes to possess Aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract?—why send her to the slave-market to public auction?”
“The law requires it. The slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be sold publicly to the highest bidder. Besides, Monsieur, bad as may be this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have suggested. He is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness, wishes to stand well before the world. There are many who believe Gayarre a good man! He dare not act openly in this villainous design, and will not appear in it. To save scandal, the negro-trader will be supposed to purchase for himself. It is infamous!”
“Beyond conception! Oh! what is to be done to save her from this fearful man? to save me—”
“It is of that I am thinking, and have been for the last hour. Be of good cheer, Monsieur! all hope is not lost. There is still one chance of saving Aurore. There is one hope left. Alas! I have known the time,—I, too, have been unfortunate—sadly—sadly—unfortunate. No matter now. We shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been relieved. Perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs—no more of that now. There is still one chance for Aurore, and she and you—both—may yet be happy. It must be so; I am resolved upon it. ’Twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story. Enough—I have no time to spare—I must be gone. Now to your hotel!—go and rest. To-morrow at twelve I shall be with you—at twelve in the Rotundo. Good night! Adieu.”
Without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply, the Creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon passed out of sight!
Pondering over his incoherent words—over his unintelligible promise—upon his strange looks and manner,—I walked slowly to my hotel.
Without undressing I flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going to sleep.
Chapter Fifty Nine.The Rotundo.The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night—the thousand and one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear—the theoretic tentation of a hundred projects—all passed before my waking spirit. Yet when morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. All my hopes centred upon D’Hauteville—for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co. The negative answer to my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. I had anticipated it. When did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? Slowly roll the golden circles—slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly parted with. This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail; yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my affairs, had made some cause of delay.Never trust your business affairs to afriend. Never trust to a day for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of sending it. So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and Co.It was twelve o’clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis. I did not re-enter the hotel—I walked direct to theRotundo.My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under the shadow of that spacious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I experienced at that moment.I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe—I have passed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt—pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me—I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain—but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upondesecratedground—desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famedslave-market of New Orleans—the place where human bodies—I might almost sayhuman souls—were bought and sold!Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had the husband been here severed from his wife—the mother from her child. Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement—oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh—nay more—the cry of the anguished heart!I repeat it—my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within the precincts of that spacious hall. And no wonder—with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator—a reporter cool and unmoved by what was passing—I might have noted the details, and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought alone was in my mind—my eyes sought for one sole object—and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated daïs, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two objects I divined.A stone “kerb,” or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The purpose of this was equally apparent.The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall.There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds. Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude, were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red “brogans,” their coarse garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of “nigger cloth” died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,—these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall—a distinct race of beings.But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion—even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the air of the conqueror—those were motionless with the passive look and downcast mien of the captive. These weremasters—those wereslaves! They were the slaves of the plantation Besançon.All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at ease. Mothers sat holding their “piccaninnies” in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate—no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them.Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent to their future. Some even seemed happy—laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the “white folks.” A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather anticipated such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard—perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past.I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. A glance was enough to satisfy me thatshewas not there. There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came.I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances—perhaps insulting speeches—of which she might be the object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me.To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for D’Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only hope.I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. Of course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. There was the regular “negro-trader,” a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,—the “cowskin,”—fit emblem of his calling.In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter “bootees,” laced shirt, and diamond studs.An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair.The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp, New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze—trousers of like material with the coat—boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There, too, the snug smooth banker—the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned—the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look—the rich planter of the coast—the proprietor of the cotton press or “pickery”—with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green “shad-bellied” coat, passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head—that at once proclaimed his calling.His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, “Here he comes!” “Yon’s him!” “Here comes the major!”This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green “shad-belly.” The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B—, the celebrated auctioneer.In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full—there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.
The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night—the thousand and one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear—the theoretic tentation of a hundred projects—all passed before my waking spirit. Yet when morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. All my hopes centred upon D’Hauteville—for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.
To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co. The negative answer to my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. I had anticipated it. When did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? Slowly roll the golden circles—slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly parted with. This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail; yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my affairs, had made some cause of delay.
Never trust your business affairs to afriend. Never trust to a day for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of sending it. So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and Co.
It was twelve o’clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis. I did not re-enter the hotel—I walked direct to theRotundo.
My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under the shadow of that spacious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I experienced at that moment.
I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe—I have passed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt—pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me—I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain—but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.
Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upondesecratedground—desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famedslave-market of New Orleans—the place where human bodies—I might almost sayhuman souls—were bought and sold!
Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had the husband been here severed from his wife—the mother from her child. Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement—oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh—nay more—the cry of the anguished heart!
I repeat it—my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within the precincts of that spacious hall. And no wonder—with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.
You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator—a reporter cool and unmoved by what was passing—I might have noted the details, and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought alone was in my mind—my eyes sought for one sole object—and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.
A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated daïs, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two objects I divined.
A stone “kerb,” or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The purpose of this was equally apparent.
The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall.
There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds. Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude, were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red “brogans,” their coarse garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of “nigger cloth” died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,—these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall—a distinct race of beings.
But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion—even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the air of the conqueror—those were motionless with the passive look and downcast mien of the captive. These weremasters—those wereslaves! They were the slaves of the plantation Besançon.
All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at ease. Mothers sat holding their “piccaninnies” in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate—no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them.
Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent to their future. Some even seemed happy—laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the “white folks.” A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather anticipated such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard—perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past.
I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. A glance was enough to satisfy me thatshewas not there. There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came.
I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances—perhaps insulting speeches—of which she might be the object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.
I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me.
To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for D’Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only hope.
I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. Of course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. There was the regular “negro-trader,” a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,—the “cowskin,”—fit emblem of his calling.
In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter “bootees,” laced shirt, and diamond studs.
An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair.
The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp, New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze—trousers of like material with the coat—boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.
The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There, too, the snug smooth banker—the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned—the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look—the rich planter of the coast—the proprietor of the cotton press or “pickery”—with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.
As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green “shad-bellied” coat, passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head—that at once proclaimed his calling.
His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, “Here he comes!” “Yon’s him!” “Here comes the major!”
This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green “shad-belly.” The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B—, the celebrated auctioneer.
In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.
Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.
Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full—there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.
Chapter Sixty.The Slave-Mart.I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. As yet no appearance of D’Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o’clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a long time.I had full reliance upon my new friend—almost unknown, but not untried. His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it wasmoneyI expected him to bring. He had hinted as much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list—the last lot—Lot 65!Notwithstanding my confidence in D’Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my gaze upon the door, hopingeverymoment to see him enter.Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing. Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and thatherturn would soon come—too soon. With the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. Surely D’Hauteville will not disappoint me!A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and fashionably dressed,—the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse. They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them. Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The name wasMarigny. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me—a Marigny who had proposed topurchase Aurore. Of course I remembered the name.“Marigny!” I listened.“So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?” asked one.“Qui,” replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. “Oui—oui—oui,” he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. “I do intend—ma foi!—yes.”“How high will you go?”“Oh—ah!une petite somme, mon cher ami.”“Alittle sumwill not do, Marigny,” said the first speaker. “I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her—rich dogs all of them.”“Who?” inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, “Who, may I inquire?”“Who? Well there’s Gardette the dentist, who’s half crazed about her; there’s the old Marquis; there’s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for ahousekeeper! Ha! ha! ha!”“I can name another,” suggested a third speaker.“Name!” demanded several; “yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons.”“No, not myself,” replied the speaker; “I don’t buycoturiersat that price—deux mille dollares, at the least, my friends.Pardieu! no. I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Tremé.”“Who, then? Name him!”“Without hesitation I do,—the old wizen-face Gayarre.”“Gayarre the avocat?”“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!”“Improbable,” rejoined one. “Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady habits—a moralist—a miser.”“Ha! ha!” laughed Le Ber; “it’s plain, Messieurs, you don’t understand the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser though he be, in a general sense, there’s one class with whom he’s generous enough.Il a une douzaine des maîtresses! Besides, you must remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good housekeeper—afemme-de-chambre. Come, friends, I have heard something—un petit chose. I’ll lay a wager the miser outbidseveryone of you,—even rich generous Marigny here!”Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance or chagrin—mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was the subject of the conversation.“It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?” asked one.“’Tis so said.”“Why, he was considered the great friend of the family—the associate of old Besançon?”“Yes, thelawyer-friendof the family—Ha! ha!” significantly rejoined another.“Poor Eugénie! she’ll be no longer the belle. She’ll now be less difficult to please in her choice of a husband.”“That’s some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!”“Oh!” interposed another, “Le Ber had no chance lately. There’s a young Englishman the favourite now—the same who swam ashore with her at the blowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so, Le Ber?”“You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besançon,” replied the latter, in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, “I would,” replied the questioner, “but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She’s not at her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before. She’s not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?”I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest. I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugénie, and had sought for her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had said in her letter of “Sacré Coeur.” Perhaps, thought I, she has really gone to the convent. Poor Eugénie!“Ay, where is she, Monsieur?” asked another of the party.“Very strange!” said several at once. “Where can she be? Le Ber, you must know.”“I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besançon,” answered the young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his companions were making.“There’s something mysterious in all this,” continued one of the number. “I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than Eugénie Besançon.”It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every word of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Little knew they that the “young Englishman” was near, listening to them, and as little the dire effect their words were producing.It was not what they said of Eugénie that gave me pain. It was their free speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk in relation to her—their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sévigné, was morebizarrethan any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning upon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was successful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able to endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That event wasthe entrance of Aurore!They had again commenced speaking of her—of her chastity—of her rare charms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become possessed of her, and thecertaintythat she would be themaîtresseof whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty, and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out—“Voilà! voilà! elle vient!”I turned mechanically at the words. Aurore was in the entrance.
I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. As yet no appearance of D’Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o’clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.
No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a long time.
I had full reliance upon my new friend—almost unknown, but not untried. His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it wasmoneyI expected him to bring. He had hinted as much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list—the last lot—Lot 65!
Notwithstanding my confidence in D’Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my gaze upon the door, hopingeverymoment to see him enter.
Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing. Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and thatherturn would soon come—too soon. With the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. Surely D’Hauteville will not disappoint me!
A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and fashionably dressed,—the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse. They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them. Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The name wasMarigny. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me—a Marigny who had proposed topurchase Aurore. Of course I remembered the name.
“Marigny!” I listened.
“So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?” asked one.
“Qui,” replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. “Oui—oui—oui,” he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. “I do intend—ma foi!—yes.”
“How high will you go?”
“Oh—ah!une petite somme, mon cher ami.”
“Alittle sumwill not do, Marigny,” said the first speaker. “I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her—rich dogs all of them.”
“Who?” inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, “Who, may I inquire?”
“Who? Well there’s Gardette the dentist, who’s half crazed about her; there’s the old Marquis; there’s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for ahousekeeper! Ha! ha! ha!”
“I can name another,” suggested a third speaker.
“Name!” demanded several; “yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons.”
“No, not myself,” replied the speaker; “I don’t buycoturiersat that price—deux mille dollares, at the least, my friends.Pardieu! no. I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Tremé.”
“Who, then? Name him!”
“Without hesitation I do,—the old wizen-face Gayarre.”
“Gayarre the avocat?”
“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!”
“Improbable,” rejoined one. “Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady habits—a moralist—a miser.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Le Ber; “it’s plain, Messieurs, you don’t understand the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser though he be, in a general sense, there’s one class with whom he’s generous enough.Il a une douzaine des maîtresses! Besides, you must remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good housekeeper—afemme-de-chambre. Come, friends, I have heard something—un petit chose. I’ll lay a wager the miser outbidseveryone of you,—even rich generous Marigny here!”
Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance or chagrin—mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was the subject of the conversation.
“It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?” asked one.
“’Tis so said.”
“Why, he was considered the great friend of the family—the associate of old Besançon?”
“Yes, thelawyer-friendof the family—Ha! ha!” significantly rejoined another.
“Poor Eugénie! she’ll be no longer the belle. She’ll now be less difficult to please in her choice of a husband.”
“That’s some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!”
“Oh!” interposed another, “Le Ber had no chance lately. There’s a young Englishman the favourite now—the same who swam ashore with her at the blowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so, Le Ber?”
“You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besançon,” replied the latter, in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, “I would,” replied the questioner, “but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She’s not at her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before. She’s not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?”
I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest. I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugénie, and had sought for her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had said in her letter of “Sacré Coeur.” Perhaps, thought I, she has really gone to the convent. Poor Eugénie!
“Ay, where is she, Monsieur?” asked another of the party.
“Very strange!” said several at once. “Where can she be? Le Ber, you must know.”
“I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besançon,” answered the young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his companions were making.
“There’s something mysterious in all this,” continued one of the number. “I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than Eugénie Besançon.”
It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every word of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Little knew they that the “young Englishman” was near, listening to them, and as little the dire effect their words were producing.
It was not what they said of Eugénie that gave me pain. It was their free speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk in relation to her—their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.
One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sévigné, was morebizarrethan any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning upon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was successful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able to endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That event wasthe entrance of Aurore!
They had again commenced speaking of her—of her chastity—of her rare charms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become possessed of her, and thecertaintythat she would be themaîtresseof whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty, and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out—
“Voilà! voilà! elle vient!”
I turned mechanically at the words. Aurore was in the entrance.
Chapter Sixty One.Bidding for my Betrothed.Yes, Aurore appeared in the doorway of that infernal hall, and stood timidly pausing upon its threshold.She was not alone. A mulatto girl was by her side—like herself a slave—like herself brought thereto be sold!A third individual was of the party, or rather with it; for he did not walk by the side of the girls, but in front, evidently conducting them to the place of sale. This individual was no other than Larkin, the brutal overseer.“Come along!” said he, roughly, at the same time beckoning to Aurore and her companion: “this way, gals—foller me!”They obeyed his rude signal, and, passing in, followed him across the hall towards the rostrum.I stood with slouched hat and averted face. Aurore saw me not.As soon as they were fairly past, and their backs towards me, my eyes followed them. Oh, beautiful Aurore!—beautiful as ever!I was not single in my admiration. The appearance of the Quadroon created a sensation. The din ceased as if by a signal; every voice became hushed, and every eye was bent upon her as she moved across the floor. Men hurried forward from distant parts of the hall to get a nearer glance; others made way for her, stepping politely back as if she had been a queen. Men did this who would have scorned to offer politeness to another of her race—to the “yellow girl” for instance, who walked by her side! Oh, the power of beauty! Never was it more markedly shown than in theentréeof that poor slave.I heard the whispers, I observed the glances of admiration, of passion. I marked the longing eyes that followed her, noting her splendid form and its undulating outlines as she moved forward.All this gave me pain. It was a feeling worse than mere jealousy I experienced. It was jealousy embittered by the very brutality of my rivals.Aurore was simply attired. There was no affectation of the fine lady—none of the ribbons and flounces that bedecked the dresses of her darker-skinned companion. Such would have ill assorted with the noble melancholy that appeared upon her beautiful countenance. None of all this.A robe of light-coloured muslin, tastefully made, with long skirt and tight sleeves—as was the fashion of the time—a fashion that displayed the pleasing rotundity of her figure. Her head-dress was that worn by all quadroons—the “toque” of the Madras kerchief, which sat upon her brow like a coronet, its green, crimson, and yellow checks contrasting finely with the raven blackness of her hair. She wore no ornaments excepting the broad gold rings that glittered against the rich glow of her cheeks; and upon her finger one other circlet of gold—the token of her betrothal. I knew it well.I buried myself in the crowd, slouching my hat on that side towards the rostrum. I desired she should not see me, while I could not help gazing upon her. I had taken my stand in such a situation, that I could still command a view of the entrance. More than ever was I anxious about the coming of D’Hauteville.Aurore had been placed near the foot of the rostrum. I could just see the edge of her turban over the shoulders of the crowd. By elevating myself on my toes, I could observe her face, which by chance was turned towards me. Oh! how my heart heaved as I struggled to read its expression—as I endeavoured to divine the subject of her thoughts!She looked sad and anxious. That was natural enough. But I looked for another expression—that unquiet anxiety produced by the alternation of hope and fear.Her eye wandered over the crowd. She scanned the sea of faces that surrounded her.She was searching for some one. Was it for me?I held down my face as her glance passed over the spot. I dared not meet her gaze. I feared that I could not restrain myself from addressing her. Sweet Aurore!I again looked up. Her eye was still wandering in fruitless search—oh! surely it is for me!Again I cowered behind the crowd, and her glance was carried onward.I raised myself once more. I saw the shadow darkening upon her face. Her eye filled with a deeper expression—it was the look of despair.“Courage! courage!” I whispered to myself. “Look again, lovely Aurore! This time I shall meet you. I shall speak to you from mine eyes—I shall give back glance for glance—”“She sees—she recognises me! That start—the flash of joy in her eyes—the smile curling upon her lips! Her glance wanders no more—her gaze is fixed—proud heart! Itwasfor me!”Yes, our eyes met at length—met, melting and swimming with love. Mine had escaped from my control. For some moments I could not turn them aside, but surrendered them to the impulse of my passion. It was mutual. I doubted it not. I felt as though the ray of love-light was passing between us. I had almost forgotten where I stood!A murmur from the crowd, and a movement, restored me to my senses. Her stedfast gaze had been noticed, and by many—skilled to interpret such glances—had been understood. These, in turning round to see who was the object of that glance, had caused the movement. I had observed it in time, and turned my face in another direction.I watched the entrance for D’Hauteville. Why had he not arrived? My anxiety increased with the minutes.True, it would still be an hour—perhaps two—before her time should come.—Ha!—what?There was silence for a moment—something of interest was going on. I looked towards the rostrum for an explanation. A dark man had climbed upon one of the steps, and was whispering to the auctioneer.He remained but a moment. He appeared to have asked some favour, which was at once conceded him, and he stepped back to his place among the crowd.A minute or two intervened, and then, to my horror and astonishment, I saw the overseer take Aurore by the arm, and raise her upon the block! The intention was plain.She was to be sold next!In the moments that followed, I cannot remember exactly how I acted. I ran wildly for the entrance. I looked out into the street. Up and down I glanced with anxious eyes. No D’Hauteville!I rushed back into the hall—again through the outer circles of the crowd, in the direction of the rostrum.The bidding had begun. I had not heard the preliminaries, but as I re-entered there fell upon my ears the terrible words—“A thousand dollars for the Quadroon.—A thousand dollars bid!”“O Heaven! D’Hauteville has deceived me. She is lost!—lost!”In my desperation I was about to interrupt the sale. I was about to proclaim aloud its unfairness, in the fact that the Quadroon had beentaken out of the order advertised! Even on this poor plea I rested a hope.It was the straw to the drowning man, but I was determined to grasp it.I had opened my lips to call out, when some one pulling me by the sleeve caused me to turn round. It was D’Hauteville! Thank Heaven, it was D’Hauteville!I could scarce restrain myself from shouting with joy. His look told me that he was the bearer of bright gold.“In time, and none to spare,” whispered he, thrusting a pocket-book between my fingers; “there is three thousand dollars—that will surely be enough; ’tis all I have been able to procure. I cannot stay here—there are those I do not wish to see. I shall meet you after the sale is over. Adieu!”I scarce thanked him. I saw not his parting. My eyes were elsewhere.“Fifteen hundred dollars bid for the Quadroon!—good housekeeper—sempstress—fifteen hundred dollars!”“Two thousand!” I called out, my voice husky with emotion. The sudden leap over such a large sum drew the attention of the crowd upon me. Looks, smiles, and innuendoes were freely exchanged at my expense.I saw, or rather heeded them not. I saw Aurore, only Aurore, standing upon the daïs like a statue upon its pedestal—the type of sadness and beauty. The sooner I could take her thence, the happier for me; and with that object in view I had made my “bid.”“Two thousand dollars bid—two thousand—twenty-one hundred dollars—two thousand, one, two—twenty-two hundred dollars bid—twenty-two—”“Twenty-five hundred dollars!” I again cried out, in as firm a voice as I could command.“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” repeated the auctioneer, in his monotonous drawl; “twenty-five—six—you, sir? thank you! twenty-six hundred dollars for the Quadroon—twenty-six hundred!”“Oh God! they will go above three thousand; if they do—”“Twenty-seven hundred dollars!” bid the fop Marigny.“Twenty-eight hundred!” from the old Marquis.“Twenty-eight hundred and fifty!” assented the young merchant, Moreau.“Nine!” nodded the tall dark man who had whispered to the auctioneer.Twenty-nine hundred dollars bid—two thousand nine hundred.“Three thousand!” I gasped out in despair.It was my last bid. I could go no farther.I waited for the result, as the condemned waits for the falling of the trap or the descent of the axe. My heart could not have endured very long that terrible suspense. But I had not long to endure it.“Three thousand one hundred dollars!—three thousand one hundred bid—thirty-one hundred dollars—”I cast one look upon Aurore. It was a look of hopeless despair; and turning away, I staggered mechanically across the hall.Before I had reached the entrance I could hear the voice of the auctioneer, in the same prolonged drawl, calling out, “Three thousand five hundred bid for the Quadroon girl?”I halted and listened. The sale was coming to its close.“Three thousand five hundred—going at three thousand five hundred—going—going—”The sharp stroke of the hammer fell upon my ear. It drowned the final word “gone!” but my heart pronounced that word in the emphasis of its agony.There was a noisy scene of confusion, loud words and high excitement among the crowd of disappointed bidders. Who was the fortunate one?I leant over to ascertain. The tall dark man was in conversation with the auctioneer. Aurore stood beside him. I now remembered having seen the man on the boat. He was the agent of whom D’Hauteville had spoken. The Creole had guessed aright, and so, too, had Le Ber.Gayarre had outbid them all!
Yes, Aurore appeared in the doorway of that infernal hall, and stood timidly pausing upon its threshold.
She was not alone. A mulatto girl was by her side—like herself a slave—like herself brought thereto be sold!
A third individual was of the party, or rather with it; for he did not walk by the side of the girls, but in front, evidently conducting them to the place of sale. This individual was no other than Larkin, the brutal overseer.
“Come along!” said he, roughly, at the same time beckoning to Aurore and her companion: “this way, gals—foller me!”
They obeyed his rude signal, and, passing in, followed him across the hall towards the rostrum.
I stood with slouched hat and averted face. Aurore saw me not.
As soon as they were fairly past, and their backs towards me, my eyes followed them. Oh, beautiful Aurore!—beautiful as ever!
I was not single in my admiration. The appearance of the Quadroon created a sensation. The din ceased as if by a signal; every voice became hushed, and every eye was bent upon her as she moved across the floor. Men hurried forward from distant parts of the hall to get a nearer glance; others made way for her, stepping politely back as if she had been a queen. Men did this who would have scorned to offer politeness to another of her race—to the “yellow girl” for instance, who walked by her side! Oh, the power of beauty! Never was it more markedly shown than in theentréeof that poor slave.
I heard the whispers, I observed the glances of admiration, of passion. I marked the longing eyes that followed her, noting her splendid form and its undulating outlines as she moved forward.
All this gave me pain. It was a feeling worse than mere jealousy I experienced. It was jealousy embittered by the very brutality of my rivals.
Aurore was simply attired. There was no affectation of the fine lady—none of the ribbons and flounces that bedecked the dresses of her darker-skinned companion. Such would have ill assorted with the noble melancholy that appeared upon her beautiful countenance. None of all this.
A robe of light-coloured muslin, tastefully made, with long skirt and tight sleeves—as was the fashion of the time—a fashion that displayed the pleasing rotundity of her figure. Her head-dress was that worn by all quadroons—the “toque” of the Madras kerchief, which sat upon her brow like a coronet, its green, crimson, and yellow checks contrasting finely with the raven blackness of her hair. She wore no ornaments excepting the broad gold rings that glittered against the rich glow of her cheeks; and upon her finger one other circlet of gold—the token of her betrothal. I knew it well.
I buried myself in the crowd, slouching my hat on that side towards the rostrum. I desired she should not see me, while I could not help gazing upon her. I had taken my stand in such a situation, that I could still command a view of the entrance. More than ever was I anxious about the coming of D’Hauteville.
Aurore had been placed near the foot of the rostrum. I could just see the edge of her turban over the shoulders of the crowd. By elevating myself on my toes, I could observe her face, which by chance was turned towards me. Oh! how my heart heaved as I struggled to read its expression—as I endeavoured to divine the subject of her thoughts!
She looked sad and anxious. That was natural enough. But I looked for another expression—that unquiet anxiety produced by the alternation of hope and fear.
Her eye wandered over the crowd. She scanned the sea of faces that surrounded her.She was searching for some one. Was it for me?
I held down my face as her glance passed over the spot. I dared not meet her gaze. I feared that I could not restrain myself from addressing her. Sweet Aurore!
I again looked up. Her eye was still wandering in fruitless search—oh! surely it is for me!
Again I cowered behind the crowd, and her glance was carried onward.
I raised myself once more. I saw the shadow darkening upon her face. Her eye filled with a deeper expression—it was the look of despair.
“Courage! courage!” I whispered to myself. “Look again, lovely Aurore! This time I shall meet you. I shall speak to you from mine eyes—I shall give back glance for glance—”
“She sees—she recognises me! That start—the flash of joy in her eyes—the smile curling upon her lips! Her glance wanders no more—her gaze is fixed—proud heart! Itwasfor me!”
Yes, our eyes met at length—met, melting and swimming with love. Mine had escaped from my control. For some moments I could not turn them aside, but surrendered them to the impulse of my passion. It was mutual. I doubted it not. I felt as though the ray of love-light was passing between us. I had almost forgotten where I stood!
A murmur from the crowd, and a movement, restored me to my senses. Her stedfast gaze had been noticed, and by many—skilled to interpret such glances—had been understood. These, in turning round to see who was the object of that glance, had caused the movement. I had observed it in time, and turned my face in another direction.
I watched the entrance for D’Hauteville. Why had he not arrived? My anxiety increased with the minutes.
True, it would still be an hour—perhaps two—before her time should come.—Ha!—what?
There was silence for a moment—something of interest was going on. I looked towards the rostrum for an explanation. A dark man had climbed upon one of the steps, and was whispering to the auctioneer.
He remained but a moment. He appeared to have asked some favour, which was at once conceded him, and he stepped back to his place among the crowd.
A minute or two intervened, and then, to my horror and astonishment, I saw the overseer take Aurore by the arm, and raise her upon the block! The intention was plain.She was to be sold next!
In the moments that followed, I cannot remember exactly how I acted. I ran wildly for the entrance. I looked out into the street. Up and down I glanced with anxious eyes. No D’Hauteville!
I rushed back into the hall—again through the outer circles of the crowd, in the direction of the rostrum.
The bidding had begun. I had not heard the preliminaries, but as I re-entered there fell upon my ears the terrible words—
“A thousand dollars for the Quadroon.—A thousand dollars bid!”
“O Heaven! D’Hauteville has deceived me. She is lost!—lost!”
In my desperation I was about to interrupt the sale. I was about to proclaim aloud its unfairness, in the fact that the Quadroon had beentaken out of the order advertised! Even on this poor plea I rested a hope.
It was the straw to the drowning man, but I was determined to grasp it.
I had opened my lips to call out, when some one pulling me by the sleeve caused me to turn round. It was D’Hauteville! Thank Heaven, it was D’Hauteville!
I could scarce restrain myself from shouting with joy. His look told me that he was the bearer of bright gold.
“In time, and none to spare,” whispered he, thrusting a pocket-book between my fingers; “there is three thousand dollars—that will surely be enough; ’tis all I have been able to procure. I cannot stay here—there are those I do not wish to see. I shall meet you after the sale is over. Adieu!”
I scarce thanked him. I saw not his parting. My eyes were elsewhere.
“Fifteen hundred dollars bid for the Quadroon!—good housekeeper—sempstress—fifteen hundred dollars!”
“Two thousand!” I called out, my voice husky with emotion. The sudden leap over such a large sum drew the attention of the crowd upon me. Looks, smiles, and innuendoes were freely exchanged at my expense.
I saw, or rather heeded them not. I saw Aurore, only Aurore, standing upon the daïs like a statue upon its pedestal—the type of sadness and beauty. The sooner I could take her thence, the happier for me; and with that object in view I had made my “bid.”
“Two thousand dollars bid—two thousand—twenty-one hundred dollars—two thousand, one, two—twenty-two hundred dollars bid—twenty-two—”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars!” I again cried out, in as firm a voice as I could command.
“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” repeated the auctioneer, in his monotonous drawl; “twenty-five—six—you, sir? thank you! twenty-six hundred dollars for the Quadroon—twenty-six hundred!”
“Oh God! they will go above three thousand; if they do—”
“Twenty-seven hundred dollars!” bid the fop Marigny.
“Twenty-eight hundred!” from the old Marquis.
“Twenty-eight hundred and fifty!” assented the young merchant, Moreau.
“Nine!” nodded the tall dark man who had whispered to the auctioneer.
Twenty-nine hundred dollars bid—two thousand nine hundred.
“Three thousand!” I gasped out in despair.
It was my last bid. I could go no farther.
I waited for the result, as the condemned waits for the falling of the trap or the descent of the axe. My heart could not have endured very long that terrible suspense. But I had not long to endure it.
“Three thousand one hundred dollars!—three thousand one hundred bid—thirty-one hundred dollars—”
I cast one look upon Aurore. It was a look of hopeless despair; and turning away, I staggered mechanically across the hall.
Before I had reached the entrance I could hear the voice of the auctioneer, in the same prolonged drawl, calling out, “Three thousand five hundred bid for the Quadroon girl?”
I halted and listened. The sale was coming to its close.
“Three thousand five hundred—going at three thousand five hundred—going—going—”
The sharp stroke of the hammer fell upon my ear. It drowned the final word “gone!” but my heart pronounced that word in the emphasis of its agony.
There was a noisy scene of confusion, loud words and high excitement among the crowd of disappointed bidders. Who was the fortunate one?
I leant over to ascertain. The tall dark man was in conversation with the auctioneer. Aurore stood beside him. I now remembered having seen the man on the boat. He was the agent of whom D’Hauteville had spoken. The Creole had guessed aright, and so, too, had Le Ber.
Gayarre had outbid them all!