Chapter Fourteen.Where am I?When I awoke to consciousness, it was day. A bright sun was pouring his yellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonal slanting of the beam, I could perceive that it was either very early in the morning, or near sunset.But birds were singing without. It must be morning, reasoned I.I perceived that I was upon a low couch of elegant construction—without curtains—but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshes above and around me. The snow-white colour and fineness of the linen, the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattress beneath, imparted to me the knowledge that I lay upon a luxurious bed. But for its extreme elegance and fineness, I might not have noticed this; for I awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain.The incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, and passed rapidly one by one as they had occurred. Up to our reaching the bank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clear enough. Beyond that time I could recall nothing distinctly. A house, a large gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, black servants, were all jumbled together on my memory.There was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusion a face of extraordinary beauty—the face of a lovely girl! Something angelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that I had seen, or only the vision of a dream, I could not now tell. And yet its lineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of my mind, so clearly outlined, that, had I been an artist, I could have portrayed them! The face alone I could remember nothing else. I remembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers a beautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else is forgotten! Strange to say, I did not associate this face with my companion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all like that of Eugénie Besançon!Was there any one besides—any one on board the boat that my dream resembled? No, not one—I could not think of one. There was none in whom I had taken even a momentary interest—with the exception of the Creole—but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up were entirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character!Before my mind’s eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along the brows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters. Within this ebon framework were features to mock the sculptor’s chisel. The mouth, with its delicate rose-coloured ellipse; the nose, with smooth straight outline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the long fringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike the features of Eugénie Besançon. The colour of the skin, too—even that was different. It was not that Circassian white that characterised the complexion of the Creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged with a blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks a tint of crimson. The eye I fancied, or remembered well—better than aught else. It was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but its peculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely. Its brilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled. It was more like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest. Its light did not blaze—it seemed rather to burn.Despite some pain which I felt, I lay for many minutes pondering over this lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream. A singular reflection crossed my mind. I could not help thinking, that if such a face were real, I could forget Mademoiselle Besançon, despite the romantic incident that had attended our introduction!The pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, and recalled me to my present situation. On throwing back the counterpane, I observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidently by a surgeon! Satisfied on this head, I cast my eye abroad to make a reconnoissance of my quarters.The room I occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction of the mosquito bar, I could see that it was furnished with taste and elegance. The furniture was light—mostly cane-work—and the floor was covered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained into various colours. The windows were garnished with curtains of silk damask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work. A table richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, withportefeuille, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, and over this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of red cedar-wood. A handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the open fireplace was a pair of small “andirons,” with silver knobs, cast after a fanciful device, and richly chased. Of course, there was no fire at that season of the year. Even the heat caused by the mosquito bar would have been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and the window on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze that penetrated through the nettings of my couch.Along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance—the essence of flowers. Through both door and window I could see their thousand clustering corollas—roses, red, pink, and white—the rare camelia—azaleas, and jessamines—the sweet-scented China-tree—and farther off a little I could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossoms of the great American laurel—theMagnolia grandiflora. I could hear the voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that I supposed to be the noise of falling water. These were the only sounds that reached my ears.Was I alone? I looked inquiringly around the chamber. It appeared so—no living thing met my glance.I was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment I occupied. It appeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other! The only door I could see, opened directly to the outside. So did the window, reaching door-like to the ground. Both appeared to lead into a garden filled with shrubs and flowers. Excepting the chimney, I could perceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment!This at first seemed odd; but a moment’s reflection explained it. It is not uncommon upon American plantations to have a kind of office or summer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in a style of comfort and luxuriance. This becomes upon occasions the “stranger’s room.” Perhaps I was in such an apartment.At all events, I was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; that was evident. The manner in which I was encouched, along with certain preparations,—the signs of a projecteddejeunerthat appeared upon the table, attested this. But who was my host? or was it a hostess? Was it Eugénie Besançon? Did she not say something of her house—“ma maison?” or did I only dream it?I lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but I could not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest I was. Nevertheless, I had a sort of belief that I was in the house of my last night’s companion.I became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed at being left alone. I would have rung, but no bell was within reach. At that moment, however, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.Romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft, made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest, tiniest pebble—stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake the sleeping invalid—and then, in the midst of bird-music, and humming waters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in the doorway, and I saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in a timid inquiring glance, gazing upon me. You will fancy all this, no doubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like the reality.The footsteps I heard were made by a pair of thick “brogans” of alligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans the next moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes.On raising my glance a little higher, I perceived a pair of legs, in wide copper-coloured “jeans,” pantaloons; and carrying my eye still higher, I perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cotton shirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by the shining face and woolly head of a jet black negro!The face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyes dwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until I at length, despite the pain I was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh! If I had been dying, I could not have helped it; there was something so comic, so irresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder.He was a full-grown and rather large negro, as black as charcoal, with a splendid tier of “ivories;” and with eyeballs, pupil and irides excepted, as white as his teeth. But it was not these that had tickled my fancy. It was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and size of his ears. The former was as round as a globe, and thickly covered with small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemed to root at both ends, and form a “nap!” From the sides of this sable sphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings, and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance.It was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous though it was, for the life of me I could not help it.My visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss. On the contrary, he at once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature of his mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly as myself!Good-natured was he. His bat-like ears had infused nothing of the vampire into his character. No—the very type of jollity and fun was the broad black face of “Scipio Besançon,” for such was the cognomen of my visitor.
When I awoke to consciousness, it was day. A bright sun was pouring his yellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonal slanting of the beam, I could perceive that it was either very early in the morning, or near sunset.
But birds were singing without. It must be morning, reasoned I.
I perceived that I was upon a low couch of elegant construction—without curtains—but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshes above and around me. The snow-white colour and fineness of the linen, the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattress beneath, imparted to me the knowledge that I lay upon a luxurious bed. But for its extreme elegance and fineness, I might not have noticed this; for I awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain.
The incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, and passed rapidly one by one as they had occurred. Up to our reaching the bank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clear enough. Beyond that time I could recall nothing distinctly. A house, a large gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, black servants, were all jumbled together on my memory.
There was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusion a face of extraordinary beauty—the face of a lovely girl! Something angelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that I had seen, or only the vision of a dream, I could not now tell. And yet its lineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of my mind, so clearly outlined, that, had I been an artist, I could have portrayed them! The face alone I could remember nothing else. I remembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers a beautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else is forgotten! Strange to say, I did not associate this face with my companion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all like that of Eugénie Besançon!
Was there any one besides—any one on board the boat that my dream resembled? No, not one—I could not think of one. There was none in whom I had taken even a momentary interest—with the exception of the Creole—but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up were entirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character!
Before my mind’s eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along the brows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters. Within this ebon framework were features to mock the sculptor’s chisel. The mouth, with its delicate rose-coloured ellipse; the nose, with smooth straight outline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the long fringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike the features of Eugénie Besançon. The colour of the skin, too—even that was different. It was not that Circassian white that characterised the complexion of the Creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged with a blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks a tint of crimson. The eye I fancied, or remembered well—better than aught else. It was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but its peculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely. Its brilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled. It was more like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest. Its light did not blaze—it seemed rather to burn.
Despite some pain which I felt, I lay for many minutes pondering over this lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream. A singular reflection crossed my mind. I could not help thinking, that if such a face were real, I could forget Mademoiselle Besançon, despite the romantic incident that had attended our introduction!
The pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, and recalled me to my present situation. On throwing back the counterpane, I observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidently by a surgeon! Satisfied on this head, I cast my eye abroad to make a reconnoissance of my quarters.
The room I occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction of the mosquito bar, I could see that it was furnished with taste and elegance. The furniture was light—mostly cane-work—and the floor was covered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained into various colours. The windows were garnished with curtains of silk damask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work. A table richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, withportefeuille, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, and over this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of red cedar-wood. A handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the open fireplace was a pair of small “andirons,” with silver knobs, cast after a fanciful device, and richly chased. Of course, there was no fire at that season of the year. Even the heat caused by the mosquito bar would have been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and the window on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze that penetrated through the nettings of my couch.
Along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance—the essence of flowers. Through both door and window I could see their thousand clustering corollas—roses, red, pink, and white—the rare camelia—azaleas, and jessamines—the sweet-scented China-tree—and farther off a little I could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossoms of the great American laurel—theMagnolia grandiflora. I could hear the voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that I supposed to be the noise of falling water. These were the only sounds that reached my ears.
Was I alone? I looked inquiringly around the chamber. It appeared so—no living thing met my glance.
I was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment I occupied. It appeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other! The only door I could see, opened directly to the outside. So did the window, reaching door-like to the ground. Both appeared to lead into a garden filled with shrubs and flowers. Excepting the chimney, I could perceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment!
This at first seemed odd; but a moment’s reflection explained it. It is not uncommon upon American plantations to have a kind of office or summer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in a style of comfort and luxuriance. This becomes upon occasions the “stranger’s room.” Perhaps I was in such an apartment.
At all events, I was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; that was evident. The manner in which I was encouched, along with certain preparations,—the signs of a projecteddejeunerthat appeared upon the table, attested this. But who was my host? or was it a hostess? Was it Eugénie Besançon? Did she not say something of her house—“ma maison?” or did I only dream it?
I lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but I could not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest I was. Nevertheless, I had a sort of belief that I was in the house of my last night’s companion.
I became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed at being left alone. I would have rung, but no bell was within reach. At that moment, however, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft, made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest, tiniest pebble—stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake the sleeping invalid—and then, in the midst of bird-music, and humming waters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in the doorway, and I saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in a timid inquiring glance, gazing upon me. You will fancy all this, no doubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like the reality.
The footsteps I heard were made by a pair of thick “brogans” of alligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans the next moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes.
On raising my glance a little higher, I perceived a pair of legs, in wide copper-coloured “jeans,” pantaloons; and carrying my eye still higher, I perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cotton shirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by the shining face and woolly head of a jet black negro!
The face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyes dwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until I at length, despite the pain I was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh! If I had been dying, I could not have helped it; there was something so comic, so irresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder.
He was a full-grown and rather large negro, as black as charcoal, with a splendid tier of “ivories;” and with eyeballs, pupil and irides excepted, as white as his teeth. But it was not these that had tickled my fancy. It was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and size of his ears. The former was as round as a globe, and thickly covered with small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemed to root at both ends, and form a “nap!” From the sides of this sable sphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings, and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance.
It was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous though it was, for the life of me I could not help it.
My visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss. On the contrary, he at once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature of his mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly as myself!
Good-natured was he. His bat-like ears had infused nothing of the vampire into his character. No—the very type of jollity and fun was the broad black face of “Scipio Besançon,” for such was the cognomen of my visitor.
Chapter Fifteen.“Ole Zip.”Scipio opened the dialogue:—“Gollies, young mass’r! Ole Zip ’joiced to see um well ’gain—daat he be.”“Scipio is it?”“Ye’, mass’r—daat same ole nigger. Doctor told um to nuss de white genl’um. Won’t young missa be glad haself!—white folks, black folks—all be glad, Wugh!”The finishing exclamation was one of those thoracic efforts peculiar to the American negro, and bearing a strong resemblance to the snort of a hippopotamus. Its utterance signified that my companion had finished his sentence, and waited for me to speak.“And who is ‘young missa’?” I inquired.“Gorramighty! don’t mass’r know? Why, de young lady you fotch from de boat, when twar all ober a blaze. Lor! what a swum you make—half cross de riber! Wugh!”“And am I in her house?”“Ob sartin, mass’r—daat ar in de summer-house—for de big house am on oder side ob de garden—all de same, mass’r.”“And how did I get here?”“Golly! don’t mass’r ’member how? Why, ole Zip carried ’im in yar in dese berry arms. Mass’r an young missa come ’shore on de Lebee, down dar jes by de gate. Missa shout—black folks come out an find um—white genl’um all blood—he faint, an missa have him carried in yar.”“And after?”“Zip he mount fastest hoss—ole White Fox—an gallop for de doctor—gallop like de debil, too. Ob course de doctor he come back along and dress up mass’r’s arm.“But,” continued Scipio, turning upon me an inquiring look, “how’d young mass’r come by de big ugly cut? Dat’s jes wha de Doc wanted to know, an dat’s jes wha young missa didn’t know nuffin ’tall ’bout.”For certain reasons I forbore satisfying the curiosity of my sable nurse, but lay for a moment reflecting. True, the lady knew nothing of my encounter with the bully. Ha! Antoine—then. Had he not come ashore? Was he—? Scipio anticipated the question I was about to put. His face became sad as he recommenced speaking.“Ah! young mass’r, Mamselle ’Génie be in great ’stress dis mornin—all de folks be in great ’stress. Mass’r Toney! Poor Mass’r Toney.”“The steward, Antoine? What of him? Tell me, has he not come home?”“No, mass’r—I’se afeerd he nebber, nebber will—ebberybody ’feerd he be drownded—folks a been to de village—up an down de Lebee—ebery wha. No Toney. Captain ob de boat blowed clar into de sky, an fifty passengers gone to de bottom. Oder boat save some; some, like young mass’r, swam ’shore: but no Toney—no Mass’r Toney!”“Do you know if he could swim?” I asked.“No, mass’r, ne’er a stroke. I knows daat, ’kase he once falled into de bayou, and Ole Zip pull ’im out. No—he nebber swim—nebber.”“Then I fear he is lost indeed.”I remembered that the wreck went down before the Magnolia had got close alongside. I had noticed this on looking around. Those who could not swim, therefore, must have perished.“Poor Pierre, too. We hab lost Pierre.”“Pierre? Who was he?”“De coachman, mass’r, he war.”“Oh! I remember. You think he is drowned, also?”“I’se afeerd so, mass’r. Ole Zip sorry, too, for Pierre. A good nigger war daat Pierre. But, Mass’r Toney, Mass’r Toney, ebberybody sorry for Mass’r Toney.”“He was a favourite among you?”“Ebberybody like ’im—black folks, white folks, all lub ’im. Missa ’Génie lub ’im. He live wi’ ole Mass’r Sançon all him life. I believe war one ob Missy ’Génie gardiums, or whatever you call ’em. Gorramighty! what will young Missa do now? She hab no friends leff; and daat ole fox Gayarre—he no good—”Here the speaker suddenly interrupted himself, as if he feared that his tongue was going too freely.The name he had pronounced and the expression by which it was qualified, at once awakened my curiosity—the name more than the qualification.“If it be the same,” thought I, “Scipio has characterised him not otherwise than justly. Can it be the same?”“You mean Monsieur Dominique Gayarre, theavocat?” I asked, after a pause.Scipio’s great white eyeballs rolled about with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension, and rather stammeringly he replied:—“Daat am de genl’um’s name. Know ’im, young mass’r?”“Only very slightly,” I answered, and this answer seemed to set my companion at his ease again.The truth is, I had nopersonalacquaintance with the individual mentioned; but during my stay in New Orleans, accident had brought me in contact with the name. A little adventure had befallen me, in which the bearer of it figured—not to advantage. On the contrary, I had conceived a strong dislike for the man, who, as already stated, was a lawyer, oravocatof the New Orleans bar. Scipio’s man was no doubt the same. The name was too rare a one to be borne by two individuals; besides, I had heard that he was owner of a plantation somewhere up the coast—at Bringiers, I remembered. The probabilities were it was he. If so, and Mademoiselle Besançon had no other friend, then, indeed, had Scipio spoken truly when he said, “She hab no friends leff.”Scipio’s observation had not only roused my curiosity, but had imparted to me a vague feeling of uneasiness. It is needless to say that I was now deeply interested in this young Creole. A man who has saved a life—the life of a beautiful woman—and under such peculiar circumstances, could not well be indifferent to the after-fate of her he has rescued.Was it a lover’s interest that had been awakened within me?My heart answered, No! To my own astonishment, it gave this answer. On the boat I had fancied myself half in love with this young lady; and now, after a romantic incident—one that might appear a very provocative to the sublime passion—I lay on my couch contemplating the whole affair with a coolness that surprised even myself! I felt that I had lost much blood—had my incipient passion flowed out of my veins at the same time?I endeavoured to find some explanation for this rare psychological fact; but at that time I was but an indifferent student of the mind. The land of love was to me aterre inconnue.One thing was odd enough. Whenever I essayed to recall the features of the Creole, the dream-face rose up before me more palpable than ever!“Strange!” thought I, “this lovely vision! this dream of my diseased brain! Oh! what would I not give to embody this fair spectral form!”I had no longer a doubt about it. I was certain I did not love Mademoiselle Besançon, and yet I was far from feeling indifferent towards her. Friendship was the feeling that now actuated me. The interest, I felt for her was that of a friend. Strong enough was it to render me anxious on her account—to make me desirous of knowing more both of herself and her affairs.Scipio was not of secretive habit; and in less than half an hour I was the confidant of all he knew.Eugénie Besançon was the daughter and only child of a Creole planter, who had died some two years before, as some thought wealthy, while others believed that his affairs were embarrassed. Monsieur Dominique Gayarre had been left joint-administrator of the estate with the steward Antoine, both being “guardiums” (sic Scipio) of the young lady. Gayarre had been the lawyer of Besançon, and Antoine his faithful servitor. Hence the trust reposed in the old steward, who in latter years stood in the relation of friend and companion rather than of servant to Besançon himself.In a few months mademoiselle would be of age; but whether her inheritance was large, Scipio could not tell. He only knew that since her father’s death, Monsieur Dominique, the principal executor, had furnished her with ample funds whenever called upon; that she had not been restricted in any way; that she was generous; that she was profuse in her expenditure, or, as Scipio described it, “berry wasteful, an flung about de shinin dollars as ef dey wardonicks!”The black gave some glowing details of many a grand ball andfête champètrethat had taken place on the plantation, and hinted at the expensive life which “young missa” led while in the city, where she usually resided during most part of the winter. All this I could easily credit. From what had occurred on the boat, and other circumstances, I was impressed with the belief that Eugénie Besançon was just the person to answer to the description of Scipio. Ardent of soul—full of warm impulses—generous to a fault—reckless in expenditure—living altogether in the present—and not caring to make any calculation for the future. Just such an heiress as would exactly suit the purposes of an unprincipled administrator.I could see that poor Scipio had a great regard for his young mistress; but, even ignorant as he was, he had some suspicion that all this profuse outlay boded no good. He shook his head as he talked of these matters, adding—“I’se afeerd, young mass’r, it’ll nebber, nebber last. De Planters’ bank hisseff would be broke by such a constant drawin ob money.”When Scipio came to speak of Gayarre he shook his head still more significantly. He had evidently some strange suspicions about this individual, though he was unwilling, just then, to declare them.I learnt enough to identify Monsieur Dominique Gayarre with myavocatof the Rue —, New Orleans. No doubt remained on my mind that it was the same. A lawyer by profession, but more of a speculator in stocks—a money-lender, in other words, usurer. In the country a planter, owning the plantation adjoining that of Besançon, with more than a hundred slaves, whom he treats with the utmost severity. All this is in correspondence with the calling and character of my Monsieur Dominique. They are the same.Scipio gives me some additional details of him. He was the law adviser and the companion of Monsieur Besançon—Scipio says, “Too often for ole mass’r’s good,” and believes that the latter suffered much from his acquaintance: or, as Scipio phrases it, “Mass’r Gayarre humbug ole mass’r; he cheat ’im many an many a time, I’se certain.”Furthermore, I learn from my attendant, that Gayarre resides upon his plantation during the summer months; that he is a daily visitor at the “big house”—the residence of Mademoiselle Besançon—where he makes himself quite at home; acting, says Scipio, “as ef de place ’longed to him, and he war de boss ob de plantation.”I fancied Scipio knew something more about this man—some definite matter that he did not like to talk about. It was natural enough, considering our recent acquaintance. I could see that he had a strong dislike towards Gayarre. Did he found it on some actual knowledge of the latter, or was it instinct—a principle strongly developed in these poor slaves, who are not permitted toreason?His information, however, comprised too many facts to be the product of mere instinct: it savoured of actual knowledge. He must have learnt these things from some quarter. Where could he have gathered them?“Who told you all this, Scipio?”“Aurore, mass’r.”“Aurore!”
Scipio opened the dialogue:—
“Gollies, young mass’r! Ole Zip ’joiced to see um well ’gain—daat he be.”
“Scipio is it?”
“Ye’, mass’r—daat same ole nigger. Doctor told um to nuss de white genl’um. Won’t young missa be glad haself!—white folks, black folks—all be glad, Wugh!”
The finishing exclamation was one of those thoracic efforts peculiar to the American negro, and bearing a strong resemblance to the snort of a hippopotamus. Its utterance signified that my companion had finished his sentence, and waited for me to speak.
“And who is ‘young missa’?” I inquired.
“Gorramighty! don’t mass’r know? Why, de young lady you fotch from de boat, when twar all ober a blaze. Lor! what a swum you make—half cross de riber! Wugh!”
“And am I in her house?”
“Ob sartin, mass’r—daat ar in de summer-house—for de big house am on oder side ob de garden—all de same, mass’r.”
“And how did I get here?”
“Golly! don’t mass’r ’member how? Why, ole Zip carried ’im in yar in dese berry arms. Mass’r an young missa come ’shore on de Lebee, down dar jes by de gate. Missa shout—black folks come out an find um—white genl’um all blood—he faint, an missa have him carried in yar.”
“And after?”
“Zip he mount fastest hoss—ole White Fox—an gallop for de doctor—gallop like de debil, too. Ob course de doctor he come back along and dress up mass’r’s arm.
“But,” continued Scipio, turning upon me an inquiring look, “how’d young mass’r come by de big ugly cut? Dat’s jes wha de Doc wanted to know, an dat’s jes wha young missa didn’t know nuffin ’tall ’bout.”
For certain reasons I forbore satisfying the curiosity of my sable nurse, but lay for a moment reflecting. True, the lady knew nothing of my encounter with the bully. Ha! Antoine—then. Had he not come ashore? Was he—? Scipio anticipated the question I was about to put. His face became sad as he recommenced speaking.
“Ah! young mass’r, Mamselle ’Génie be in great ’stress dis mornin—all de folks be in great ’stress. Mass’r Toney! Poor Mass’r Toney.”
“The steward, Antoine? What of him? Tell me, has he not come home?”
“No, mass’r—I’se afeerd he nebber, nebber will—ebberybody ’feerd he be drownded—folks a been to de village—up an down de Lebee—ebery wha. No Toney. Captain ob de boat blowed clar into de sky, an fifty passengers gone to de bottom. Oder boat save some; some, like young mass’r, swam ’shore: but no Toney—no Mass’r Toney!”
“Do you know if he could swim?” I asked.
“No, mass’r, ne’er a stroke. I knows daat, ’kase he once falled into de bayou, and Ole Zip pull ’im out. No—he nebber swim—nebber.”
“Then I fear he is lost indeed.”
I remembered that the wreck went down before the Magnolia had got close alongside. I had noticed this on looking around. Those who could not swim, therefore, must have perished.
“Poor Pierre, too. We hab lost Pierre.”
“Pierre? Who was he?”
“De coachman, mass’r, he war.”
“Oh! I remember. You think he is drowned, also?”
“I’se afeerd so, mass’r. Ole Zip sorry, too, for Pierre. A good nigger war daat Pierre. But, Mass’r Toney, Mass’r Toney, ebberybody sorry for Mass’r Toney.”
“He was a favourite among you?”
“Ebberybody like ’im—black folks, white folks, all lub ’im. Missa ’Génie lub ’im. He live wi’ ole Mass’r Sançon all him life. I believe war one ob Missy ’Génie gardiums, or whatever you call ’em. Gorramighty! what will young Missa do now? She hab no friends leff; and daat ole fox Gayarre—he no good—”
Here the speaker suddenly interrupted himself, as if he feared that his tongue was going too freely.
The name he had pronounced and the expression by which it was qualified, at once awakened my curiosity—the name more than the qualification.
“If it be the same,” thought I, “Scipio has characterised him not otherwise than justly. Can it be the same?”
“You mean Monsieur Dominique Gayarre, theavocat?” I asked, after a pause.
Scipio’s great white eyeballs rolled about with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension, and rather stammeringly he replied:—
“Daat am de genl’um’s name. Know ’im, young mass’r?”
“Only very slightly,” I answered, and this answer seemed to set my companion at his ease again.
The truth is, I had nopersonalacquaintance with the individual mentioned; but during my stay in New Orleans, accident had brought me in contact with the name. A little adventure had befallen me, in which the bearer of it figured—not to advantage. On the contrary, I had conceived a strong dislike for the man, who, as already stated, was a lawyer, oravocatof the New Orleans bar. Scipio’s man was no doubt the same. The name was too rare a one to be borne by two individuals; besides, I had heard that he was owner of a plantation somewhere up the coast—at Bringiers, I remembered. The probabilities were it was he. If so, and Mademoiselle Besançon had no other friend, then, indeed, had Scipio spoken truly when he said, “She hab no friends leff.”
Scipio’s observation had not only roused my curiosity, but had imparted to me a vague feeling of uneasiness. It is needless to say that I was now deeply interested in this young Creole. A man who has saved a life—the life of a beautiful woman—and under such peculiar circumstances, could not well be indifferent to the after-fate of her he has rescued.
Was it a lover’s interest that had been awakened within me?
My heart answered, No! To my own astonishment, it gave this answer. On the boat I had fancied myself half in love with this young lady; and now, after a romantic incident—one that might appear a very provocative to the sublime passion—I lay on my couch contemplating the whole affair with a coolness that surprised even myself! I felt that I had lost much blood—had my incipient passion flowed out of my veins at the same time?
I endeavoured to find some explanation for this rare psychological fact; but at that time I was but an indifferent student of the mind. The land of love was to me aterre inconnue.
One thing was odd enough. Whenever I essayed to recall the features of the Creole, the dream-face rose up before me more palpable than ever!
“Strange!” thought I, “this lovely vision! this dream of my diseased brain! Oh! what would I not give to embody this fair spectral form!”
I had no longer a doubt about it. I was certain I did not love Mademoiselle Besançon, and yet I was far from feeling indifferent towards her. Friendship was the feeling that now actuated me. The interest, I felt for her was that of a friend. Strong enough was it to render me anxious on her account—to make me desirous of knowing more both of herself and her affairs.
Scipio was not of secretive habit; and in less than half an hour I was the confidant of all he knew.
Eugénie Besançon was the daughter and only child of a Creole planter, who had died some two years before, as some thought wealthy, while others believed that his affairs were embarrassed. Monsieur Dominique Gayarre had been left joint-administrator of the estate with the steward Antoine, both being “guardiums” (sic Scipio) of the young lady. Gayarre had been the lawyer of Besançon, and Antoine his faithful servitor. Hence the trust reposed in the old steward, who in latter years stood in the relation of friend and companion rather than of servant to Besançon himself.
In a few months mademoiselle would be of age; but whether her inheritance was large, Scipio could not tell. He only knew that since her father’s death, Monsieur Dominique, the principal executor, had furnished her with ample funds whenever called upon; that she had not been restricted in any way; that she was generous; that she was profuse in her expenditure, or, as Scipio described it, “berry wasteful, an flung about de shinin dollars as ef dey wardonicks!”
The black gave some glowing details of many a grand ball andfête champètrethat had taken place on the plantation, and hinted at the expensive life which “young missa” led while in the city, where she usually resided during most part of the winter. All this I could easily credit. From what had occurred on the boat, and other circumstances, I was impressed with the belief that Eugénie Besançon was just the person to answer to the description of Scipio. Ardent of soul—full of warm impulses—generous to a fault—reckless in expenditure—living altogether in the present—and not caring to make any calculation for the future. Just such an heiress as would exactly suit the purposes of an unprincipled administrator.
I could see that poor Scipio had a great regard for his young mistress; but, even ignorant as he was, he had some suspicion that all this profuse outlay boded no good. He shook his head as he talked of these matters, adding—
“I’se afeerd, young mass’r, it’ll nebber, nebber last. De Planters’ bank hisseff would be broke by such a constant drawin ob money.”
When Scipio came to speak of Gayarre he shook his head still more significantly. He had evidently some strange suspicions about this individual, though he was unwilling, just then, to declare them.
I learnt enough to identify Monsieur Dominique Gayarre with myavocatof the Rue —, New Orleans. No doubt remained on my mind that it was the same. A lawyer by profession, but more of a speculator in stocks—a money-lender, in other words, usurer. In the country a planter, owning the plantation adjoining that of Besançon, with more than a hundred slaves, whom he treats with the utmost severity. All this is in correspondence with the calling and character of my Monsieur Dominique. They are the same.
Scipio gives me some additional details of him. He was the law adviser and the companion of Monsieur Besançon—Scipio says, “Too often for ole mass’r’s good,” and believes that the latter suffered much from his acquaintance: or, as Scipio phrases it, “Mass’r Gayarre humbug ole mass’r; he cheat ’im many an many a time, I’se certain.”
Furthermore, I learn from my attendant, that Gayarre resides upon his plantation during the summer months; that he is a daily visitor at the “big house”—the residence of Mademoiselle Besançon—where he makes himself quite at home; acting, says Scipio, “as ef de place ’longed to him, and he war de boss ob de plantation.”
I fancied Scipio knew something more about this man—some definite matter that he did not like to talk about. It was natural enough, considering our recent acquaintance. I could see that he had a strong dislike towards Gayarre. Did he found it on some actual knowledge of the latter, or was it instinct—a principle strongly developed in these poor slaves, who are not permitted toreason?
His information, however, comprised too many facts to be the product of mere instinct: it savoured of actual knowledge. He must have learnt these things from some quarter. Where could he have gathered them?
“Who told you all this, Scipio?”
“Aurore, mass’r.”
“Aurore!”
Chapter Sixteen.Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was “Aurore.” Why? Was it the singularity and beauty of the name,—for novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name “Aurore?”I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther. At that moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.“Da doctor, mass’r,” whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the gentlemen to approach.Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the “doctor.” The professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man, who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius, as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his door-plate in the other.He was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one that would be termed handsome. It was, however, interesting, from a quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual expression of kind feeling. It had been a German face some two or three generations before, but an American climate,—political, I mean,—had tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of European despotism, and had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature. Afterwards, when better acquainted with American types, I should have known it as a Pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was. I saw before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of Philadelphia, Dr Edward Reigart. The name confirmed my suspicion of German origin.Altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at first sight.How different was that I received on glancing toward his companion—antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust! A face purely French;—not that noble French face we see in the Duguesclins, the Jean Barts, and among many of the old Huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a Rollin, a Hugo, an Arago, or a Pyat;—but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds sneaking around the Bourse or thecoulissesof the Opera, or in thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian soldiery. A countenance that I cannot describe better than by saying that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox. I am not in jest. I observed this resemblance plainly. I observed the same obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel inhumanity.In the Doctor’s companion I beheld a type of this face,—the fox in human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed.My instincts chimed with Scipio’s, for I had not the slightest doubt that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. It was he.A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who could endure a great deal before parting with life. He had all the subtle wiry look of thecarnivora, as well as their disposition. The eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. The balls were not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the apex. Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of a weasel. They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this smile was purely cynical and deceptive. If any one knew themselves guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. When a case of misfortune did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident delight. He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp—shaggy dark brows, set obliquely—face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. His dress had somewhat of a professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black ribbon. In age he looked fifty.The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue, felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep myself “as quiet as possible.” As an inducement to do so he told me I was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped that a few days would restore me to my strength. Scipio was charged with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled chicken, for my breakfast.The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound. This I thought somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain quiet. He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. I was too anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. Nothing more had been heard of him. He was certainly lost.I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the wound. I could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the features of Gayarre as I spoke. He was all attention, and when I told of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not support the steward a single moment, I fancied I saw the dark eyes of theavocatflashing with delight! There certainly was an expression in them of ill-concealed satisfaction that was hideous to behold. I might not have noticed this, or at all events not have understood it, but for what Scipio had already told me. Now its meaning was unmistakeable, and notwithstanding the “poor Monsieur Antoine!” to which the hypocrite repeatedly gave utterance, I saw plainly that he was secretly delighted at the idea of the old steward’s having gone to the bottom!When I had finished my narrative, Gayarre drew the doctor aside; and the two conversed for some moments in a low tone. I could hear part of what passed between them. The doctor seemed not to care whether I overheard him, while the other appeared equally anxious that their conversation should not reach me. From the replies of the doctor I could make out that the wily lawyer wished to have me removed from my present quarters, and taken to an hotel in the village. He urged the peculiar position in which the young lady (Mademoiselle Besançon) would be placed—alone in her house with a stranger—a young man, etcetera, etcetera.The doctor did not see the necessity of my removal on such grounds. The lady herself did not wish it—in fact, would not hear of it; he pooh-poohed the “peculiarity” of the “situation,” good Doctor Reigart!—the accommodation of the hotel was none of the best; besides, it was already crowded with other sufferers; and here the speaker’s voice sank so low I could only catch odd phrases, as “stranger,”, “not an American,” “lost everything,” “friends far away,” “the hotel no place for a man without money.” Gayarre’s reply to this last objection was thathewould be responsible for my hotel bill.This was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear it; and I should have felt grateful for such an offer, had I not suspected some sinister motive for the lawyer’s generosity. The doctor met the proposal with still further objections.“Impossible,” said he; “bring on fever,” “great risk,” “would not take the responsibility,” “bad wound,” “much loss of blood,” “must remain where he is for the present at least,” “might be taken to the hotel in a day or two when stronger.”The promise of my removal in a day or two appeared to satisfy the weasel Gayarre, or rather he became satisfied that such was the only course that could be taken with me, and the consultation ended.Gayarre now approached the bed to take leave, and I could trace that ironical expression playing in the pupils of his little eyes as he pronounced some pretended phrases of consolation. He little knew to whom he was speaking. Had I uttered my name it would perhaps have brought the colour to his pale cheek, and caused him to make an abrupt exit. Prudence prevented me from declaring it; and when the doctor requested to know upon whom he had the honour of attending, I adopted the pardonable strategy, in use among distinguished travellers, of giving anom du voyage. I assumed my maternal patronymic of Rutherford,—Edward Rutherford.Recommending me to keep myself quiet, not to attempt leaving my bed, to take certain prescriptions at certain hours, etcetera, etcetera, the doctor took his leave; Gayarre having already gone out before him.
I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was “Aurore.” Why? Was it the singularity and beauty of the name,—for novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name “Aurore?”
I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther. At that moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.
“Da doctor, mass’r,” whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the gentlemen to approach.
Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the “doctor.” The professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man, who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius, as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his door-plate in the other.
He was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one that would be termed handsome. It was, however, interesting, from a quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual expression of kind feeling. It had been a German face some two or three generations before, but an American climate,—political, I mean,—had tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of European despotism, and had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature. Afterwards, when better acquainted with American types, I should have known it as a Pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was. I saw before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of Philadelphia, Dr Edward Reigart. The name confirmed my suspicion of German origin.
Altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at first sight.
How different was that I received on glancing toward his companion—antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust! A face purely French;—not that noble French face we see in the Duguesclins, the Jean Barts, and among many of the old Huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a Rollin, a Hugo, an Arago, or a Pyat;—but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds sneaking around the Bourse or thecoulissesof the Opera, or in thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian soldiery. A countenance that I cannot describe better than by saying that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox. I am not in jest. I observed this resemblance plainly. I observed the same obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel inhumanity.
In the Doctor’s companion I beheld a type of this face,—the fox in human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed.
My instincts chimed with Scipio’s, for I had not the slightest doubt that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. It was he.
A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who could endure a great deal before parting with life. He had all the subtle wiry look of thecarnivora, as well as their disposition. The eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. The balls were not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the apex. Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of a weasel. They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this smile was purely cynical and deceptive. If any one knew themselves guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. When a case of misfortune did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident delight. He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.
For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp—shaggy dark brows, set obliquely—face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. His dress had somewhat of a professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black ribbon. In age he looked fifty.
The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue, felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep myself “as quiet as possible.” As an inducement to do so he told me I was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped that a few days would restore me to my strength. Scipio was charged with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled chicken, for my breakfast.
The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound. This I thought somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain quiet. He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. I was too anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. Nothing more had been heard of him. He was certainly lost.
I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the wound. I could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the features of Gayarre as I spoke. He was all attention, and when I told of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not support the steward a single moment, I fancied I saw the dark eyes of theavocatflashing with delight! There certainly was an expression in them of ill-concealed satisfaction that was hideous to behold. I might not have noticed this, or at all events not have understood it, but for what Scipio had already told me. Now its meaning was unmistakeable, and notwithstanding the “poor Monsieur Antoine!” to which the hypocrite repeatedly gave utterance, I saw plainly that he was secretly delighted at the idea of the old steward’s having gone to the bottom!
When I had finished my narrative, Gayarre drew the doctor aside; and the two conversed for some moments in a low tone. I could hear part of what passed between them. The doctor seemed not to care whether I overheard him, while the other appeared equally anxious that their conversation should not reach me. From the replies of the doctor I could make out that the wily lawyer wished to have me removed from my present quarters, and taken to an hotel in the village. He urged the peculiar position in which the young lady (Mademoiselle Besançon) would be placed—alone in her house with a stranger—a young man, etcetera, etcetera.
The doctor did not see the necessity of my removal on such grounds. The lady herself did not wish it—in fact, would not hear of it; he pooh-poohed the “peculiarity” of the “situation,” good Doctor Reigart!—the accommodation of the hotel was none of the best; besides, it was already crowded with other sufferers; and here the speaker’s voice sank so low I could only catch odd phrases, as “stranger,”, “not an American,” “lost everything,” “friends far away,” “the hotel no place for a man without money.” Gayarre’s reply to this last objection was thathewould be responsible for my hotel bill.
This was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear it; and I should have felt grateful for such an offer, had I not suspected some sinister motive for the lawyer’s generosity. The doctor met the proposal with still further objections.
“Impossible,” said he; “bring on fever,” “great risk,” “would not take the responsibility,” “bad wound,” “much loss of blood,” “must remain where he is for the present at least,” “might be taken to the hotel in a day or two when stronger.”
The promise of my removal in a day or two appeared to satisfy the weasel Gayarre, or rather he became satisfied that such was the only course that could be taken with me, and the consultation ended.
Gayarre now approached the bed to take leave, and I could trace that ironical expression playing in the pupils of his little eyes as he pronounced some pretended phrases of consolation. He little knew to whom he was speaking. Had I uttered my name it would perhaps have brought the colour to his pale cheek, and caused him to make an abrupt exit. Prudence prevented me from declaring it; and when the doctor requested to know upon whom he had the honour of attending, I adopted the pardonable strategy, in use among distinguished travellers, of giving anom du voyage. I assumed my maternal patronymic of Rutherford,—Edward Rutherford.
Recommending me to keep myself quiet, not to attempt leaving my bed, to take certain prescriptions at certain hours, etcetera, etcetera, the doctor took his leave; Gayarre having already gone out before him.
Chapter Seventeen.“Aurore.”I was for the moment alone, Scipio having betaken himself to the kitchen in search of the tea, toast, and chicken “fixings.” I lay reflecting upon the interview just ended, and especially upon the conversation between the doctor and Gayarre, in which had occurred several points that suggested singular ideas. The conduct of the doctor was natural enough, indeed betokened the true gentleman; but for the other there was a sinister design—I could not doubt it.Why the desire—an anxiety, in fact—to have me removed to the hotel? Evidently there was some strong motive, since he proposed to pay the expenses; for from my slight knowledge of the man I knew him to be the very opposite to generous!“What can be his motive for my removal?” I asked myself.“Ha! I have it—I have the explanation! I see through his designs clearly! This fox, this cunningavocat, this guardian, is no doubt in love with his own ward! She is young, rich, beautiful, a belle, and he old, ugly, mean, and contemptible; but what of that? He does not think himself either one or the other; and she—bah!—he may even hope: far less reasonable hopes have been crowned with success. He knows the world; he is a lawyer; he knows at least her world. He is her solicitor; holds her affairs entirely in his hands; he is guardian, executor, agent—all; has perfect and complete control. With such advantages, what can he not effect? All that he may desire—her marriage, or her ruin. Poor lady! I pity her!”Strange to say, it was onlypity. That it was not another feeling was a mystery I could not comprehend.The entrance of Scipio interrupted my reflections. A young girl assisted him with the plates and dishes. This was “Chloe,” his daughter, a child of thirteen, or thereabouts, but not black like the father! She was a “yellow girl,” with rather handsome features. Scipio explained this. The mother of his “leettle Chlo,” as he called her, was a mulatta, and “‘Chlo’ hab taken arter de ole ’oman. Hya! hya!”The tone of Scipio’s laugh showed that he was more than satisfied—proud, in fact—of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a little creature as Chloe!Chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had saved her mistress’ life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and dishes; for which negligence Scipio would have boxed her ears, but for my intercession. The odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life, interested me.I had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness. I had eaten nothing on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by most of the passengers, myself among the number. Scipio’s preparations now put my palate in tune, and I did ample justice to the skill of Chloe’s mother, who, as Scipio informed me, was “de boss in de kitchen.” The tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasséed and garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood. With the exception of the slight pain of my wound, I already felt quite restored.My attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while Scipio returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders.“And now, Scipio,” I said, as soon as we were alone, “tell me of Aurore!”“’Rore, mass’r!”“Yes—Who is Aurore?”“Poor slave, mass’r; jes like Ole Zip heamseff.”The vague interest I had begun to feel in “Aurore” vanished at once.“A slave!” repeated I, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment.“She Missa ’Génie’s maid,” continued Scipio; “dress missa’s hair—wait on her—sit wi’ her—read to her—do ebbery ting—”“Read to her! what!—a slave?”My interest in Aurore began to return.“Ye, mass’r—daat do ’Rore. But I ’splain to you. Ole Mass’r ’Sançon berry good to de coloured people—teach many ob um read de books—’specially ’Rore. ’Rore he ’struckt read, write, many, many tings, and young Missa ’Génie she teach her de music. ’Rore she ’complish gal—berry ’complish gal. Know many ting; jes like de white folks. Plays on de peany—plays on de guitar—guitar jes like banjo, an Ole Zip play on daat heamseff—he do. Wugh!”“And withal, Aurore is a poor slave just like the rest of you, Scipio?”“Oh! no, mass’r; she be berry different from de rest. She lib different life from de other nigga—she no hard work—she berry vallyble—she fetch two thousand dollar!”“Fetch two thousand dollars!”“Ye, mass’r, ebbery cent—ebbery cent ob daat.”“How know you?”“’Case daat much war bid for her. Mass’r Marigny want buy ’Rore, an Mass’r Crozat, and de American Colonel on de oder side ob ribber—dey all bid two thousand dollar—ole mass’r he only larf at um, and say he won’t sell de gal for no money.”“This was in old master’s time?”“Ye—ye—but one bid since—one boss ob ribber-boat—he say he want ’Rore for de lady cabin. He talk rough to her. Missa she angry—tell ’im go. Mass’r Toney he angry, tell ’im go; and de boat captain he go angry like de rest. Hya! hya! hya!”“And why should Aurore command such a price?”“Oh! she berry good gal—berry good gal—but—”Scipio hesitated a moment—“but—”“Well?”“I don’t b’lieve, mass’r, daat’s de reason.”“What, then?”“Why, mass’r, to tell de troof, I b’lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal.”Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.“Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?”“Mass’r, ’taint for dis ole nigger to judge ’bout daat; but folks dey say—bof white folks an black folks—daat she am de best-lookin’ an hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna.”“Ha! aquadroon?”“Daat are a fact, mass’r, daat same—she be a gal ob colour—nebber mind—she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr’all daat dar am great difference—one rich lady—t’other poor slave—jes like Ole Zip—ay, jes like Ole Zip—buy ’em, sell ’em, all de same.”“Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?”It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me—those features of strange type—its strangely-beautiful expression, not Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible—probable—“Could you describe her, Scipio?” I repeated.“’Scribe her, mass’r; daat what you mean? ye—yes.”I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few “points” would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no dream, but a reality.“Well, mass’r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers envy ob her—daat’s de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows—she talk to ’im, an tell ’im many tings—she help teach Ole Zip read, and de ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she—”“It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio.”“Oh! a ’scription ob her person—ye—daat is, what am she like?”“So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?”“Brack, mass’r; brack as a boot.”“Is it straight hair?”“No, mass’r—ob course not—Aurore am a quaderoom.”“It curls?”“Well, not dzactly like this hyar;” here Scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; “but for all daat, mass’r, it curls—what folks call de wave.”“I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?”“Daat it do, mass’r, down to de berry small ob her back.”“Luxuriant?”“What am dat, mass’r?”“Thick—bushy.”“Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon’s tail.”“Now the eyes?”Scipio’s description of the quadroon’s eyes was rather a confused one. He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: “Dey am big an round—dey shine like de eyes of a deer.” The nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was straight and small. The eyebrows—the teeth—the complexion—were all faithfully pictured—that of the cheeks by a simile, “like de red ob a Georgium peach.”Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety I could not account for.The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair—this priceless quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.“Scipio wanted, mass’r—daat him bell—be back, ’gain in a minute, mass’r.”So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.I lay reflecting on the singular—somewhat romantic—situation in which circumstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday—but the night before—a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me—to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried—the invalid guest—laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended.These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio’s picture of the quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep.
I was for the moment alone, Scipio having betaken himself to the kitchen in search of the tea, toast, and chicken “fixings.” I lay reflecting upon the interview just ended, and especially upon the conversation between the doctor and Gayarre, in which had occurred several points that suggested singular ideas. The conduct of the doctor was natural enough, indeed betokened the true gentleman; but for the other there was a sinister design—I could not doubt it.
Why the desire—an anxiety, in fact—to have me removed to the hotel? Evidently there was some strong motive, since he proposed to pay the expenses; for from my slight knowledge of the man I knew him to be the very opposite to generous!
“What can be his motive for my removal?” I asked myself.
“Ha! I have it—I have the explanation! I see through his designs clearly! This fox, this cunningavocat, this guardian, is no doubt in love with his own ward! She is young, rich, beautiful, a belle, and he old, ugly, mean, and contemptible; but what of that? He does not think himself either one or the other; and she—bah!—he may even hope: far less reasonable hopes have been crowned with success. He knows the world; he is a lawyer; he knows at least her world. He is her solicitor; holds her affairs entirely in his hands; he is guardian, executor, agent—all; has perfect and complete control. With such advantages, what can he not effect? All that he may desire—her marriage, or her ruin. Poor lady! I pity her!”
Strange to say, it was onlypity. That it was not another feeling was a mystery I could not comprehend.
The entrance of Scipio interrupted my reflections. A young girl assisted him with the plates and dishes. This was “Chloe,” his daughter, a child of thirteen, or thereabouts, but not black like the father! She was a “yellow girl,” with rather handsome features. Scipio explained this. The mother of his “leettle Chlo,” as he called her, was a mulatta, and “‘Chlo’ hab taken arter de ole ’oman. Hya! hya!”
The tone of Scipio’s laugh showed that he was more than satisfied—proud, in fact—of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a little creature as Chloe!
Chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had saved her mistress’ life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and dishes; for which negligence Scipio would have boxed her ears, but for my intercession. The odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life, interested me.
I had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness. I had eaten nothing on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by most of the passengers, myself among the number. Scipio’s preparations now put my palate in tune, and I did ample justice to the skill of Chloe’s mother, who, as Scipio informed me, was “de boss in de kitchen.” The tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasséed and garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood. With the exception of the slight pain of my wound, I already felt quite restored.
My attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while Scipio returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders.
“And now, Scipio,” I said, as soon as we were alone, “tell me of Aurore!”
“’Rore, mass’r!”
“Yes—Who is Aurore?”
“Poor slave, mass’r; jes like Ole Zip heamseff.”
The vague interest I had begun to feel in “Aurore” vanished at once.
“A slave!” repeated I, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment.
“She Missa ’Génie’s maid,” continued Scipio; “dress missa’s hair—wait on her—sit wi’ her—read to her—do ebbery ting—”
“Read to her! what!—a slave?”
My interest in Aurore began to return.
“Ye, mass’r—daat do ’Rore. But I ’splain to you. Ole Mass’r ’Sançon berry good to de coloured people—teach many ob um read de books—’specially ’Rore. ’Rore he ’struckt read, write, many, many tings, and young Missa ’Génie she teach her de music. ’Rore she ’complish gal—berry ’complish gal. Know many ting; jes like de white folks. Plays on de peany—plays on de guitar—guitar jes like banjo, an Ole Zip play on daat heamseff—he do. Wugh!”
“And withal, Aurore is a poor slave just like the rest of you, Scipio?”
“Oh! no, mass’r; she be berry different from de rest. She lib different life from de other nigga—she no hard work—she berry vallyble—she fetch two thousand dollar!”
“Fetch two thousand dollars!”
“Ye, mass’r, ebbery cent—ebbery cent ob daat.”
“How know you?”
“’Case daat much war bid for her. Mass’r Marigny want buy ’Rore, an Mass’r Crozat, and de American Colonel on de oder side ob ribber—dey all bid two thousand dollar—ole mass’r he only larf at um, and say he won’t sell de gal for no money.”
“This was in old master’s time?”
“Ye—ye—but one bid since—one boss ob ribber-boat—he say he want ’Rore for de lady cabin. He talk rough to her. Missa she angry—tell ’im go. Mass’r Toney he angry, tell ’im go; and de boat captain he go angry like de rest. Hya! hya! hya!”
“And why should Aurore command such a price?”
“Oh! she berry good gal—berry good gal—but—”
Scipio hesitated a moment—“but—”
“Well?”
“I don’t b’lieve, mass’r, daat’s de reason.”
“What, then?”
“Why, mass’r, to tell de troof, I b’lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal.”
Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.
“Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?”
“Mass’r, ’taint for dis ole nigger to judge ’bout daat; but folks dey say—bof white folks an black folks—daat she am de best-lookin’ an hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna.”
“Ha! aquadroon?”
“Daat are a fact, mass’r, daat same—she be a gal ob colour—nebber mind—she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr’all daat dar am great difference—one rich lady—t’other poor slave—jes like Ole Zip—ay, jes like Ole Zip—buy ’em, sell ’em, all de same.”
“Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?”
It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me—those features of strange type—its strangely-beautiful expression, not Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible—probable—
“Could you describe her, Scipio?” I repeated.
“’Scribe her, mass’r; daat what you mean? ye—yes.”
I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few “points” would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no dream, but a reality.
“Well, mass’r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers envy ob her—daat’s de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows—she talk to ’im, an tell ’im many tings—she help teach Ole Zip read, and de ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she—”
“It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio.”
“Oh! a ’scription ob her person—ye—daat is, what am she like?”
“So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?”
“Brack, mass’r; brack as a boot.”
“Is it straight hair?”
“No, mass’r—ob course not—Aurore am a quaderoom.”
“It curls?”
“Well, not dzactly like this hyar;” here Scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; “but for all daat, mass’r, it curls—what folks call de wave.”
“I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?”
“Daat it do, mass’r, down to de berry small ob her back.”
“Luxuriant?”
“What am dat, mass’r?”
“Thick—bushy.”
“Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon’s tail.”
“Now the eyes?”
Scipio’s description of the quadroon’s eyes was rather a confused one. He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: “Dey am big an round—dey shine like de eyes of a deer.” The nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was straight and small. The eyebrows—the teeth—the complexion—were all faithfully pictured—that of the cheeks by a simile, “like de red ob a Georgium peach.”
Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety I could not account for.
The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair—this priceless quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.
“Scipio wanted, mass’r—daat him bell—be back, ’gain in a minute, mass’r.”
So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.
I lay reflecting on the singular—somewhat romantic—situation in which circumstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday—but the night before—a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me—to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried—the invalid guest—laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended.
These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio’s picture of the quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.
The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep.
Chapter Eighteen.The Creole and Quadroon.I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.“He wakes, ma’amselle!” half whispered a sweet voice.My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek—all before me!“Is it a dream? No—she breathes; she moves; she speaks!”“See! ma’amselle—he looks at us! Surely he is awake!”“It is no dream, then—no vision; it is she—it is Aurore!”Up to this moment I was still but half conscious. The thought had passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and I now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugénie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!“Your name!” said the astonished mistress.“My name!” repeated the equally astonished slave.“But how?—he knows your name—how?”“I cannot tell, ma’amselle.”“Have you been here before?”“No; not till this moment.”“’Tis very strange!” said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses—enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon’s name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking—to account for the expressions I had uttered—would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma’amselle Besançon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said—a little deceit was absolutely necessary.In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words—“’Tis very strange he should know your name!”My imprudent speech had made an impression. I could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first time to be aware of Mademoiselle’s presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked—“But how came you to name Aurore?”“Aurore!” I replied. “Oh! you think it strange that I should know her name? Thanks to Scipio’s faithful portraiture, I knew at the first glance that this was Aurore.”I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished.“Oh! Scipio has been speaking of her?”“Yes, ma’amselle. He and I have had a busy morning of it. I have drawn largely on Scipio’s knowledge of plantation affairs. I am already acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your people. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana life.”“Monsieur,” replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, “I am glad you are so well. The doctor has given me the assurance you will soon recover. Noble stranger! I have heard how you received your wound. For me it was—in my defence. Oh! how shall I ever repay you?—how thank you for my life?”“No thanks, ma’amselle, are necessary. It was the fulfilment of a simple duty on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you.”“No risk, monsieur! Every risk—from the knife of an assassin—from the waves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. My heart tells me so;—alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief.”“Yes, ma’amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant.”“Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed! Since my poor father’s death, he has been my father. All my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. I knew not trouble. But now, alas! I know not what is before me.”Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired—“When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?”“He was.—It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope—none—the boat went down a few moments after. Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!”Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before. I could offer no consolation. I did not attempt it. It was better she should weep. Tears alone could relieve her.“The coachman, Pierre, too—one of the most devoted of my people—he, too, is lost. I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father’s friend—he was mine—Oh! the loss—the loss;—friendless; and yet, perhaps, Imay soon need friends. Pauvre Antoine!”She wept as she uttered these phrases. Aurore was also in tears. I could not restrain myself—the eyes of childhood returned, and I too wept.This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugénie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside.“Monsieur,” said she, “I fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! I shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this present intrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but—I—I could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!”I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugénie Besançon;—more than friendship—sympathy: for I could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril—that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,—nothing more. And why nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?Because I loved another—I loved Aurore!
I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.
Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.
“He wakes, ma’amselle!” half whispered a sweet voice.
My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek—all before me!
“Is it a dream? No—she breathes; she moves; she speaks!”
“See! ma’amselle—he looks at us! Surely he is awake!”
“It is no dream, then—no vision; it is she—it is Aurore!”
Up to this moment I was still but half conscious. The thought had passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and I now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugénie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!
“Your name!” said the astonished mistress.
“My name!” repeated the equally astonished slave.
“But how?—he knows your name—how?”
“I cannot tell, ma’amselle.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No; not till this moment.”
“’Tis very strange!” said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.
I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses—enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon’s name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking—to account for the expressions I had uttered—would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma’amselle Besançon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said—a little deceit was absolutely necessary.
In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words—
“’Tis very strange he should know your name!”
My imprudent speech had made an impression. I could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first time to be aware of Mademoiselle’s presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.
After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked—
“But how came you to name Aurore?”
“Aurore!” I replied. “Oh! you think it strange that I should know her name? Thanks to Scipio’s faithful portraiture, I knew at the first glance that this was Aurore.”
I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished.
“Oh! Scipio has been speaking of her?”
“Yes, ma’amselle. He and I have had a busy morning of it. I have drawn largely on Scipio’s knowledge of plantation affairs. I am already acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your people. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana life.”
“Monsieur,” replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, “I am glad you are so well. The doctor has given me the assurance you will soon recover. Noble stranger! I have heard how you received your wound. For me it was—in my defence. Oh! how shall I ever repay you?—how thank you for my life?”
“No thanks, ma’amselle, are necessary. It was the fulfilment of a simple duty on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you.”
“No risk, monsieur! Every risk—from the knife of an assassin—from the waves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. My heart tells me so;—alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant.”
“Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed! Since my poor father’s death, he has been my father. All my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. I knew not trouble. But now, alas! I know not what is before me.”
Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired—
“When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?”
“He was.—It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope—none—the boat went down a few moments after. Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!”
Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before. I could offer no consolation. I did not attempt it. It was better she should weep. Tears alone could relieve her.
“The coachman, Pierre, too—one of the most devoted of my people—he, too, is lost. I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father’s friend—he was mine—Oh! the loss—the loss;—friendless; and yet, perhaps, Imay soon need friends. Pauvre Antoine!”
She wept as she uttered these phrases. Aurore was also in tears. I could not restrain myself—the eyes of childhood returned, and I too wept.
This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugénie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside.
“Monsieur,” said she, “I fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! I shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this present intrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but—I—I could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!”
I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugénie Besançon;—more than friendship—sympathy: for I could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril—that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.
I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,—nothing more. And why nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?
Because I loved another—I loved Aurore!
Chapter Nineteen.A Louisian Landscape.Life in the chamber of an invalid—who cares to listen to its details? They can interest no one—scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections—a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being I loved. At such moments I was no longerennuyé; my spirit escaped from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an Elysium.Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes’ duration, while the intervals between them were hours—long hours—so long, I fancied them days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion. Neither ever came alone!There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My conversation was with theCreole, my thoughts dwelt upon theQuadroon. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language.Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy—I thought not of such a thing. Eugénie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her. From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me!How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Didshelove me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare I exchange withher, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!I understood this feeling well—this black crime of her nation. What was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of Love, rank loses its fictitious charm—titles seem trivial things. For me, Beauty wears the crown.So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love—not a straw for its scorn. But there were other considerations—the courtesy due to hospitality—to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature—the promptings ofprudence. The situation in which I was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my passion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian—a ward in Chancery—an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but “child’s play” to break through theentouragethat surrounds one of such. To scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to be a rugged one.Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of my convalescence passed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished me that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, delicious drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me. For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio’s helpmate, Chloe, and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of “gumbo,” “fish chowder,” fricasséed frogs, hot “waffles,” stewed tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisianacuisine. From the hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of “roasted ’possum,” and went even so far as to taste a “’coon steak,”—but only once, and I regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of one at a single sitting!By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of life upon a Louisiana plantation. “Ole Zip” was my instructor, as he continued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio’s talk tired me, I had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,) filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearly every work that related to Louisiana—a proof of rare judgment on the part of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read the graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In the former I could not help remarking that want ofvraisemblancewhich, in my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not known to him by actual observation.With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remark applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American subjects—whether English, Spanish, or French—the chroniclers of two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to swallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced “to audit their accounts.”More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave chevalier—surely the most picturesque passage in their early history—the story and the scene equally inviting.“The scene! Ah! lovely indeed!”With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I sat at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful French curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of the country.A gorgeous picture it presented. The pencil of the painter could scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood before my face, its ripples glittering like gold. On its farther shore I can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the sugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue. Upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion, something in the style of an Italian villa, with green Venetians and verandah. It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. No mountains meet the view—there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besançon. Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of trees that form the shrubbery. I observe theMagnolia, with large white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giantnymphaof Guiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers themselves.Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely exotic, a native of Orient climes—though here long naturalised. Its large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,—for both shades are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow cherry-like fruits—some of which are already formed,—all point out its species. It is one of themeliaceae, or honey-trees,—the “Indian-lilac,” or “Pride of China” (Melia azedarach). The nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates the estimation in which it is held. “Tree of Pre-eminence,” lays the poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; “Tree of Paradise” (Arbor de Paraiso), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Such are its titles.Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among the former I behold the “catalpa,” with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped blossoms; the “Osage orange,” with its dark shining leaves; and the red mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits. Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (Psidium pyriferum), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy—“the queen who carries her crown upon her bosom”—and the legendary but flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as a standard to the height of thirty feet.Scarcely exotic are theyuccas, with their spherical heads of sharp radiating blades; scarcely exotic thecactacea, of varied forms—for species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the flora of a not far-distant region.The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubbery I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of these runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a full view of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it. In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the hats are usually palmetto, or “grass,” or the costlier Panama, with broad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned like a Turk; for the chequered Madras “toque” has much the appearance of the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Now and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in their gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; and I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellers upon the road—the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their chorus songs—occasionally a boat booming past on the river—more frequently a flat silently floating downward—a “keel,” or a raft with its red-shirted crew—are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my window. The mock-bird (Turdus polyglotta) pipes from the top of the tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (Turdus migratorius), half intoxicated with the berries of themelia, rivals him in his sweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower shrubbery.Now and then I catch a glimpse of the “ruby-throat,” coming and going like the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red and scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms of thebignonia.Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I never beheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an impartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may have imparted to it a portion of itscouleur de rose. I could not look upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone was wanted to make the picture perfect.
Life in the chamber of an invalid—who cares to listen to its details? They can interest no one—scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections—a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being I loved. At such moments I was no longerennuyé; my spirit escaped from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an Elysium.
Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes’ duration, while the intervals between them were hours—long hours—so long, I fancied them days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion. Neither ever came alone!
There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My conversation was with theCreole, my thoughts dwelt upon theQuadroon. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language.
Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy—I thought not of such a thing. Eugénie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her. From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me!
How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Didshelove me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare I exchange withher, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!
I understood this feeling well—this black crime of her nation. What was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of Love, rank loses its fictitious charm—titles seem trivial things. For me, Beauty wears the crown.
So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love—not a straw for its scorn. But there were other considerations—the courtesy due to hospitality—to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature—the promptings ofprudence. The situation in which I was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my passion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian—a ward in Chancery—an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but “child’s play” to break through theentouragethat surrounds one of such. To scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!
My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to be a rugged one.
Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of my convalescence passed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished me that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, delicious drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me. For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio’s helpmate, Chloe, and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of “gumbo,” “fish chowder,” fricasséed frogs, hot “waffles,” stewed tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisianacuisine. From the hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of “roasted ’possum,” and went even so far as to taste a “’coon steak,”—but only once, and I regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of one at a single sitting!
By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of life upon a Louisiana plantation. “Ole Zip” was my instructor, as he continued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio’s talk tired me, I had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,) filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearly every work that related to Louisiana—a proof of rare judgment on the part of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read the graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In the former I could not help remarking that want ofvraisemblancewhich, in my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not known to him by actual observation.
With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remark applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American subjects—whether English, Spanish, or French—the chroniclers of two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to swallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced “to audit their accounts.”
More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave chevalier—surely the most picturesque passage in their early history—the story and the scene equally inviting.
“The scene! Ah! lovely indeed!”
With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I sat at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.
The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful French curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of the country.
A gorgeous picture it presented. The pencil of the painter could scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.
My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood before my face, its ripples glittering like gold. On its farther shore I can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the sugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue. Upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion, something in the style of an Italian villa, with green Venetians and verandah. It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. No mountains meet the view—there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.
On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besançon. Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of trees that form the shrubbery. I observe theMagnolia, with large white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giantnymphaof Guiana. Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers themselves.
Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely exotic, a native of Orient climes—though here long naturalised. Its large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,—for both shades are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow cherry-like fruits—some of which are already formed,—all point out its species. It is one of themeliaceae, or honey-trees,—the “Indian-lilac,” or “Pride of China” (Melia azedarach). The nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates the estimation in which it is held. “Tree of Pre-eminence,” lays the poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; “Tree of Paradise” (Arbor de Paraiso), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. Such are its titles.
Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. Among the former I behold the “catalpa,” with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped blossoms; the “Osage orange,” with its dark shining leaves; and the red mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits. Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (Psidium pyriferum), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy—“the queen who carries her crown upon her bosom”—and the legendary but flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as a standard to the height of thirty feet.
Scarcely exotic are theyuccas, with their spherical heads of sharp radiating blades; scarcely exotic thecactacea, of varied forms—for species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the flora of a not far-distant region.
The scene before my window is not one of still life. Over the shrubbery I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of these runs the Levee road. Although the foliage hinders me from a full view of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it. In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the hats are usually palmetto, or “grass,” or the costlier Panama, with broad sun-protecting brims. Now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned like a Turk; for the chequered Madras “toque” has much the appearance of the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. Now and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in their gossamer summer-dresses. I hear their clear ringing laughter; and I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. The travellers upon the road—the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their chorus songs—occasionally a boat booming past on the river—more frequently a flat silently floating downward—a “keel,” or a raft with its red-shirted crew—are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.
Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my window. The mock-bird (Turdus polyglotta) pipes from the top of the tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (Turdus migratorius), half intoxicated with the berries of themelia, rivals him in his sweet song. The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower shrubbery.
Now and then I catch a glimpse of the “ruby-throat,” coming and going like the sparkle of a gem. Its favourite haunt is among the red and scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms of thebignonia.
Such was the view from the window of my chamber. I thought I never beheld so fair a scene. Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an impartial eye. The love-light was in my glance, and that may have imparted to it a portion of itscouleur de rose. I could not look upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone was wanted to make the picture perfect.