Chapter Fifty One
Vente Importante des Nègres
“L’abeille, Monsieur?”
The garçon who helped me to the fragrant cup, at the same time handed me a newspaper fresh from the press.
It was a large sheet, headed upon one side “L’Abeille”, on the reverse its synonyme in English, “The Bee.” Half of its contents were in French, half in English: each half was a counterpart – a translation of the other.
I mechanically took the journal from the hand of the waiter, but without either the design or inclination to read it. Mechanically my eyes wandered over its broad-sheet – scarce heeding the contents.
All at once, the heading of an advertisement fixed my gaze and my attention. It was on the “French side” of the paper.
“Annoncement.”
“Vente importante des Nègres!” Yes – it was they. The announcement was no surprise to me. I expected as much.
I turned to the translation on the reverse page, in order to comprehend it more clearly. There it was in all its broad black meaning: —
“Important Sale of Negroes!” I read on: – “Estate in Bankruptcy. Plantation Besançon!”
“Poor Eugénie!”
Farther: —
“Forty able-bodied field-hands, of different ages. Several first-rate domestic servants, coachman, cooks, chamber-maids, wagon-drivers. A number of likely mulatto boys and girls, from ten to twenty,” etcetera, etcetera.
The list followed in extenso. I read —
“Lot 1. Scipio, 48. Able-bodied black, 5 foot 11 inches, understands house-work, and the management of horses. Sound and without blemish.
“Lot 2. Hannibal, 40. Dark mulatto, 5 foot 9 inches, good coachman, sound and steady.
“Lot 3. César, 43. Black field-hand. Sound,” etcetera, etcetera.
My eyes could not wait for the disgusting details. They ran down the column in search of that name. They would have lit upon it sooner, but that my hands trembled, and the vibratory motion of the sheet almost prevented me from reading. It was there at length —last upon the list! “Why last?” No matter – her “description” was there.
Can I trust myself to read it? Down, burning heart, still your wild throbbings!
“Lot 65. Aurore. 19. Quadroon. Likely—good housekeeper, and sempstress.”
Portrait sketched by refined pen – brief and graphic.
“Likely,” ha! ha! ha! “Likely,” ha! ha! The brute who wrote that paragraph would have described Venus as a likely gal.
’Sdeath! I cannot jest – this desecration of all that is lovely – all that is sacred – all that is dear to my heart, is torture itself. The blood is boiling in my veins – my bosom is wrung with dire emotions!
The journal fell from my hands, and I bent forward over the table, my fingers clutching each other. I could have groaned aloud had I been alone. But I was not. I sat in the great refectory of the hotel. Men were near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known its cause.
Some minutes elapsed before I could reflect on what I had read. I sat in a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions.
Reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action. More than ever did I now desire to become the purchaser of the beautiful slave – to redeem her from this hideous bondage. I should buy her. I should set her free. True or false to me, I should accomplish this all the same. I should make no claim for gratitude. She should choose for herself. She should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude, at least in that of her love. A love based only on gratitude would not content me. Such could not last. Her heart should freely bestow itself. If I had already won it, well. If not, and it had fixed its affection upon another – mine be the grief. Aurore, at all events, shall be happy.
My love had elevated my soul – had filled it with such noble resolves.
And now to set her free.
When was this hideous exhibition – this “Important Sale,” to come off? When was my betrothed to be sold, and I to assist at the spectacle?
I took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place. The place I knew well – the Rotundo of the Saint Louis exchange – adjoining the hotel, and within twenty yards of where I sat. That was the slave-market. But the time – it was of more importance – indeed of all importance. Strange I did not think of this before! Should it be at an early date, and my letter not have arrived! I dared not trust myself with such a supposition. Surely it would be a week – several days, at the least – before a sale of so much importance would take place. Ha! it may have been advertised for some days. The negroes may have been brought down only at the last moment!
My hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph. At length they rested upon it. I read with painful surprise: —
“To-morrow at twelve!”
I looked to the date of the journal. All correct. It was the issue of that morning. I looked to the dial on the wall. The clock was on the stroke of twelve! Just one day to elapse.
“O God! if my letter should not have arrived!”
I drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents. I knew not why I did so. I knew it contained but a hundred dollars. The “sportsmen” had reduced it in bulk. When I had finished counting it, I could not help smiling at the absurdity of the thing. “A hundred dollars for the quadroon! Likely—good housekeeper, etcetera! a hundred dollars bid!” The auctioneer would not be likely to repeat the bid.
All now depended on the English mail. If it had not arrived already, or did not before the morning, I would be helpless. Without the letter on my New Orleans banker, I could not raise fifty pounds – watch, jewels, and all. As to borrowing, I did not think of such a thing. Who was to lend me money? Who to an almost perfect stranger would advance such a sum as I required? No one I felt certain. Reigart could not have helped me to so large an amount, even had there been time to communicate with him. No – there was no one who would, that could have favoured me. No one I could think of.
“Stop:” – the banker himself! Happy thought, the banker Brown! Good, generous Brown, of the English house, Brown and Co., who, with smiling face, has already cashed my drafts for me. He will do it! The very man! Why did I not think of him sooner? Yes; if the letter have not reached him I shall tell him that I expect it every day, and its amount. He will advance the money.
“Twelve o’clock gone. There is no time to be lost. He’s in his counting-house by this. I shall at once apply to him.”
I seized my hat, and hastening out of the hotel, took my way through the streets towards the banking-house of Brown and Co.
Chapter Fifty Two
Brown and Co
The banking-house of Brown and Co. was in Canal Street. From the Saint Louis Exchange, Canal Street may be approached by the Rue Conti, or the parallel street of the Rue Royale. The latter is the favourite promenade of the gay Creole-French, as Saint Charles Street is for the fashionable Americans.
You will wonder at this mélange of French and English in the nomenclature of streets. The truth is, that New Orleans has a peculiarity somewhat rare. It is composed of two distinct cities – a French and an American one. I might even say three, for there is a Spanish quarter with a character distinct from either, and where you may see on the corner the Spanish designation “Calle,” as the Calle de Casacalvo, Calle del Obispo, etcetera. This peculiarity is explained by referring to the history of Louisiana. It was colonised by the French in the early part of the eighteenth century, New Orleans being founded in 1717. The French held Louisiana till 1762, when it was ceded to Spain, and remained in her possession for a period of nearly fifty years – till 1798, when France once more became its master. Five years after, in 1803, Napoleon sold this valuable country to the American government for 15,000,000 of dollars – the best bargain which Brother Jonathan has ever made, and apparently a slack one on the part of Napoleon. After all, Napoleon was right. The sagacious Corsican, no doubt, foresaw that it could not have long remained the property of France. Sooner or later the American flag would wave over the Crescent City, and Napoleon’s easy bargain has no doubt saved America a war, and France a humiliation.
This change of masters will explain the peculiarity of the population of New Orleans. The characteristics of all three nations are visible in its streets, in its houses, in the features, habits, and dress of its citizens. In nothing are the national traces more distinctly marked than in the different styles of architecture. In the American quarter you have tall brick dwellings, several stories in height, their shining fronts half occupied with rows of windows, combining the light and ornamental with the substantial and useful. This is typical of the Anglo-American. Equally typical of the French character are the light wooden one-storey houses, painted in gay colours, with green verandah palings; windows that open as doors, and a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them.
Equally a type of the grand solemn character of the Spaniard, are the massive sombre structures of stone and lime, of the imposing Moorish style, that is still seen in many of the streets of New Orleans. Of these, the Great Cathedral is a fine specimen – that will stand as a monument of Spanish occupancy, long after both the Spanish and French population has been absorbed and melted down in the alembic of the Anglo-American propagandism. The American part of New Orleans is that which is highest on the river – known as the Faubourgs Saint Mary and Annunciation. Canal Street separates it from the French quarter – which last is the old city, chiefly inhabited by Creole-French and Spaniards.
A few years ago, the French and American populations were about equal. Now the Saxon element predominates, and rapidly absorbs all the others. In time the indolent Creole must yield to the more energetic American – in other words, New Orleans will be Americanised. Progress and civilisation will gain by this, at the expense – according to the sentimental school – of the poetic and picturesque.
Two distinct cities, then, are there in New Orleans. Each has its Exchange distinct from the other – a distinct municipal court and public offices – each has its centre of fashionable resort – its favourite promenade for the flaneurs, of which the South-western metropolis can boast a large crowd – its own theatres, ballrooms, hotels, and cafés. In fact, a walk of a few paces transports one into quite a different world. The crossing of Canal Street is like being transferred from Broadway to the Boulevards.
In their occupations there is a wide difference between the inhabitants of the two quarters. The Americans deal in the strong staples of human life. The great depôts of provisions, of cotton, of tobacco, of lumber, and the various sorts of raw produce, will be found among them. On the other hand, the finer fabrics, the laces, the jewels, the modes and modistes, the silks and satins, and all articles of bijouterie and virtu, pass through the lighter fingers of the Creoles – for these inherit both the skill and taste of their Parisian progenitors. Fine old rich wine-merchants, too, will be found in the French part, who have made fortunes by importing the wines of Bordeaux and Champagne – for claret and champagne are the wines that flow most freely on the banks of the Mississippi.
A feeling of jealousy is not wanting between the two races. The strong energetic Kentuckian affects to despise the gay pleasure-loving Frenchman, while the latter – particularly the old Creole noblesse – regard with contempt the bizarrerie of the Northern, so that feuds and collisions between them are not infrequent. New Orleans is, par excellence, the city of the duello. In all matters of this kind the Kentuckian finds the Creole quite his equal – his full match in spirit, courage, and skill. I know many Creoles who are notorious for the number of their duels. An opera-singer or danseuse frequently causes half a score or more – according to her merits, or mayhap her demerits. The masqued and quadroon-balls are also frequent scenes of quarrel among the wine-heated bloods who frequent them. Let no one fancy that life in New Orleans is without incident or adventure. A less prosaic city it would be hard to find.
These subjects did not come before my mind as I walked towards the banking-house of Brown and Co. My thoughts were occupied with a far different theme – one that caused me to press on with an agitated heart and hurried steps.
The walk was long enough to give me time for many a hypothetic calculation. Should my letter and the bill of exchange have arrived, I should be put in possession of funds at once, – enough, as I supposed, for my purpose – enough to buy my slave-bride! If not yet arrived, how then? Would Brown advance the money? My heart throbbed audibly as I asked myself this question. Its answer, affirmative or negative, would be to me like the pronouncement of a sentence of life or death.
And yet I felt more than half certain that Brown would do so. I could not fancy his smiling generous John-Bull face clouded with the seriousness of a refusal. Its great importance to me at that moment – the certainty of its being repaid, and in a few days, or hours at the farthest – surely he would not deny me! What to him, a man of millions, could be the inconvenience of advancing five hundred pounds? Oh! he would do it to a certainty. No fear but he would do it!
I crossed the threshold of the man of money, my spirits buoyant with sweet anticipation. When I recrossed it my soul was saddened with bitter disappointment. My letter had not yet arrived – Brown refused the advance!
I was too inexperienced in business to comprehend its sordid calculations – its cold courtesy. What cared the banker for my pressing wants? What to him was my ardent appeal? Even had I told him my motives, my object, it would have been all the same. That game cold denying smile would have been the reply – ay, even had my life depended upon it.
I need not detail the interview. It was brief enough. I was told, with a bland smile, that my letter had not yet come to hand. To my proposal for the advance the answer was blunt enough. The kind generous smile blanked off Brown’s ruddy face. It was not business. It could not be done. There was no sign thrown out – no invitation to talk farther. I might have appealed in a more fervent strain. I might have confessed the purpose for which I wanted the money, but Brown’s face gave me no encouragement. Perhaps it was as well I did not. Brown would have chuckled over my delicate secret. The town, over its tea-table, would have relished it as a rich joke.
Enough – my letter had not arrived – Brown refused the advance. With Hope behind me and Despair in front, I hurried back to the hotel.
Chapter Fifty Three
Eugène d’Hauteville
The remainder of the day I was occupied in searching for Aurore. I could learn nothing of her – not even whether she had yet reached the city!
In search of her I went to the quarters where the others had their temporary lodgment. She was not these. She had either not yet arrived, or was kept at some other place. They had not seen her! They knew nothing about her.
Disappointed and wearied with running through the hot and dusty streets, I returned to the hotel.
I waited for night. I waited for the coming of Eugène d’Hauteville, for such was the name of my new acquaintance.
I was strangely interested in this young man. Our short interview had inspired me with a singular confidence in him. He had given proof of a friendly design towards me; and still more had impressed me with a high idea of his knowledge of the world. Young as he was, I could not help fancying him a being possessed of some mysterious power. I could not help thinking that in some way he might aid me. There was nothing remarkable in his being so young and still au-fait to all the mysteries of life. Precocity is the privilege of the American, especially the native of New Orleans. A Creole at fifteen is a man.
I felt satisfied that D’Hauteville – about my own age – knew far more of the world than I, who had been half my life cloistered within the walls of an antique university.
I had an instinct that he both could and would serve me.
How? you may ask. By lending me the money I required?
It could not be thus. I believed that he was himself without funds, or possessed of but little – far too little to be of use to me. My reason for thinking so was the reply he had made when I asked for his address. There was something in the tone of his answer that led me to the thought that he was without fortune – even without a home. Perhaps a clerk out of place, thought I; or a poor artist. His dress was rich enough – but dress is no criterion on a Mississippi steamboat.
With these reflections it was strange I should have been impressed with the idea he could serve me! But I was so, and had therefore resolved to make him the confidant of my secret – the secret of my love – the secret of my misery.
Perhaps another impulse acted upon me, and aided in bringing me to this determination. He whose heart has been charged with a deep grief must know the relief which sympathy can afford. The sympathy of friendship is sweet and soothing. There is balm in the counsel of a kind companion.
My sorrow had been long pent up within my own bosom, and yearned to find expression. Stranger among strangers, I had no one to share it with me. Even to the good Reigart I had not confessed myself. With the exception of Aurore herself, Eugénie – poor Eugénie – was alone mistress of my secret. Would that she of all had never known it!
Now to this youth Eugène – strange coincidence of name! – I was resolved to impart it – resolved to unburden my heart. Perhaps, in so doing I might find consolation or relief.
I waited for the night. It was at night he had promised to come. I waited with impatience – with my eyes bent almost continuously on the index finger of time, and chafing at the slow measured strokes of the pendulum.
I was not disappointed. He came at length. His silvery voice rang in my ears, and he stood before me.
As he entered my room, I was once more struck with the melancholy expression of his countenance – the pale cheek – the resemblance to some face I had met before.
The room was close and hot. The summer had not yet quite departed. I proposed a walk. We could converse as freely in the open air, and there was a lovely moon to light us on our way.
As we sallied forth, I offered my visitor a cigar. This he declined, giving his reason. He did not smoke.
Strange, thought I, for one of a race, who almost universally indulge in the habit. Another peculiarity in the character of my new acquaintance!
We passed up the Rue Royale, and turned along Canal Street in the direction of the “Swamp.” Presently we crossed the Rue des Rampartes, and soon found ourselves outside the limits of the city.
Some buildings appeared beyond, but they were not houses – at least not dwelling-places for the living. The numerous cupolas crowned with crosses – the broken columns – the monuments of white marble, gleaming under the moon, told us that we looked upon a city of the dead. It was the great cemetery of New Orleans – that cemetery where the poor after death are drowned, and the rich fare no better, for they are baked!
The gate stood open – the scene within invited me – its solemn character was in unison with my spirit. My companion made no objection, and we entered.
After wending our way among tombs, and statues, and monuments; miniature temples, columns, obelisks, sarcophagi carved in snow-white marble – passing graves that spoke of recent affliction – others of older date, but garnished with fresh flowers – the symbols of lore or affection that still lingered – we seated ourselves upon a moss-grown slab, with the fronds of the Babylonian willow waving above our heads, and drooping mournfully around us.
Chapter Fifty Four
Pity for Love
Along the way we had conversed upon several topics indifferently – of my gambling adventure on the boat – of the “sportsmen” of New Orleans – of the fine moonlight.
Until after entering the cemetery, and taking our seats upon the tomb, I had disclosed nothing of that which altogether engrossed my thoughts. The time had now arrived for unbosoming myself, and half-an-hour after Eugène D’Hauteville knew the story of my love.
I confided to him all that had occurred from the time of my leaving New Orleans, up to the period of our meeting upon the Houma. My interview with the banker Brown, and my fruitless search that day for Aurore, were also detailed.
From first to last he listened without interrupting me; only once, when I described the scene of my confession to Eugénie, and its painful ending. The details of this seemed to interest him exceedingly – in fact, to give him pain. More than once I was interrupted by his sobs, and by the light of the moon I could see that he was in tears!
“Noble youth!” thought I, “thus to be affected by the sufferings of a stranger!”
“Poor Eugénie!” murmured he, “is she not to be pitied?”
“Pitied! ah, Monsieur; you know not how much I pity her! That scene will never be effaced from my memory. If pity – friendship – any sacrifice could make amends, how willingly would I bestow it upon her – all but that which is not in my power to give – my love. Deeply, Monsieur D’Hauteville – deeply do I grieve for that noble lady. Oh, that I could pluck the sting from her heart which I have been the innocent cause of placing there. But surely she will recover from this unfortunate passion? Surely in time – ”
“Ah! never! never!” interrupted D’Hauteville, with an earnestness of manner that surprised me.
“Why say you so, Monsieur?”
“Why? – because I have some skill in such affairs; young as you think me, I have experienced a similar misfortune. Poor Eugénie! Such a wound is hard to heal; she will not recover from it. Ah – never!”
“Indeed, I pity her – with my whole soul I pity her.”
“You should seek her and say so.”
“Why?” I asked, somewhat astonished at the suggestion.
“Perhaps your pity expressed to her might give consolation.”
“Impossible. It would have the contrary effect.”
“You misjudge, Monsieur. Unrequited love is far less hard to bear when it meets with sympathy. It is only haughty contempt and heartless triumph that wring blood-drops from the heart. Sympathy is balm to the wounds of love. Believe me it is so. I feel it to be so. Oh! I feel it to be so!”
The last two phrases he spoke with an earnestness that sounded strangely in my ears.
“Mysterious youth!” thought I. “So gentle, so compassionate, and yet so worldly-wise!”
I felt as though I conversed with some spiritual being – some superior mind, who comprehended all.
His doctrine was new to me, and quite contrary to the general belief. At a later period of my life I became convinced of its truth.
“If I thought my sympathy would have such an effect,” replied I, “I should seek Eugénie – I should offer her – ”
“There will be a time for that afterward,” said D’Hauteville, interrupting me; “your present business is more pressing. You purpose to buy this quadroon?”
“I did so this morning. Alas! I have no longer a hope. It will not be in my power.”
“How much money have these sharpers left you?”
“Not much over one hundred dollars.”
“Ha! that will not do. From your description of her she will bring ten times the amount. A misfortune, indeed! My own purse is still lighter than yours. I have not a hundred dollars. Pardieu! it is a sad affair.”
D’Hauteville pressed his head between his hands, and remained for some moments silent, apparently in deep meditation. From his manner I could not help believing that he really sympathised with me, and that he was thinking of some plan to assist me.
“After all,” he muttered to himself, just loud enough for me to hear what was said, “if she should not succeed – if she should not find the papers – then she, too, must be a sacrifice. Oh! it is a terrible risk. It might be better not – it might be – ”
“Monsieur!” I said, interrupting him, “of what are you speaking?”
“Oh! – ah! pardon me: it is an affair I was thinking of —n’importe. We had better return, Monsieur. It is cold. The atmosphere of this solemn place chills me.”
He said all this with an air of embarrassment, as though he had been speaking his thoughts unintentionally.
Though astonished at what he had uttered, I could not press him for an explanation; but, yielding to his wish, I rose up to depart. I had lost hope. Plainly he had it not in his power to serve me.
At this moment a resource suggested itself to my mind, or rather the forlorn hope of a resource.
I communicated it to my companion.
“I have still these two hundred dollars,” said I, “They are of no more service to me for the purchase of Aurore than if they were so many pebbles. Suppose I try to increase the amount at the gaming-table?”
“Oh, I fear it would be an idle attempt. You would lose as before.”
“That is not so certain, Monsieur. The chances at least are equal. I need not play with men of skill, like those upon the boat. Here in New Orleans there are gaming-houses, plenty of them, where games of chance are carried on. These are of various kinds – as faro, craps, loto, and roulette. I can choose some one of these, where bets are made on the tossing of a die or the turning of a card. It is just as likely I may win as lose. What say you, Monsieur? Give me your counsel.”
“You speak truly,” replied he. “There is a chance in the game. It offers a hope of your winning. If you lose, you will be no worse off as regards your intentions for to-morrow. If you win – ”
“True, true – if I win – ”
“You must not lose time, then. It is growing late. These gaming-houses should be open at this hour: no doubt, they are now in the very tide of their business. Let us find one.”
“You will go with me? Thanks, Monsieur D’Hauteville! Thanks —allons!”
We hastily traversed the walk that led to the entrance of the cemetery; and, issuing from the gate, took our way back into the town.
We headed for our point of departure – the Rue Saint Louis; for I knew that in that neighbourhood lay the principal gambling hells.
It was not difficult to find them. At that period there was no concealment required in such matters. The gambling passion among the Creoles, inherited from the original possessors of the city, was too rife among all classes to be put down by a police. The municipal authorities in the American quarter had taken some steps toward the suppression of this vice; but their laws had no force on the French side of Canal Street; and Creole police had far different ideas, as well as different instructions. In the French faubourgs gaming was not considered so hideous a crime, and the houses appropriated to it were open and avowed.
As you passed along Rue Conti, or Saint Louis, or the Rue Bourbon, you could not fail to notice several large gilded lamps, upon which you might read “faro” and “craps”, “loto” or “roulette,” – odd words to the eyes of the uninitiated, but well enough understood by those whose business it was to traverse the streets of the “First Municipality.”
Our hurrying stops soon brought us in front of one of these establishments, whose lamp told us in plain letters that “faro” was played inside.
It was the first that offered; and, without hesitating a moment, I entered, followed by D’Hauteville.
We had to climb a wide stairway, at the top of which we were received by a whiskered and moustached fellow in waiting. I supposed that he was about to demand some fee for admission. I was mistaken in my conjecture. Admission was perfectly free. The purpose of this individual in staying us was to divest us of arms, for which he handed us a ticket, that we might reclaim them in going out. That he had disarmed a goodly number before our turn came, was evident from the numerous butts of pistols, hafts of bowie-knives, and handles of daggers, that protruded from the pigeon-holes of a shelf-like structure standing in one corner of the passage.
The whole proceeding reminded me of the scenes I had often witnessed – the surrender of canes, umbrellas, and parasols, on entering a picture-gallery or a museum. No doubt it was a necessary precaution – the non-observance of which would have led to many a scene of blood over the gaming-table.
We yielded up our weapons – I a pair of pistols, and my companion a small silver dagger. These were ticketed, duplicates delivered to us, and we were allowed to pass on into the “saloon.”