Chapter Twenty.My Journal.I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident. Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. I transcribe a few passages from it—not on account of any remarkable interest which they possess—but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during the remainder of my stay on the plantation Besançon.July 12th.—To-day I am able to sit up and write a little. The weather is intensely hot. It would be intolerable were it not for the breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious perfume of the flowers. This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, by Lakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas. I am more than one hundred miles from the Gulf itself—that is, following the direction of the river—but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the Mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few miles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north. Sea-water might be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of Bringiers.This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of Lower Louisiana. Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summer months would hardly be habitable.Scipio tells me that a new “overseer” has arrived on the plantation, and thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass’r Dominick. He brought a letter from theavocat. It is therefore probable enough.My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer, whom he represents as a “poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee at daat.”Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they are pleased to call “poor white men”—individuals who do not possess slave or landed property. The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and when applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as a dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with the “cowskin,” or a slight “rubbing down” with the “oil of hickory.”Among the slaves there is a general impression that their most tyrannical “overseers” are from the New England States, or “Yankees,” as they are called in the South. This term, which foreigners apply contemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restricted meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of New England. At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit; and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee. Among the southern blacks, “Yankee” is a term of reproach, associated in their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs, cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. Sad and strange to say, it is also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. Strange, because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for its Puritanism! A land where the purest religion and strictest morality are professed.This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly after all. I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus:—“The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which produce vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. The villages of New England—the foci of blue laws and Puritanism.—furnish the greatest number of thenymphes du pavéof New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to the Catholic capital of Cuba! From the same prolific soil spring most of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the American name. This is not an anomaly. It is but the inexorable result of a pseudo-religion. Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and the various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the true duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedence of them. The latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondary importance, and are consequently neglected.”The explanation was at least ingenious.July 14th.—To-day, twice visited by Mademoiselle; who, as usual, was accompanied by Aurore.Our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of long continuance. She (Mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and there is a tone of sadness in everything she says. At first I attributed this to her sorrow for Antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thus explained. Some other grief presses upon her spirit. I suffer from restraint. The presence of Aurore restrains me; and I can ill give utterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation. She (Aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, or stands behind her mistress, respectfully listening. When I regard her steadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion with her soul.Oh that I could make her understand me!July 15th.—Scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer. His first impressions were correct. From two or three little matters which I have heard about this gentleman, I am satisfied that he is a bad successor to the good Antoine.A proposof poor Antoine, it was reported that his body had been washed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the report proved incorrect. A bodywasfound, but not that of the steward. Some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate. I wonder if the wretch who wounded me is yet above water!There are still many of the sufferers at Bringiers. Some have died of the injuries they received on board the boat. A terrible death is this scalding by steam. Many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are now in their last agonies. The doctor has given me some details that are horrifying.One of the men, a “fireman,” whose nose is nearly gone, and who is conscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see his face in a looking-glass. Upon the request being granted, he broke into a diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, “What a damned ugly corpse I’ll make.”This reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wild boatmen. The race of “Mike Fink” is not extinct: many true representatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers of the West.July 20th. Much better to-day. The doctor tells me that in a week I may leave my room. This is cheering; and yet a week seems a long while to one not used to being caged in this way. The books enable me to kill time famously. All honour to the men who make books!July 21st.—Scipio’s opinion of the new overseer is not improved. His name is “Larkin.” Scipio says that he is well-known in the village as “Bully Bill Larkin”—a soubriquet which may serve as a key to his character. Several of the “field-hands” complain (to Scipio) of his severity, which they say is daily on the increase. He goes about constantly armed with a “cowhide,” and has already, once or twice, made use of it in a barbarous manner.To-day is Sunday, and I can tell from the “hum” that reaches me from the negro “quarters,” that it is a day of rejoicing. I can see the blacks passing the Levee road, dressed in their gayest attire—the men in whitebeaverhats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles; the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliant enough for a ball-room! Many carry silk parasols, of course of the brightest colours. One would almost be tempted to believe that in this slave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of Mr Larkin’s cowhide must produce a very opposite impression.July 24th.—I noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seems to press upon the spirit of Mademoiselle. I am now convinced that Antoine’s death is not the cause of it. There is somepresentsource of distraction, which renders her ill at ease. I have again observed that singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was so transitory, I could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes were searching elsewhere. Aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to be interested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her. Would that it were! Converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, which burns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence.July 25th.—Several of the “field-hands” indulged too freely on yesternight. They had “passes” to the town, and came back late. “Bully Bill” has flogged them all this morning, and very severely—so as to draw the blood from their backs. This is rough enough for anewoverseer; but Scipio learns that he is an “old hand” at the business. Surely Mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities!July 26th.—The doctor promises to let me out in three days. I have grown to esteem this man—particularly since I made the discovery that he isnota friend of Gayarre. He is not his medical attendant either. There is anothermedicoin the village, who has charge of Monsieur Dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the Besançon plantation. The latter chanced to be out of the way, and so Reigart was called to me. Professional etiquette partly, and partly my own interference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the latter continued to attend me. I have seen the other gentleman, who came once in Reigart’s company, and he appears much more suited to be the friend of theavocat.Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in the esteem of the neighbouring planters. Indeed, many of these—the “grandees” among them—keep physicians of their own, and pay them handsomely, too! It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than that of the “poor white folks” in many a European state.I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besançon. I could only make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no very satisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a “close man,” and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.“Poor young lady!” said he; “quite alone in the world. I believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to have everything in his hands.”I gathered from the doctor that Eugénie’s father had been much richer at one period—one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of “open house,” and dispensed hospitality in princely style. “Fêtes” on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father’s guests after her father’s fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a “lover.”Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besançon. Why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists betweendebtorandcreditor.The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has already told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past—darker even than that produced by the memory of Antoine!July 28th.—Gayarre has been here to-day—at the house, I mean. In fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me something new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the “black rascals deserved all they had got, and more,” and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt hisprotégé. The lady was silent.Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous in all this.Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief. He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon “him kettle Chloe.” The brute! if this be so!—My blood boils at the thought—oh! slavery!August 2nd.—I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, and made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to do with her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that is impossible! And yet such frequent visits—such long conferences! If she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!—for victim will she be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. He seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his “nigger-driver,” as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is more feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards “him leettle Chloe.” Poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child!I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio himself!August 3rd.—To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my room. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. I encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. What would I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only was I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. Sheseemedpleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. The exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her form.I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. It exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure—a certainembonpointcharacteristic of her race. She was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration. The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary chamber.
I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.
The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident. Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. I transcribe a few passages from it—not on account of any remarkable interest which they possess—but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during the remainder of my stay on the plantation Besançon.
July 12th.—To-day I am able to sit up and write a little. The weather is intensely hot. It would be intolerable were it not for the breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious perfume of the flowers. This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, by Lakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas. I am more than one hundred miles from the Gulf itself—that is, following the direction of the river—but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the Mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few miles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north. Sea-water might be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of Bringiers.
This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of Lower Louisiana. Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summer months would hardly be habitable.
Scipio tells me that a new “overseer” has arrived on the plantation, and thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass’r Dominick. He brought a letter from theavocat. It is therefore probable enough.
My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer, whom he represents as a “poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee at daat.”
Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they are pleased to call “poor white men”—individuals who do not possess slave or landed property. The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and when applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as a dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with the “cowskin,” or a slight “rubbing down” with the “oil of hickory.”
Among the slaves there is a general impression that their most tyrannical “overseers” are from the New England States, or “Yankees,” as they are called in the South. This term, which foreigners apply contemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restricted meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of New England. At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit; and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee. Among the southern blacks, “Yankee” is a term of reproach, associated in their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs, cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. Sad and strange to say, it is also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. Strange, because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for its Puritanism! A land where the purest religion and strictest morality are professed.
This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly after all. I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus:—
“The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which produce vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. The villages of New England—the foci of blue laws and Puritanism.—furnish the greatest number of thenymphes du pavéof New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to the Catholic capital of Cuba! From the same prolific soil spring most of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the American name. This is not an anomaly. It is but the inexorable result of a pseudo-religion. Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and the various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the true duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedence of them. The latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondary importance, and are consequently neglected.”
The explanation was at least ingenious.
July 14th.—To-day, twice visited by Mademoiselle; who, as usual, was accompanied by Aurore.
Our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of long continuance. She (Mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and there is a tone of sadness in everything she says. At first I attributed this to her sorrow for Antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thus explained. Some other grief presses upon her spirit. I suffer from restraint. The presence of Aurore restrains me; and I can ill give utterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation. She (Aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, or stands behind her mistress, respectfully listening. When I regard her steadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion with her soul.Oh that I could make her understand me!
July 15th.—Scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer. His first impressions were correct. From two or three little matters which I have heard about this gentleman, I am satisfied that he is a bad successor to the good Antoine.
A proposof poor Antoine, it was reported that his body had been washed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the report proved incorrect. A bodywasfound, but not that of the steward. Some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate. I wonder if the wretch who wounded me is yet above water!
There are still many of the sufferers at Bringiers. Some have died of the injuries they received on board the boat. A terrible death is this scalding by steam. Many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are now in their last agonies. The doctor has given me some details that are horrifying.
One of the men, a “fireman,” whose nose is nearly gone, and who is conscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see his face in a looking-glass. Upon the request being granted, he broke into a diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, “What a damned ugly corpse I’ll make.”
This reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wild boatmen. The race of “Mike Fink” is not extinct: many true representatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers of the West.
July 20th. Much better to-day. The doctor tells me that in a week I may leave my room. This is cheering; and yet a week seems a long while to one not used to being caged in this way. The books enable me to kill time famously. All honour to the men who make books!
July 21st.—Scipio’s opinion of the new overseer is not improved. His name is “Larkin.” Scipio says that he is well-known in the village as “Bully Bill Larkin”—a soubriquet which may serve as a key to his character. Several of the “field-hands” complain (to Scipio) of his severity, which they say is daily on the increase. He goes about constantly armed with a “cowhide,” and has already, once or twice, made use of it in a barbarous manner.
To-day is Sunday, and I can tell from the “hum” that reaches me from the negro “quarters,” that it is a day of rejoicing. I can see the blacks passing the Levee road, dressed in their gayest attire—the men in whitebeaverhats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles; the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliant enough for a ball-room! Many carry silk parasols, of course of the brightest colours. One would almost be tempted to believe that in this slave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of Mr Larkin’s cowhide must produce a very opposite impression.
July 24th.—I noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seems to press upon the spirit of Mademoiselle. I am now convinced that Antoine’s death is not the cause of it. There is somepresentsource of distraction, which renders her ill at ease. I have again observed that singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was so transitory, I could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes were searching elsewhere. Aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to be interested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her. Would that it were! Converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, which burns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence.
July 25th.—Several of the “field-hands” indulged too freely on yesternight. They had “passes” to the town, and came back late. “Bully Bill” has flogged them all this morning, and very severely—so as to draw the blood from their backs. This is rough enough for anewoverseer; but Scipio learns that he is an “old hand” at the business. Surely Mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities!
July 26th.—The doctor promises to let me out in three days. I have grown to esteem this man—particularly since I made the discovery that he isnota friend of Gayarre. He is not his medical attendant either. There is anothermedicoin the village, who has charge of Monsieur Dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the Besançon plantation. The latter chanced to be out of the way, and so Reigart was called to me. Professional etiquette partly, and partly my own interference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the latter continued to attend me. I have seen the other gentleman, who came once in Reigart’s company, and he appears much more suited to be the friend of theavocat.
Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in the esteem of the neighbouring planters. Indeed, many of these—the “grandees” among them—keep physicians of their own, and pay them handsomely, too! It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than that of the “poor white folks” in many a European state.
I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besançon. I could only make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no very satisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a “close man,” and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.
“Poor young lady!” said he; “quite alone in the world. I believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to have everything in his hands.”
I gathered from the doctor that Eugénie’s father had been much richer at one period—one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of “open house,” and dispensed hospitality in princely style. “Fêtes” on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father’s guests after her father’s fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a “lover.”
Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besançon. Why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists betweendebtorandcreditor.
The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has already told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past—darker even than that produced by the memory of Antoine!
July 28th.—Gayarre has been here to-day—at the house, I mean. In fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me something new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the “black rascals deserved all they had got, and more,” and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt hisprotégé. The lady was silent.
Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous in all this.
Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief. He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon “him kettle Chloe.” The brute! if this be so!—My blood boils at the thought—oh! slavery!
August 2nd.—I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, and made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to do with her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that is impossible! And yet such frequent visits—such long conferences! If she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!—for victim will she be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. He seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his “nigger-driver,” as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is more feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards “him leettle Chloe.” Poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child!
I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio himself!
August 3rd.—To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my room. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. I encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. What would I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only was I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.
She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. Sheseemedpleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. The exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her form.
I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. It exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure—a certainembonpointcharacteristic of her race. She was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration. The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary chamber.
Chapter Twenty One.A Change of Quarters.I was thinking over my short interview with Aurore—congratulating myself upon some expressions she had dropped—happy in the anticipation that such encounters would recur frequently, now that I was able to be abroad—when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my apartment became darkened. I looked up, and beheld the hated face of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.It was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the plantation. What couldhewant withme?I was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once.“Monsieur,” began he, “I have made arrangements for your removal to the hotel at Bringiers.”“You have?” said I, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something more indignant than his own. “And who, sir, may I ask, has commissionedyouto take this trouble?”“Ah—oh!” stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, “I beg pardon, Monsieur. Perhaps you are not aware that I am the agent—the friend—in fact, the guardian of Mademoiselle Besançon—and—and—”“Is it Mademoiselle Besançon’s wish that I go to Bringiers?”“Well—the truth is—not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it is a delicate affair—your remaining here, now that you are almost quite recovered, upon which I congratulate you—and—and—”“Go on, sir!”“Your remaining here any longer—under the circumstances—would be—you can judge for yourself, sir—would be, in fact, a thing that would be talked about in the neighbourhood—in fact, considered highly improper.”“Hold, Monsieur Gayarre! I am old enough not to require lessons in etiquette from you, sir.”“I beg pardon, sir. I do not mean that but—I—you will observe—I, as the lawful guardian of the young lady—”“Enough, sir. I understand you perfectly. Foryour purposes, whatever they be, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation. Your desire shall be gratified. I shall leave the place, though certainly not with any intention of accommodating you. I shall go hence this very evening.”The words upon which I had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a galvanic shock. I saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the wrinkles deepened about his eyes. I had touched a chord, which he deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him. Lawyer-like, however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy—“My dear monsieur! I regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see—the world—the busy, meddling world—”“Spare your homilies, sir! Your business, I fancy, is ended; at all events your company is no longer desired.”“Humph!” muttered he. “I regret you should take it in this way—I am sorry—”And with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit.I stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would take. He walked direct to the house! I saw him go in!This visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though I had not been without some anticipation of such an event. The conversation I had overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such would be the result; though I hardly expected being obliged to change my quarters so soon. For another week or two I had intended to stay where I was. When quite recovered, I should have moved to the hotel of my own accord.I felt vexed, and for several reasons. It chagrined me to think that this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for I did not believe that Mademoiselle Besançon had anything to do with my removal. Quite the contrary. She had visited me but a few hours before, and not a word had been said of the matter. Perhaps she might have thought of it, and did not desire to mention it? But no. This could hardly be. I noticed no change in her manner during the interview. The same kindness—the same interest in my recovery—the same solicitude about the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up to the last moment. She evidently contemplated no change so sudden as that proposed by Gayarre. Reflection convinced me that the proposal had been made without any previous communication withher.What must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between her and the rites of hospitality? It was a painful thought to me, to see this fair creature in the power of such a villain.But another thought was still more painful—the thought of parting with Aurore. Though I did not fancy that parting was to be for ever. No! Had I believed that, I should not have yielded so easily. I should have put Monsieur Dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion. Of course, I had no apprehension that by removing to the village I should be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as I felt inclined. Had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful indeed.After all, the change would signify little. I should return as a visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest—more free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love! I could come as often as I pleased. The same opportunities of seeing her would still be open to me. I wanted but one—one moment alone with Aurore—and then bliss or blighted hopes!But there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment. How was I to live at the hotel? Would the proprietor believe in promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be answered? Already I had been provided with suitable apparel, mysteriously indeed. I awoke one morning and found it by my bedside. I made no inquiry as to how it came there. That would be an after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be obtained? Must I becomeherdebtor? Or am I to be under obligations to Gayarre? Cruel dilemma!At this juncture I thought of Reigart. His calm, kind face came up before me.“An alternative!” soliloquised I; “he will help me!”The thought seemed to have summoned him; for at that moment the good doctor entered the room, and became the confidant of my wishes.I had not misjudged him. His purse lay open upon the table; and I became his debtor for as much of its contents as I stood in need of.“Very strange!” said he, “this desire of hurrying you off on the part of Monsieur Gayarre. There is something more in it than solicitude for the character of the lady. Something more: what can it all mean?”The doctor said this partly in soliloquy, and as if searching his own thoughts for an answer.“I am almost a stranger to Mademoiselle Besançon,” he continued, “else I should deem it my duty to know more of this matter. But Monsieur Gayarre is her guardian; and if he desire you to leave, it will perhaps be wiser to do so.She may not be her own mistress entirely. Poor thing! I fear there is debt at the bottom of the mystery; and if so, she will be more a slave than any of her own people. Poor young lady!”Reigart was right. My remaining longer might add to her embarrassments. I felt satisfied of this.“I am desirous to go at once, doctor.”“My barouche is at the gate, then. You can have a seat in it. I can set you down at the hotel.”“Thanks, thanks! the very thing I should have asked of you, and I accept your offer. I have but few preparations to make, and will be ready for you in a moment.”“Shall I step over to the house, and prepare Mademoiselle for your departure?”“Be so kind. I believe Gayarre is now there?”“No. I met him near the gate of his own plantation, returning home. I think she is alone. I shall see her and return for you.”The doctor left me, and walked over to the house. He was absent but a few minutes, when he returned to make his report. He was still further perplexed at what he had learnt.Mademoiselle had heard from Gayarre, just an hour before, thatI had expressed my intentionof removing to the hotel! She had been surprised at this, as I had said nothing about it at our late interview. She would not hear of it at first, but Gayarre had usedargumentsto convince her of the policy of such a step; and the doctor, on my part, had also urged it. She had at length, though reluctantly, consented. Such was the report of the doctor, who further informed me that she was waiting to receive me.Guided by Scipio, I made my way to the drawing-room. I found her seated; but upon my entrance she rose, and came forward to meet me with both hands extended. I saw thatshe was in tears!“Is it true you intend leaving us, Monsieur?”“Yes, Mademoiselle; I am now quite strong again. I have come to thank you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu.”“Hospitality!—ah, Monsieur, you have reason to think it cold hospitality since I permit you to leave us so soon. I would you had remained; but—” Here she became embarrassed: “but—you are not to be a stranger, although you go to the hotel. Bringiers is near; promise that you will visit us often—in fact, every day?”I need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given.“Now,” said she, “since you have given that promise, with less regret I can say adieu!”She extended her hand for a parting salute. I took her fingers in mine, and respectfully kissed them. I saw the tears freshly filling in her eyes, as she turned away to conceal them.I was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her inclination, else I should not have been allowed to depart. Hers was not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal. Some otherpressurewas upon her.I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every direction. Where wasshe? Was I not to haveeven a parting word!At that moment a side-door was gently opened. My heart beat wildly as it turned upon its hinge. Aurore!I dare not trust myself to speak aloud. It would have been overheard in the drawing-room. A look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and I hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and I walked on towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror.
I was thinking over my short interview with Aurore—congratulating myself upon some expressions she had dropped—happy in the anticipation that such encounters would recur frequently, now that I was able to be abroad—when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my apartment became darkened. I looked up, and beheld the hated face of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.
It was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the plantation. What couldhewant withme?
I was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once.
“Monsieur,” began he, “I have made arrangements for your removal to the hotel at Bringiers.”
“You have?” said I, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something more indignant than his own. “And who, sir, may I ask, has commissionedyouto take this trouble?”
“Ah—oh!” stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, “I beg pardon, Monsieur. Perhaps you are not aware that I am the agent—the friend—in fact, the guardian of Mademoiselle Besançon—and—and—”
“Is it Mademoiselle Besançon’s wish that I go to Bringiers?”
“Well—the truth is—not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it is a delicate affair—your remaining here, now that you are almost quite recovered, upon which I congratulate you—and—and—”
“Go on, sir!”
“Your remaining here any longer—under the circumstances—would be—you can judge for yourself, sir—would be, in fact, a thing that would be talked about in the neighbourhood—in fact, considered highly improper.”
“Hold, Monsieur Gayarre! I am old enough not to require lessons in etiquette from you, sir.”
“I beg pardon, sir. I do not mean that but—I—you will observe—I, as the lawful guardian of the young lady—”
“Enough, sir. I understand you perfectly. Foryour purposes, whatever they be, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation. Your desire shall be gratified. I shall leave the place, though certainly not with any intention of accommodating you. I shall go hence this very evening.”
The words upon which I had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a galvanic shock. I saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the wrinkles deepened about his eyes. I had touched a chord, which he deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him. Lawyer-like, however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy—
“My dear monsieur! I regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see—the world—the busy, meddling world—”
“Spare your homilies, sir! Your business, I fancy, is ended; at all events your company is no longer desired.”
“Humph!” muttered he. “I regret you should take it in this way—I am sorry—”
And with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit.
I stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would take. He walked direct to the house! I saw him go in!
This visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though I had not been without some anticipation of such an event. The conversation I had overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such would be the result; though I hardly expected being obliged to change my quarters so soon. For another week or two I had intended to stay where I was. When quite recovered, I should have moved to the hotel of my own accord.
I felt vexed, and for several reasons. It chagrined me to think that this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for I did not believe that Mademoiselle Besançon had anything to do with my removal. Quite the contrary. She had visited me but a few hours before, and not a word had been said of the matter. Perhaps she might have thought of it, and did not desire to mention it? But no. This could hardly be. I noticed no change in her manner during the interview. The same kindness—the same interest in my recovery—the same solicitude about the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up to the last moment. She evidently contemplated no change so sudden as that proposed by Gayarre. Reflection convinced me that the proposal had been made without any previous communication withher.
What must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between her and the rites of hospitality? It was a painful thought to me, to see this fair creature in the power of such a villain.
But another thought was still more painful—the thought of parting with Aurore. Though I did not fancy that parting was to be for ever. No! Had I believed that, I should not have yielded so easily. I should have put Monsieur Dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion. Of course, I had no apprehension that by removing to the village I should be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as I felt inclined. Had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful indeed.
After all, the change would signify little. I should return as a visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest—more free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love! I could come as often as I pleased. The same opportunities of seeing her would still be open to me. I wanted but one—one moment alone with Aurore—and then bliss or blighted hopes!
But there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment. How was I to live at the hotel? Would the proprietor believe in promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be answered? Already I had been provided with suitable apparel, mysteriously indeed. I awoke one morning and found it by my bedside. I made no inquiry as to how it came there. That would be an after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be obtained? Must I becomeherdebtor? Or am I to be under obligations to Gayarre? Cruel dilemma!
At this juncture I thought of Reigart. His calm, kind face came up before me.
“An alternative!” soliloquised I; “he will help me!”
The thought seemed to have summoned him; for at that moment the good doctor entered the room, and became the confidant of my wishes.
I had not misjudged him. His purse lay open upon the table; and I became his debtor for as much of its contents as I stood in need of.
“Very strange!” said he, “this desire of hurrying you off on the part of Monsieur Gayarre. There is something more in it than solicitude for the character of the lady. Something more: what can it all mean?”
The doctor said this partly in soliloquy, and as if searching his own thoughts for an answer.
“I am almost a stranger to Mademoiselle Besançon,” he continued, “else I should deem it my duty to know more of this matter. But Monsieur Gayarre is her guardian; and if he desire you to leave, it will perhaps be wiser to do so.She may not be her own mistress entirely. Poor thing! I fear there is debt at the bottom of the mystery; and if so, she will be more a slave than any of her own people. Poor young lady!”
Reigart was right. My remaining longer might add to her embarrassments. I felt satisfied of this.
“I am desirous to go at once, doctor.”
“My barouche is at the gate, then. You can have a seat in it. I can set you down at the hotel.”
“Thanks, thanks! the very thing I should have asked of you, and I accept your offer. I have but few preparations to make, and will be ready for you in a moment.”
“Shall I step over to the house, and prepare Mademoiselle for your departure?”
“Be so kind. I believe Gayarre is now there?”
“No. I met him near the gate of his own plantation, returning home. I think she is alone. I shall see her and return for you.”
The doctor left me, and walked over to the house. He was absent but a few minutes, when he returned to make his report. He was still further perplexed at what he had learnt.
Mademoiselle had heard from Gayarre, just an hour before, thatI had expressed my intentionof removing to the hotel! She had been surprised at this, as I had said nothing about it at our late interview. She would not hear of it at first, but Gayarre had usedargumentsto convince her of the policy of such a step; and the doctor, on my part, had also urged it. She had at length, though reluctantly, consented. Such was the report of the doctor, who further informed me that she was waiting to receive me.
Guided by Scipio, I made my way to the drawing-room. I found her seated; but upon my entrance she rose, and came forward to meet me with both hands extended. I saw thatshe was in tears!
“Is it true you intend leaving us, Monsieur?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle; I am now quite strong again. I have come to thank you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu.”
“Hospitality!—ah, Monsieur, you have reason to think it cold hospitality since I permit you to leave us so soon. I would you had remained; but—” Here she became embarrassed: “but—you are not to be a stranger, although you go to the hotel. Bringiers is near; promise that you will visit us often—in fact, every day?”
I need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given.
“Now,” said she, “since you have given that promise, with less regret I can say adieu!”
She extended her hand for a parting salute. I took her fingers in mine, and respectfully kissed them. I saw the tears freshly filling in her eyes, as she turned away to conceal them.
I was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her inclination, else I should not have been allowed to depart. Hers was not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal. Some otherpressurewas upon her.
I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every direction. Where wasshe? Was I not to haveeven a parting word!
At that moment a side-door was gently opened. My heart beat wildly as it turned upon its hinge. Aurore!
I dare not trust myself to speak aloud. It would have been overheard in the drawing-room. A look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and I hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and I walked on towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror.
Chapter Twenty Two.Aurore loves me.“Aurore loves me!”The thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my removing to Bringiers from the plantation. A month had elapsed since that day.The details of my life during that month would possess but little interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory. When the heart is charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory. I could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which would be deeply interesting tome, but not toyou. Therefore I write it not; I shall not even present you with the journal that holds its history.I continued to live in the hotel at Bringiers. I grew rapidly stronger. I spent most of my time in rambling through the fields and along the Levee—boating upon the river—fishing in the bayous—hunting through the cane-breaks and cypress-swamps, and occasionally killing time at a game of billiards, for every Louisiana village has its billiard salon.The society of Reigart, whom I now called friend, I enjoyed—when his professional engagements permitted.His books, too, were my friends; and from these I drew my first lessons in botany. I studied thesylvaof the surrounding woods, till at a glance I could distinguish every tree and its kind—the giant cypress, emblem of sorrow, with tall shaft shooting out of the apex of its pyramidal base, and crowned with its full head of sad dark foliage,—sadder from its drapery oftillandsia; the “tupelo” (Nyssa aquatica), that nymph that loves the water, with long delicate leaves and olive-like fruit—the “persimmon,” or “American lotus” (Diospyros Virginiana), with its beautiful green foliage and red date-plums—the gorgeous magnolia grandiflora, and its congener, the tall tulip-tree (Liriodendron tulipifera)—the water-locust (Gleditschia monosperma); and, of the same genus, the three-thorned honey-locust (triacanthos), whose light pinnated leaves scarce veil the sun—the sycamore (platanus), with its smooth trunk and wide-reaching limbs of silvery hue—the sweet-gum (Liquidambar styraciflua), exuding its golden drops—the aromatic but sanitary “sassafras” (Laurus sassafras)—the “red-bay” (Laurus Caroliniensis), of cinnamon-like aroma—the oaks of many species, at the head of which might be placed that majestic evergreen of the southern forests, the “live-oak” (Quercus virens)—the “red ash,” with its hanging bunches ofsamarce—the shady nettle-tree (Celtis crassifolia), with its large cordate leaves and black drupes—and last, though not least interesting, the water-loving cotton-wood (Populus angulata). Such is the sylva that covers the alluvion of Louisiana.It is a region beyond the limits of the true palm-tree; but this has its representative in the palmetto—“latanier” of the French—theSabalpalm of the botanist, of more than one species, forming in many places the underwood, and giving a tropical character to the forest.I studied the parasites—the huge llianas, with branches like tree-trunks, black and gnarled; the cane-vines, with pretty star-like flowers; the muscadine grape-vines, with their dark purple clusters; thebignonias, with trumpet-shaped corollas; thesmilacae, among which are conspicuous theSmilax rotundifolia, the thick bamboo-briar, and the balsamic sarsaparilla.Not less interesting were the vegetable forms of cultivation—the “staples” from which are drawn the wealth of the land. These were the sugar-cane, the rice-reed, the maize and tobacco-plants, the cotton shrub, and the indigo. All were new to me, and I studied their propagation and culture with interest.Though a month apparently passed in idleness, it was, perhaps, one of the most profitably employed of my life. In that short month I acquired more real knowledge than I had done during years of classic study.But I had learnt one fact that I prized above all, and that was, thatI was beloved by Aurore!I learnt it not from her lips—no words had given me the assurance—and yet I was certain that itwasso; certain as that I lived. Not all the knowledge in the world could have given me the pleasure of that one thought!“Aurora loves me!”This was my exclamation, as one morning I emerged from the village upon the road leading to the plantation. Three times a week—sometimes even more frequently—I had made this journey. Sometimes I encountered strangers at the house—friends of Mademoiselle. Sometimes I found her alone, or in company with Aurore. The latter I could never find alone! Oh! how I longed for that opportunity!My visits, of course, were ostensibly to Mademoiselle. I dared not seek an interflow with the slave.Eugénie still preserved the air of melancholy, that now appeared to have settled upon her. Sometimes she was even sad,—at no time cheerful. As I was not made the confidant of her sorrows, I could only guess at the cause. Gayarre, of course, I believed to be the fiend.Of him I had learnt little. He shunned me on the road, or in the fields; and uponhisgrounds I never trespassed. I found that he was held in but little respect, except among those who worshipped his wealth. How he was prospering in his suit with Eugénie I knew not. The world talked of such a thing as among the “probabilities”—though one of the strange ones, it was deemed. I had sympathy for the young Creole, but I might have felt it more profoundly under other circumstances. As it was, my whole soul was under the influence of a stronger passion—my love for Aurore.“Yes—Aurore loves me!” I repeated to myself as I passed out from the village, and faced down the Levee road.I was mounted. Reigart, in his generous hospitality, had even made me master of a horse—a fine animal that rose buoyantly under me, as though he was also imbued by some noble passion.My well-trained steed followed the path without need of guidance, and dropping the bridle upon his neck, I left him to go at will, and pursued the train of my reflections.I loved this young girl—passionately and devotedly I loved her. She loved me. She had not declared it in words, but her looks; and now and then a slight incident—scarce more than a fleeting glance or gesture—had convinced me that it was so.Love taught me its own language. I needed no interpreter—no tongue to tell I was beloved.These reflections were pleasant, far more than pleasant; but others followed them of a very different nature.With whom was I in love? A slave! True, a beautiful slave—but still a slave! How the world would laugh! how Louisiana would laugh—nay, scorn and persecute! The very proposal to make her my wife would subject me to derision and abuse. “What! marry a slave! ’Tis contrary to the laws of the land!” Dared I to marry her—even were she free?—she, aquadroon!—I should be hunted from the land, or shut up in one of its prisons!All this I knew, but not one straw cared I for it. The world’s obloquy in one scale, my love for Aurore in the other—the former weighed but a feather.True, I had deep regret that Aurore was a slave, but it sprang not from that consideration. Far different was the reason of my regret.How was I to obtain her freedom? That was the question that troubled me.Up to this time I had made light of the matter. Before I knew that I was beloved it seemed a sequence very remote. But it was now brought nearer, and all the faculties of my mind became concentrated on that one thought—“How was I to obtain her freedom?” Had she been an ordinary slave, the answer would have been easy enough; for though not rich, my fortune was still equal to theprice of a human being!In my eyes Aurore was priceless. Would she also appear so in the eyes of her young mistress? Was my bride for sale on any terms? But even if money should be deemed an equivalent, would Mademoisellesellher tome? An odd proposal, that of buyingherslave for my wife! What would Eugénie Besançon think of it?The very idea of this proposal awed me; but the time to make it had not yet arrived.I must first have an interview with Aurore, demand a confession of her love, and then, if she consent to become mine,—my wife,—the rest may be arranged. I see not clearly the way, but a love like mine will triumph over everything. My passion nerves me with power, with courage, with energy. Obstacles must yield; opposing wills be coaxed or crushed; everything must give way that stands between myself and my love! “Aurore! I come! I come!”
“Aurore loves me!”
The thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my removing to Bringiers from the plantation. A month had elapsed since that day.
The details of my life during that month would possess but little interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory. When the heart is charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory. I could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which would be deeply interesting tome, but not toyou. Therefore I write it not; I shall not even present you with the journal that holds its history.
I continued to live in the hotel at Bringiers. I grew rapidly stronger. I spent most of my time in rambling through the fields and along the Levee—boating upon the river—fishing in the bayous—hunting through the cane-breaks and cypress-swamps, and occasionally killing time at a game of billiards, for every Louisiana village has its billiard salon.
The society of Reigart, whom I now called friend, I enjoyed—when his professional engagements permitted.
His books, too, were my friends; and from these I drew my first lessons in botany. I studied thesylvaof the surrounding woods, till at a glance I could distinguish every tree and its kind—the giant cypress, emblem of sorrow, with tall shaft shooting out of the apex of its pyramidal base, and crowned with its full head of sad dark foliage,—sadder from its drapery oftillandsia; the “tupelo” (Nyssa aquatica), that nymph that loves the water, with long delicate leaves and olive-like fruit—the “persimmon,” or “American lotus” (Diospyros Virginiana), with its beautiful green foliage and red date-plums—the gorgeous magnolia grandiflora, and its congener, the tall tulip-tree (Liriodendron tulipifera)—the water-locust (Gleditschia monosperma); and, of the same genus, the three-thorned honey-locust (triacanthos), whose light pinnated leaves scarce veil the sun—the sycamore (platanus), with its smooth trunk and wide-reaching limbs of silvery hue—the sweet-gum (Liquidambar styraciflua), exuding its golden drops—the aromatic but sanitary “sassafras” (Laurus sassafras)—the “red-bay” (Laurus Caroliniensis), of cinnamon-like aroma—the oaks of many species, at the head of which might be placed that majestic evergreen of the southern forests, the “live-oak” (Quercus virens)—the “red ash,” with its hanging bunches ofsamarce—the shady nettle-tree (Celtis crassifolia), with its large cordate leaves and black drupes—and last, though not least interesting, the water-loving cotton-wood (Populus angulata). Such is the sylva that covers the alluvion of Louisiana.
It is a region beyond the limits of the true palm-tree; but this has its representative in the palmetto—“latanier” of the French—theSabalpalm of the botanist, of more than one species, forming in many places the underwood, and giving a tropical character to the forest.
I studied the parasites—the huge llianas, with branches like tree-trunks, black and gnarled; the cane-vines, with pretty star-like flowers; the muscadine grape-vines, with their dark purple clusters; thebignonias, with trumpet-shaped corollas; thesmilacae, among which are conspicuous theSmilax rotundifolia, the thick bamboo-briar, and the balsamic sarsaparilla.
Not less interesting were the vegetable forms of cultivation—the “staples” from which are drawn the wealth of the land. These were the sugar-cane, the rice-reed, the maize and tobacco-plants, the cotton shrub, and the indigo. All were new to me, and I studied their propagation and culture with interest.
Though a month apparently passed in idleness, it was, perhaps, one of the most profitably employed of my life. In that short month I acquired more real knowledge than I had done during years of classic study.
But I had learnt one fact that I prized above all, and that was, thatI was beloved by Aurore!
I learnt it not from her lips—no words had given me the assurance—and yet I was certain that itwasso; certain as that I lived. Not all the knowledge in the world could have given me the pleasure of that one thought!
“Aurora loves me!”
This was my exclamation, as one morning I emerged from the village upon the road leading to the plantation. Three times a week—sometimes even more frequently—I had made this journey. Sometimes I encountered strangers at the house—friends of Mademoiselle. Sometimes I found her alone, or in company with Aurore. The latter I could never find alone! Oh! how I longed for that opportunity!
My visits, of course, were ostensibly to Mademoiselle. I dared not seek an interflow with the slave.
Eugénie still preserved the air of melancholy, that now appeared to have settled upon her. Sometimes she was even sad,—at no time cheerful. As I was not made the confidant of her sorrows, I could only guess at the cause. Gayarre, of course, I believed to be the fiend.
Of him I had learnt little. He shunned me on the road, or in the fields; and uponhisgrounds I never trespassed. I found that he was held in but little respect, except among those who worshipped his wealth. How he was prospering in his suit with Eugénie I knew not. The world talked of such a thing as among the “probabilities”—though one of the strange ones, it was deemed. I had sympathy for the young Creole, but I might have felt it more profoundly under other circumstances. As it was, my whole soul was under the influence of a stronger passion—my love for Aurore.
“Yes—Aurore loves me!” I repeated to myself as I passed out from the village, and faced down the Levee road.
I was mounted. Reigart, in his generous hospitality, had even made me master of a horse—a fine animal that rose buoyantly under me, as though he was also imbued by some noble passion.
My well-trained steed followed the path without need of guidance, and dropping the bridle upon his neck, I left him to go at will, and pursued the train of my reflections.
I loved this young girl—passionately and devotedly I loved her. She loved me. She had not declared it in words, but her looks; and now and then a slight incident—scarce more than a fleeting glance or gesture—had convinced me that it was so.
Love taught me its own language. I needed no interpreter—no tongue to tell I was beloved.
These reflections were pleasant, far more than pleasant; but others followed them of a very different nature.
With whom was I in love? A slave! True, a beautiful slave—but still a slave! How the world would laugh! how Louisiana would laugh—nay, scorn and persecute! The very proposal to make her my wife would subject me to derision and abuse. “What! marry a slave! ’Tis contrary to the laws of the land!” Dared I to marry her—even were she free?—she, aquadroon!—I should be hunted from the land, or shut up in one of its prisons!
All this I knew, but not one straw cared I for it. The world’s obloquy in one scale, my love for Aurore in the other—the former weighed but a feather.
True, I had deep regret that Aurore was a slave, but it sprang not from that consideration. Far different was the reason of my regret.How was I to obtain her freedom? That was the question that troubled me.
Up to this time I had made light of the matter. Before I knew that I was beloved it seemed a sequence very remote. But it was now brought nearer, and all the faculties of my mind became concentrated on that one thought—“How was I to obtain her freedom?” Had she been an ordinary slave, the answer would have been easy enough; for though not rich, my fortune was still equal to theprice of a human being!
In my eyes Aurore was priceless. Would she also appear so in the eyes of her young mistress? Was my bride for sale on any terms? But even if money should be deemed an equivalent, would Mademoisellesellher tome? An odd proposal, that of buyingherslave for my wife! What would Eugénie Besançon think of it?
The very idea of this proposal awed me; but the time to make it had not yet arrived.
I must first have an interview with Aurore, demand a confession of her love, and then, if she consent to become mine,—my wife,—the rest may be arranged. I see not clearly the way, but a love like mine will triumph over everything. My passion nerves me with power, with courage, with energy. Obstacles must yield; opposing wills be coaxed or crushed; everything must give way that stands between myself and my love! “Aurore! I come! I come!”
Chapter Twenty Three.A Surprise.My reflections were interrupted by the neighing of my horse. I glanced forward to ascertain the cause. I was opposite the plantation Besançon. A carriage was just wheeling out from the gate. The horses were headed down the Levee road, and going off at a trot, were soon lost behind the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs and wheels.I recognised the carriage. It was the barouche of Mademoiselle Besançon. I could not tell who were its occupants, though, from the slight glimpse I had got of them, I saw there were ladies in it.“Mademoiselle herself, accompanied by Aurore, no doubt.”I believed that they had not observed me, as the high fence concealed all but my head, and the carriage had turned abruptly on passing out of the gate.I felt disappointed. I had had my ride for nothing, and might now ride back again to Bringiers.I had drawn bridle with this intent, when it occurred to me I could still overtake the carriage and change words with its occupants. Withher, even the interchange of a glance was worth such a gallop.I laid the spur to the ribs of my horse and sprang him forward.As I came opposite the house I saw Scipio by the gate. He was just closing it after the carriage.“Oh!” thought I, “I may as well be sure as to whom I am galloping after.”With this idea I inclined my horse’s head a little, and drew up in front of Scipio.“Gollies! how young mass’r ride! Ef he don’t do daat business jes up to de hub! Daat ’im do. Wugh!”Without taking notice of his complimentary speech, I inquired hastily if Mademoiselle was at home.“No, mass’r, she jes dis moment gone out—she drive to Mass’r Marigny.”“Alone?”“Ye, mass’r.”“Of course Aurore is with her?”“No, mass’r; she gone out by harseff. ’Rore, she ’tay at home.”If the negro had been observant he might have noticed the effect of this announcement upon me, for I am sure it must have been sufficiently apparent. I felt it in the instant upheaving of my heart, and the flushing that suddenly fevered my cheeks.“Aurore at home, and alone!”It was the first time during all the course of my wooing that such a “chance” had offered; and I almost gave expression to my agreeable surprise.Fortunately I did not; for even the faithful Scipio was not to be trusted with such a secret.With an effort I collected myself, and tamed down my horse, now chafing to continue his gallop. In doing so his head was turned in the direction of the village. Scipio thought I was going to ride back.“Sure mass’r not go till he rest a bit? Missa ’Génie not home, but dar am ’Rore. ’Rore get mass’r glass ob claret; Ole Zip make um sangaree. Day berry, berry hot. Wugh!”“You are about right, Scipio,” I replied, pretending to yield to his persuasion. “Take my horse round to the stable. I shall rest a few minutes.”I dismounted, and, passing the bridle to Scipio, stepped inside the gate.It was about a hundred paces to the house, by the direct walk that led from the gate to the front door. But there were two other paths, that wound around the sides of the shrubbery, through copses of low trees—laurels, myrtles, and oranges. A person approaching by either of these could not be seen from the house until close to the very windows. From each of these paths the low verandah could be reached without going by the front. There were steps leading into it—into the interior of the house as well—for the windows that fronted upon the verandah were, after the Creole fashion, glass folding-doors, that opened to the bottom, so that the floors of the rooms and verandah-platform were upon the same level.On passing through the gate, I turned into one of these side-paths (for certain reasons giving it the preference), and walked silently on towards the house.I had taken the longer way, and advanced slowly for the purpose of composing myself. I could hear the beating of my own heart, and feel its quick nervous throbs, quicker than my steps, as I approached the long-desired interview. I believe I should have been more collected in going up to the muzzle of an antagonist’s pistol!The long yearning for such an opportunity—the well-known difficulty of obtaining it—the anticipation of that sweetest pleasure on earth—the pleasure of being alone with her I loved—all blended in my thoughts. No wonder they were wild and somewhat bewildered.I should now meet Aurore face to face alone, with but Love’s god as a witness. I should speak unrestrainedly and free. I should hearhervoice, listen to the soft confession that she loved me. I should fold her in my arms—against my bosom! I should drink love from her swimming eyes, taste it on her crimson cheek, her coral lips! Oh, I should speak love, and hear it spoken! I should listen to its delirious ravings!A heaven of happiness was before me. No wonder my thoughts were wild—no wonder I vainly strove to calm them.I reached the house, and mounted the two or three steps that led up into the verandah. The latter was carpeted with a mat of sea-grass, and mychaussurewas light, so that my tread was as silent as that of a girl. It could scarce have been heard within the chamber whose windows I was passing.I proceeded on toward the drawing-room, which opened to the front by two of the large door-windows already mentioned. I turned the angle, and the next moment would have passed the first of these windows, had a sound not reached me that caused me to arrest my steps. The sound was a voice that came from the drawing-room, whose windows stood open. I listened—it was the voice of Aurore!“In conversation with some one! with whom? Perhaps little Chloe? her mother? some one of the domestics?”I listened.“By Heaven! it is the voice of a man! Who can he be? Scipio? No; Scipio cannot yet have left the stable. It cannot be he. Some other of the plantation people? Jules, the wood-chopper? the errand-boy, Baptiste? Ha! it is not a negro’s voice. No, it is the voice of a white man! the overseer?”As this idea came into my head, a pang at the same time shot through my heart—a pang, not of jealousy, but something like it. I was angry athimrather than jealous withher. As yet I had heard nothing to make me jealous. His being present with her, and in conversation, was no cause.“So, my bold nigger-driver,” thought I, “you have got over your predilection for the little Chloe. Not to be wondered at! Who would waste time gazing at stars when there is such a moon in the sky? Brute that you are, you are not blind. I see you, too, have an eye to opportunities, and know when to enter the drawing-room.”“Hush!”Again I listened. When I had first halted, it was through motives of delicacy. I did not wish to appear too suddenly before the open window, which would have given me a full view of the interior of the apartment. I had paused, intending to herald my approach by some noise—a feigned cough, or a stroke of my foot against the floor. My motives had undergone a change. I now listened with a design. I could not help it.Aurore was speaking.I bent my ear close to the window. The voice was at too great a distance, or uttered too low, for me to hear what was said. I could hear the silvery tones, but could not distinguish the words. She must be at the further end of the room, thought I.Perhaps, upon the sofa. This conjecture led me to painful imaginings, till the throbbings of my heart drowned the murmur that was causing them.At length Aurore’s speech was ended. I waited for the reply. Perhaps I might gather from that whatshehad said. The tones of the male voice would be loud enough to enable me—Hush! hark!I listened—I caught the sound of a voice, but not the words. The sound was enough. It caused me to start as if stung by an adder.It was the voice of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!
My reflections were interrupted by the neighing of my horse. I glanced forward to ascertain the cause. I was opposite the plantation Besançon. A carriage was just wheeling out from the gate. The horses were headed down the Levee road, and going off at a trot, were soon lost behind the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs and wheels.
I recognised the carriage. It was the barouche of Mademoiselle Besançon. I could not tell who were its occupants, though, from the slight glimpse I had got of them, I saw there were ladies in it.
“Mademoiselle herself, accompanied by Aurore, no doubt.”
I believed that they had not observed me, as the high fence concealed all but my head, and the carriage had turned abruptly on passing out of the gate.
I felt disappointed. I had had my ride for nothing, and might now ride back again to Bringiers.
I had drawn bridle with this intent, when it occurred to me I could still overtake the carriage and change words with its occupants. Withher, even the interchange of a glance was worth such a gallop.
I laid the spur to the ribs of my horse and sprang him forward.
As I came opposite the house I saw Scipio by the gate. He was just closing it after the carriage.
“Oh!” thought I, “I may as well be sure as to whom I am galloping after.”
With this idea I inclined my horse’s head a little, and drew up in front of Scipio.
“Gollies! how young mass’r ride! Ef he don’t do daat business jes up to de hub! Daat ’im do. Wugh!”
Without taking notice of his complimentary speech, I inquired hastily if Mademoiselle was at home.
“No, mass’r, she jes dis moment gone out—she drive to Mass’r Marigny.”
“Alone?”
“Ye, mass’r.”
“Of course Aurore is with her?”
“No, mass’r; she gone out by harseff. ’Rore, she ’tay at home.”
If the negro had been observant he might have noticed the effect of this announcement upon me, for I am sure it must have been sufficiently apparent. I felt it in the instant upheaving of my heart, and the flushing that suddenly fevered my cheeks.
“Aurore at home, and alone!”
It was the first time during all the course of my wooing that such a “chance” had offered; and I almost gave expression to my agreeable surprise.
Fortunately I did not; for even the faithful Scipio was not to be trusted with such a secret.
With an effort I collected myself, and tamed down my horse, now chafing to continue his gallop. In doing so his head was turned in the direction of the village. Scipio thought I was going to ride back.
“Sure mass’r not go till he rest a bit? Missa ’Génie not home, but dar am ’Rore. ’Rore get mass’r glass ob claret; Ole Zip make um sangaree. Day berry, berry hot. Wugh!”
“You are about right, Scipio,” I replied, pretending to yield to his persuasion. “Take my horse round to the stable. I shall rest a few minutes.”
I dismounted, and, passing the bridle to Scipio, stepped inside the gate.
It was about a hundred paces to the house, by the direct walk that led from the gate to the front door. But there were two other paths, that wound around the sides of the shrubbery, through copses of low trees—laurels, myrtles, and oranges. A person approaching by either of these could not be seen from the house until close to the very windows. From each of these paths the low verandah could be reached without going by the front. There were steps leading into it—into the interior of the house as well—for the windows that fronted upon the verandah were, after the Creole fashion, glass folding-doors, that opened to the bottom, so that the floors of the rooms and verandah-platform were upon the same level.
On passing through the gate, I turned into one of these side-paths (for certain reasons giving it the preference), and walked silently on towards the house.
I had taken the longer way, and advanced slowly for the purpose of composing myself. I could hear the beating of my own heart, and feel its quick nervous throbs, quicker than my steps, as I approached the long-desired interview. I believe I should have been more collected in going up to the muzzle of an antagonist’s pistol!
The long yearning for such an opportunity—the well-known difficulty of obtaining it—the anticipation of that sweetest pleasure on earth—the pleasure of being alone with her I loved—all blended in my thoughts. No wonder they were wild and somewhat bewildered.
I should now meet Aurore face to face alone, with but Love’s god as a witness. I should speak unrestrainedly and free. I should hearhervoice, listen to the soft confession that she loved me. I should fold her in my arms—against my bosom! I should drink love from her swimming eyes, taste it on her crimson cheek, her coral lips! Oh, I should speak love, and hear it spoken! I should listen to its delirious ravings!
A heaven of happiness was before me. No wonder my thoughts were wild—no wonder I vainly strove to calm them.
I reached the house, and mounted the two or three steps that led up into the verandah. The latter was carpeted with a mat of sea-grass, and mychaussurewas light, so that my tread was as silent as that of a girl. It could scarce have been heard within the chamber whose windows I was passing.
I proceeded on toward the drawing-room, which opened to the front by two of the large door-windows already mentioned. I turned the angle, and the next moment would have passed the first of these windows, had a sound not reached me that caused me to arrest my steps. The sound was a voice that came from the drawing-room, whose windows stood open. I listened—it was the voice of Aurore!
“In conversation with some one! with whom? Perhaps little Chloe? her mother? some one of the domestics?”
I listened.
“By Heaven! it is the voice of a man! Who can he be? Scipio? No; Scipio cannot yet have left the stable. It cannot be he. Some other of the plantation people? Jules, the wood-chopper? the errand-boy, Baptiste? Ha! it is not a negro’s voice. No, it is the voice of a white man! the overseer?”
As this idea came into my head, a pang at the same time shot through my heart—a pang, not of jealousy, but something like it. I was angry athimrather than jealous withher. As yet I had heard nothing to make me jealous. His being present with her, and in conversation, was no cause.
“So, my bold nigger-driver,” thought I, “you have got over your predilection for the little Chloe. Not to be wondered at! Who would waste time gazing at stars when there is such a moon in the sky? Brute that you are, you are not blind. I see you, too, have an eye to opportunities, and know when to enter the drawing-room.”
“Hush!”
Again I listened. When I had first halted, it was through motives of delicacy. I did not wish to appear too suddenly before the open window, which would have given me a full view of the interior of the apartment. I had paused, intending to herald my approach by some noise—a feigned cough, or a stroke of my foot against the floor. My motives had undergone a change. I now listened with a design. I could not help it.
Aurore was speaking.
I bent my ear close to the window. The voice was at too great a distance, or uttered too low, for me to hear what was said. I could hear the silvery tones, but could not distinguish the words. She must be at the further end of the room, thought I.Perhaps, upon the sofa. This conjecture led me to painful imaginings, till the throbbings of my heart drowned the murmur that was causing them.
At length Aurore’s speech was ended. I waited for the reply. Perhaps I might gather from that whatshehad said. The tones of the male voice would be loud enough to enable me—
Hush! hark!
I listened—I caught the sound of a voice, but not the words. The sound was enough. It caused me to start as if stung by an adder.It was the voice of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!
Chapter Twenty Four.A Rival.I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by this discovery. It was like a shock of paralysis. It nailed me to the spot, and for some moments I felt as rigid as a statue, and almost as senseless. Even had the words uttered by Gayarre been loud enough to reach me, I should scarce have heard them. My surprise for the moment had rendered me deaf.The antagonism I had conceived towards the speaker, so long as I believed it to be the brute Larkin, was of a gentle character compared with that which agitated me now. Larkin might be young and handsome; by Scipio’s account, the latter he certainly wasnot: but even so, I had little fear ofhisrivalry. I felt confident that I held the heart of Aurore, and I knew that the overseer had no power overher person. He was overseer of the field-hands, and other slaves of the plantation—their master, with full licence of tongue and lash; but with all that, I knew that he had no authority over Aurore. For reasons I could not fathom, the treatment of the quadroon was, and had always been, different from the other slaves of the plantation. It was not the whiteness of her skin—her beauty neither—that had gained her this distinction. These, it is true, often modify the hard lot of the female slave, sometimes detailing upon her a still more cruel fate; but in the case of Aurore, there was some very different reason for the kindness shown her, thoughIcould onlyguessat it. She had been tenderly reared alongside her young mistress, had received almost as good an education, and, in fact, was treated rather as asisterthan aslave. Except from Mademoiselle, she received no commands. The “nigger-driver” had nothing to do with her. I had therefore no dread of any unlawful influence on his part.Far different were my suspicions when I found the voice belonged to Gayarre.Hehad power not only over the slave, but the mistress as well. Though suitor,—as I still believed him,—of Mademoiselle, he could not be blind to the superior charms of Aurore. Hideous wretch as I thought him, he might for all be sensible to love. The plainest may have a passion for the fairest. The Beast loved Beauty.The hour he had chosen for his visit, too! that was suspicious of itself. Just as Mademoiselle had driven out! Had he been there before she went out and been left by her in the house? Not likely. Scipio know nothing of his being there, else he would have told me. The black was aware of my antipathy to Gayarre, and that I did not desire to meet him. He would certainly have told me.“No doubt,” thought I, “the visit is a stolen one—the lawyer has come the back way from his own plantation, has watched till the carriage drove off, and then skulked in for the very purpose of finding the quadroon alone!”All this flashed upon my mind with the force of conviction, I no longer doubted that his presence there was the result of design, and not a mere accident. He wasafterAurore. My thoughts took this homely shape.When the first shock of my surprise had passed away, my senses returned, fuller and more vigorous than ever. My nerves seemed freshly strung, and my ears new set. I placed them as close to the open window as prudence would allow, and listened. It was nothonourable, I own, but in dealing with this wretch I seemed to lose all sense of honour. By the peculiar circumstances of that moment I was tempted from the strict path, but it was the “eavesdropping” of a jealous lover, and I cry you mercy for the act.I listened. With an effort I stifled the feverish throbbings of my heart, and listened.And I heard every word that from that moment was said. The voices had become louder, or rather the speakers had approached nearer. They were but a few feet from the window! Gayarre was speaking.“And does this young fellow dare to make love to your mistress?”“Monsieur Dominique, how should I know? I am sure I never saw aught of the kind. He is very modest, and so Mademoiselle thinks him. I never knew him to speak one word of love,—not he.”I fancied I heard a sigh.“If he dare,” rejoined Gayarre in a tone of bravado; “if he dare hint at such a thing to Mademoiselle—ay, oreven to you, Aurore—I shall make the place too hot for him. He shall visit here no more, the naked adventurer! On that I am resolved.”“Oh, Monsieur Gayarre! I’m sure that would vex Mademoiselle very much. Remember! he saved her life. She is full of gratitude to him. She continually talks of it, and it would grieve her if Monsieur Edouard was to come no more. I am sure it would grieve her.”There was an earnestness, a half-entreaty, in the tone of the speaker that sounded pleasant to my ears. It suggested the idea thatshe, too, might be grievedif Monsieur Edouard were to come no more.A like thought seemed to occur to Gayarre, upon whom, however, it made a very different sort of impression. There was irony mixed with anger in his reply, which was half interrogative.“Perhaps it would grievesome one else? Perhaps you? All, indeed! Is it so? You love him?Sacr-r-r-r!”There was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed anger and pain,—the pain of bitter jealousy.“Oh monsieur!” replied the quadroon, “how can you speak thus?Ilove! I,—a poor slave! Alas! alas!”Neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me. I felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of love: a species of deceit I could easily pardon. It seemed to produce a pleasant effect on Gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a lighter and gayer tone.“You aslave, beautiful Aurore! No, in my eyes you are aqueen, Aurore. Slave! It is your fault if you remain so. You know who has the power to make you free: ay, and the will too,—the will,—Aurore!”“Please not to talk thus, Monsieur Dominique! I have said before I cannot listen to such speech. I repeat I cannot, andwillnot!”The firm tone was grateful to my ears.“Nay, lovely Aurore!” replied Gayarre, entreatingly, “don’t be angry with me! I cannot help it. I cannot help thinking of your welfare. Youshallbe free;—no longer the slave of a capricious mistress—”“Monsieur Gayarre!” exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, “speak not so of Mademoiselle! You wrong her, Monsieur. She is not capricious. What if she heard—”“Peste!” cried Gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming his tone of bravado. “What care I if she did? Think you I trouble my head about her? The world thinks so! ha! ha! ha! Let them!—the fools! ha! ha! One day they may find it different! ha! ha! They think my visits here are onheraccount! ha! ha! ha! No, Aurore,—lovely Aurore! it is not Mademoiselle I come to see, butyou,—you, Aurore,—whom Ilove,—ay, love with all—”“Monsieur Dominique! I repeat—”“Dearest Aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word! Oh, speak it! you shall be no longer a slave,—you shall be free as your mistress is;—you shall have everything,—every pleasure,—dresses, jewels, at will; my house shall be under your control,—you shall command in it,as if you were my wife.”“Enough, Monsieur! enough! Your insult—I hear no more!”The voice was firm and indignant. Hurrah!“Nay, dearest, loveliest Aurore! do not go yet,—hear me—”“I hear no more, Sir,—Mademoiselle shall know—”“A word, a word! one kiss, Aurore! on my knees, I beg—”I heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of Aurore.This I considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant. The wretch was actually on his “marrow-bones,” holding the girl by the wrist, and endeavouring to draw her towards him. She, on the contrary, was exerting all her women’s strength to get away; which, not being so inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet!His back was toward me as I entered, and the first intimation he had of my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me I could not restrain. It lasted until long after he had released his captive, and gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it sound in my own ears, that I did not hear the threats of vengeance he was muttering in return.“What business haveyouhere, Sir?” was his first intelligible question.“I need not ask the same of you, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.Yourbusiness I can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!”“I ask you, Sir,” he repeated, in a still angrier tone, “what’s your business here?”“I did not come here onbusiness, Monsieur,” said I, still keeping up the tone of levity. “I did not come here on business,any more than yourself.”The emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious.“The sooner you go the better, then,” he shouted, with a bullying frown.“For whom?” I inquired.“For yourself, Sir,” was the reply.I had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself.“Monsieur,” said I, advancing and confronting him, “I have yet to learn that the house of Mademoiselle Besançon is the property of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. If it were so, I would be less disposed to respect the sanctity of its roof. You, Sir, have not respected it. You have acted infamously towards this young girl—this younglady, for she merits the title as much as the best blood in your land. I have witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals—”Here Gayarre started, but said nothing. I continued—“You are not a gentleman, Sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before my pistol. The owner of this house is not at home. At present it is as much mine as yours; and I promise you, that if you are not out of it in ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your shoulders.”I said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood. Gayarre must have seen that I meant it, for Ididmean it.“You shall pay dearly for this,” he hissed out. “You shall find that this is not the country for aspy.”“Go, Sir!”“And you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue,” he added, bending a malicious glance upon Aurore, “there may come a day when you’ll be less prudish: a day when you’ll not find such a gallant protector.”“Another word, and—”The uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders. He did not wait for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah.I stopped outside to make sure that he was gone. Advancing to the end of the platform I looked over the paling. The chattering of the birds told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery.I watched till I saw the gate open. I could just distinguish a head above the palings moving along the road. I easily recognised it as that of the disappointed seducer.As I turned back, towards the drawing-room I forgot that such a creature existed!
I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by this discovery. It was like a shock of paralysis. It nailed me to the spot, and for some moments I felt as rigid as a statue, and almost as senseless. Even had the words uttered by Gayarre been loud enough to reach me, I should scarce have heard them. My surprise for the moment had rendered me deaf.
The antagonism I had conceived towards the speaker, so long as I believed it to be the brute Larkin, was of a gentle character compared with that which agitated me now. Larkin might be young and handsome; by Scipio’s account, the latter he certainly wasnot: but even so, I had little fear ofhisrivalry. I felt confident that I held the heart of Aurore, and I knew that the overseer had no power overher person. He was overseer of the field-hands, and other slaves of the plantation—their master, with full licence of tongue and lash; but with all that, I knew that he had no authority over Aurore. For reasons I could not fathom, the treatment of the quadroon was, and had always been, different from the other slaves of the plantation. It was not the whiteness of her skin—her beauty neither—that had gained her this distinction. These, it is true, often modify the hard lot of the female slave, sometimes detailing upon her a still more cruel fate; but in the case of Aurore, there was some very different reason for the kindness shown her, thoughIcould onlyguessat it. She had been tenderly reared alongside her young mistress, had received almost as good an education, and, in fact, was treated rather as asisterthan aslave. Except from Mademoiselle, she received no commands. The “nigger-driver” had nothing to do with her. I had therefore no dread of any unlawful influence on his part.
Far different were my suspicions when I found the voice belonged to Gayarre.Hehad power not only over the slave, but the mistress as well. Though suitor,—as I still believed him,—of Mademoiselle, he could not be blind to the superior charms of Aurore. Hideous wretch as I thought him, he might for all be sensible to love. The plainest may have a passion for the fairest. The Beast loved Beauty.
The hour he had chosen for his visit, too! that was suspicious of itself. Just as Mademoiselle had driven out! Had he been there before she went out and been left by her in the house? Not likely. Scipio know nothing of his being there, else he would have told me. The black was aware of my antipathy to Gayarre, and that I did not desire to meet him. He would certainly have told me.
“No doubt,” thought I, “the visit is a stolen one—the lawyer has come the back way from his own plantation, has watched till the carriage drove off, and then skulked in for the very purpose of finding the quadroon alone!”
All this flashed upon my mind with the force of conviction, I no longer doubted that his presence there was the result of design, and not a mere accident. He wasafterAurore. My thoughts took this homely shape.
When the first shock of my surprise had passed away, my senses returned, fuller and more vigorous than ever. My nerves seemed freshly strung, and my ears new set. I placed them as close to the open window as prudence would allow, and listened. It was nothonourable, I own, but in dealing with this wretch I seemed to lose all sense of honour. By the peculiar circumstances of that moment I was tempted from the strict path, but it was the “eavesdropping” of a jealous lover, and I cry you mercy for the act.
I listened. With an effort I stifled the feverish throbbings of my heart, and listened.
And I heard every word that from that moment was said. The voices had become louder, or rather the speakers had approached nearer. They were but a few feet from the window! Gayarre was speaking.
“And does this young fellow dare to make love to your mistress?”
“Monsieur Dominique, how should I know? I am sure I never saw aught of the kind. He is very modest, and so Mademoiselle thinks him. I never knew him to speak one word of love,—not he.”
I fancied I heard a sigh.
“If he dare,” rejoined Gayarre in a tone of bravado; “if he dare hint at such a thing to Mademoiselle—ay, oreven to you, Aurore—I shall make the place too hot for him. He shall visit here no more, the naked adventurer! On that I am resolved.”
“Oh, Monsieur Gayarre! I’m sure that would vex Mademoiselle very much. Remember! he saved her life. She is full of gratitude to him. She continually talks of it, and it would grieve her if Monsieur Edouard was to come no more. I am sure it would grieve her.”
There was an earnestness, a half-entreaty, in the tone of the speaker that sounded pleasant to my ears. It suggested the idea thatshe, too, might be grievedif Monsieur Edouard were to come no more.
A like thought seemed to occur to Gayarre, upon whom, however, it made a very different sort of impression. There was irony mixed with anger in his reply, which was half interrogative.
“Perhaps it would grievesome one else? Perhaps you? All, indeed! Is it so? You love him?Sacr-r-r-r!”
There was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed anger and pain,—the pain of bitter jealousy.
“Oh monsieur!” replied the quadroon, “how can you speak thus?Ilove! I,—a poor slave! Alas! alas!”
Neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me. I felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of love: a species of deceit I could easily pardon. It seemed to produce a pleasant effect on Gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a lighter and gayer tone.
“You aslave, beautiful Aurore! No, in my eyes you are aqueen, Aurore. Slave! It is your fault if you remain so. You know who has the power to make you free: ay, and the will too,—the will,—Aurore!”
“Please not to talk thus, Monsieur Dominique! I have said before I cannot listen to such speech. I repeat I cannot, andwillnot!”
The firm tone was grateful to my ears.
“Nay, lovely Aurore!” replied Gayarre, entreatingly, “don’t be angry with me! I cannot help it. I cannot help thinking of your welfare. Youshallbe free;—no longer the slave of a capricious mistress—”
“Monsieur Gayarre!” exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, “speak not so of Mademoiselle! You wrong her, Monsieur. She is not capricious. What if she heard—”
“Peste!” cried Gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming his tone of bravado. “What care I if she did? Think you I trouble my head about her? The world thinks so! ha! ha! ha! Let them!—the fools! ha! ha! One day they may find it different! ha! ha! They think my visits here are onheraccount! ha! ha! ha! No, Aurore,—lovely Aurore! it is not Mademoiselle I come to see, butyou,—you, Aurore,—whom Ilove,—ay, love with all—”
“Monsieur Dominique! I repeat—”
“Dearest Aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word! Oh, speak it! you shall be no longer a slave,—you shall be free as your mistress is;—you shall have everything,—every pleasure,—dresses, jewels, at will; my house shall be under your control,—you shall command in it,as if you were my wife.”
“Enough, Monsieur! enough! Your insult—I hear no more!”
The voice was firm and indignant. Hurrah!
“Nay, dearest, loveliest Aurore! do not go yet,—hear me—”
“I hear no more, Sir,—Mademoiselle shall know—”
“A word, a word! one kiss, Aurore! on my knees, I beg—”
I heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of Aurore.
This I considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant. The wretch was actually on his “marrow-bones,” holding the girl by the wrist, and endeavouring to draw her towards him. She, on the contrary, was exerting all her women’s strength to get away; which, not being so inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet!
His back was toward me as I entered, and the first intimation he had of my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me I could not restrain. It lasted until long after he had released his captive, and gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it sound in my own ears, that I did not hear the threats of vengeance he was muttering in return.
“What business haveyouhere, Sir?” was his first intelligible question.
“I need not ask the same of you, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.Yourbusiness I can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!”
“I ask you, Sir,” he repeated, in a still angrier tone, “what’s your business here?”
“I did not come here onbusiness, Monsieur,” said I, still keeping up the tone of levity. “I did not come here on business,any more than yourself.”
The emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious.
“The sooner you go the better, then,” he shouted, with a bullying frown.
“For whom?” I inquired.
“For yourself, Sir,” was the reply.
I had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself.
“Monsieur,” said I, advancing and confronting him, “I have yet to learn that the house of Mademoiselle Besançon is the property of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. If it were so, I would be less disposed to respect the sanctity of its roof. You, Sir, have not respected it. You have acted infamously towards this young girl—this younglady, for she merits the title as much as the best blood in your land. I have witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals—”
Here Gayarre started, but said nothing. I continued—
“You are not a gentleman, Sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before my pistol. The owner of this house is not at home. At present it is as much mine as yours; and I promise you, that if you are not out of it in ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your shoulders.”
I said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood. Gayarre must have seen that I meant it, for Ididmean it.
“You shall pay dearly for this,” he hissed out. “You shall find that this is not the country for aspy.”
“Go, Sir!”
“And you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue,” he added, bending a malicious glance upon Aurore, “there may come a day when you’ll be less prudish: a day when you’ll not find such a gallant protector.”
“Another word, and—”
The uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders. He did not wait for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah.
I stopped outside to make sure that he was gone. Advancing to the end of the platform I looked over the paling. The chattering of the birds told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery.
I watched till I saw the gate open. I could just distinguish a head above the palings moving along the road. I easily recognised it as that of the disappointed seducer.
As I turned back, towards the drawing-room I forgot that such a creature existed!