Chapter Fifty Eight
My Forlorn Hope
It was pleasant escaping from that hot hell into the cool night air – into the soft light of a Southern moon. It would have been pleasant under other circumstances; but then the sweetest clime and loveliest scene would have made no impression upon me.
My companion seemed to share my bitterness of soul. His words of consolation were not without their influence; I knew they were the expressions of a real sympathy. His acts had already proved it.
It was, indeed, a lovely night. The white moon rode buoyantly through fleecy clouds, that thinly dappled the azure sky of Louisiana, and a soft breeze played through the now silent streets. A lovely night – too sweet and balmy. My spirit would have preferred a storm. Oh! for black clouds, red lightning, and thunder rolling and crashing through the sky. Oh! for the whistling wind, and the quick pattering of the rain-drops. Oh! for a hurricane without, consonant to the storm that was raging within me!
It was but a few steps to the hotel; but we did not stop there. We could think better in the open air, and converse as well. Sleep had no charms for me, and my companion seemed to share my impulses; so passing once more from among the houses, we went on towards the Swamp, caring not whither we went.
We walked side by side for some time without exchanging speech. Our thoughts were running upon the same theme, – the business of to-morrow. To-morrow no longer, for the tolling of the great cathedral clock had just announced the hour of midnight. In twelve hours more the vente de l’ençan would commence – in twelve hours more they would be bidding, for my betrothed!
Our steps were towards the “Shell Road,” and soon our feet crunched upon the fragments of unios and bivalves that strewed the path. Here was a scene more in unison with our thoughts. Above and around waved the dark solemn cypress-trees, fit emblems of grief – rendered doubly lugubrious in their expression by the hoary tillandsia, that draped them like a couch of the dead. The sounds, too, that here saluted our ears had a soothing effect; the melancholy “coowhoo-a” of the swamp-owl – the creaking chirp of the tree-crickets and cicadas – the solemn “tong-tong” of the bell-frog – the hoarse trumpet-note of the greater batrachian – and high overhead the wild treble of the bull-bat, all mingled together in a concert, that, however disagreeable under other circumstances, now fell upon my ears like music, and even imparted a kind of sad pleasure to my soul.
And yet it was not my darkest hour. A darker was yet in store for me. Despite the very hopelessness of the prospect, I still clung to hope. A vague feeling it was; but it sustained me against despair. The trunk of a taxodium lay prostrate by the side of our path. Upon this we sat down.
We had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell. I was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom I now regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the same.
What generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice! Ah! little did I then know of the vast extent—the noble grandeur of that sacrifice!
“There now remains but one chance,” I said; “the chance that to-morrow’s mail, or rather to-day’s, may bring my letter. It might still arrive in time; the mail is due by ten o’clock in the morning.”
“True,” replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts to give much heed to what I had said.
“If not,” I continued, “then there is only the hope that he who shall become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her to me. I care not at what price, if I – ”
“Ah!” interrupted D’Hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; “it is just that which troubles me – that is exactly what I have been thinking upon. I fear, Monsieur, I fear – ”
“Speak on!”
“I fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell her again.”
“And why? Will not a large sum – ?”
“No – no – I fear that he who buys will not give her up again, at any price.”
“Ha! Why do you think so, Monsieur D’Hauteville.”
“I have my suspicion that a certain individual designs – ”
“Who?”
“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.”
“Oh! heavens! Gayarre! Gayarre!”
“Yes; from what you have told me – from what I know myself – for I, too, have some knowledge of Dominique Gayarre.”
“Gayarre! Gayarre! Oh, God!”
I could only ejaculate. The announcement had almost deprived me of the power of speech. A sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me – a prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh, and I without the power to avert it.
Strange this thought had not occurred to me before. I had supposed that the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some one who would be disposed to resell at a profit – perhaps an enormous one; but in time I should be prepared for that. Strange I had never thought of Gayarre becoming the purchaser. But, indeed, since the hour when I first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything.
Now it was clear. It was no longer a conjecture; most certainly, Gayarre would become the master of Aurore. Ere another night her body would be his property. Her soul – Oh, God! Am I awake? – do I dream?
“I had a suspicion of this before,” continued D’Hauteville; “for I may tell you I know something of this family history – of Eugénie Besançon – of Aurore – of Gayarre the avocat. I had a suspicion before that Gayarre might desire to be the owner of Aurore. But now that you have told me of the scene in the dining-room, I no longer doubt this villain’s design. Oh! it is infamous.”
“Still further proof of it,” continued D’Hauteville. “There was a man on the boat – you did not notice him, perhaps – an agent for Gayarre in such matters. A negro-trader – a fit tool for such a purpose. No doubt his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale – to bid for the poor girl.”
“But why,” I asked, catching at a straw of hope, – “why, since he wishes to possess Aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract? – why send her to the slave-market to public auction?”
“The law requires it. The slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be sold publicly to the highest bidder. Besides, Monsieur, bad as may be this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have suggested. He is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness, wishes to stand well before the world. There are many who believe Gayarre a good man! He dare not act openly in this villainous design, and will not appear in it. To save scandal, the negro-trader will be supposed to purchase for himself. It is infamous!”
“Beyond conception! Oh! what is to be done to save her from this fearful man? to save me – ”
“It is of that I am thinking, and have been for the last hour. Be of good cheer, Monsieur! all hope is not lost. There is still one chance of saving Aurore. There is one hope left. Alas! I have known the time, – I, too, have been unfortunate – sadly – sadly – unfortunate. No matter now. We shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been relieved. Perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs – no more of that now. There is still one chance for Aurore, and she and you – both – may yet be happy. It must be so; I am resolved upon it. ’Twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story. Enough – I have no time to spare – I must be gone. Now to your hotel! – go and rest. To-morrow at twelve I shall be with you – at twelve in the Rotundo. Good night! Adieu.”
Without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply, the Creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon passed out of sight!
Pondering over his incoherent words – over his unintelligible promise – upon his strange looks and manner, – I walked slowly to my hotel.
Without undressing I flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going to sleep.
Chapter Fifty Nine
The Rotundo
The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night – the thousand and one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear – the theoretic tentation of a hundred projects – all passed before my waking spirit. Yet when morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. All my hopes centred upon D’Hauteville – for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.
To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co. The negative answer to my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. I had anticipated it. When did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? Slowly roll the golden circles – slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly parted with. This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail; yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my affairs, had made some cause of delay.
Never trust your business affairs to a friend. Never trust to a day for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of sending it. So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and Co.
It was twelve o’clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis. I did not re-enter the hotel – I walked direct to the Rotundo.
My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under the shadow of that spacious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I experienced at that moment.
I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe – I have passed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt – pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me – I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain – but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.
Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upon desecrated ground – desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famed slave-market of New Orleans– the place where human bodies – I might almost say human souls– were bought and sold!
Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had the husband been here severed from his wife – the mother from her child. Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement – oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh – nay more – the cry of the anguished heart!
I repeat it – my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within the precincts of that spacious hall. And no wonder – with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.
You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator – a reporter cool and unmoved by what was passing – I might have noted the details, and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought alone was in my mind – my eyes sought for one sole object – and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.
A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated daïs, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two objects I divined.
A stone “kerb,” or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The purpose of this was equally apparent.
The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall.
There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds. Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude, were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red “brogans,” their coarse garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of “nigger cloth” died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree, – these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall – a distinct race of beings.
But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion – even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the air of the conqueror – those were motionless with the passive look and downcast mien of the captive. These were masters– those were slaves! They were the slaves of the plantation Besançon.
All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at ease. Mothers sat holding their “piccaninnies” in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate – no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them.
Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent to their future. Some even seemed happy – laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the “white folks.” A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather anticipated such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard – perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past.
I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. A glance was enough to satisfy me that she was not there. There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came.
I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances – perhaps insulting speeches – of which she might be the object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.
I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me.
To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for D’Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only hope.
I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. Of course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. There was the regular “negro-trader,” a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide, – the “cowskin,” – fit emblem of his calling.
In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter “bootees,” laced shirt, and diamond studs.
An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair.
The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp, New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze – trousers of like material with the coat – boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.
The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There, too, the snug smooth banker – the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned – the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look – the rich planter of the coast – the proprietor of the cotton press or “pickery” – with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.
As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green “shad-bellied” coat, passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head – that at once proclaimed his calling.
His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, “Here he comes!” “Yon’s him!” “Here comes the major!”
This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green “shad-belly.” The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B – , the celebrated auctioneer.
In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.
Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.
Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full – there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.
Chapter Sixty
The Slave-Mart
I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. As yet no appearance of D’Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o’clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.
No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a long time.
I had full reliance upon my new friend – almost unknown, but not untried. His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it was money I expected him to bring. He had hinted as much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list – the last lot – Lot 65!
Notwithstanding my confidence in D’Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my gaze upon the door, hoping every moment to see him enter.
Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing. Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that her turn would soon come – too soon. With the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. Surely D’Hauteville will not disappoint me!
A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and fashionably dressed, – the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse. They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them. Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The name was Marigny. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me – a Marigny who had proposed to purchase Aurore. Of course I remembered the name.
“Marigny!” I listened.
“So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?” asked one.
“Qui,” replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. “Oui – oui – oui,” he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. “I do intend —ma foi! – yes.”
“How high will you go?”
“Oh – ah! une petite somme, mon cher ami.”
“A little sum will not do, Marigny,” said the first speaker. “I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her – rich dogs all of them.”
“Who?” inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, “Who, may I inquire?”
“Who? Well there’s Gardette the dentist, who’s half crazed about her; there’s the old Marquis; there’s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for a housekeeper! Ha! ha! ha!”
“I can name another,” suggested a third speaker.
“Name!” demanded several; “yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons.”
“No, not myself,” replied the speaker; “I don’t buy coturiers at that price —deux mille dollares, at the least, my friends. Pardieu! no. I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Tremé.”
“Who, then? Name him!”
“Without hesitation I do, – the old wizen-face Gayarre.”
“Gayarre the avocat?”
“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!”
“Improbable,” rejoined one. “Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady habits – a moralist – a miser.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Le Ber; “it’s plain, Messieurs, you don’t understand the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser though he be, in a general sense, there’s one class with whom he’s generous enough. Il a une douzaine des maîtresses! Besides, you must remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good housekeeper – a femme-de-chambre. Come, friends, I have heard something —un petit chose. I’ll lay a wager the miser outbids every one of you, – even rich generous Marigny here!”
Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance or chagrin – mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was the subject of the conversation.
“It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?” asked one.
“’Tis so said.”
“Why, he was considered the great friend of the family – the associate of old Besançon?”
“Yes, the lawyer-friend of the family – Ha! ha!” significantly rejoined another.
“Poor Eugénie! she’ll be no longer the belle. She’ll now be less difficult to please in her choice of a husband.”
“That’s some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!”
“Oh!” interposed another, “Le Ber had no chance lately. There’s a young Englishman the favourite now – the same who swam ashore with her at the blowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so, Le Ber?”
“You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besançon,” replied the latter, in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, “I would,” replied the questioner, “but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She’s not at her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before. She’s not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?”
I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest. I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugénie, and had sought for her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had said in her letter of “Sacré Coeur.” Perhaps, thought I, she has really gone to the convent. Poor Eugénie!
“Ay, where is she, Monsieur?” asked another of the party.
“Very strange!” said several at once. “Where can she be? Le Ber, you must know.”
“I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besançon,” answered the young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his companions were making.
“There’s something mysterious in all this,” continued one of the number. “I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than Eugénie Besançon.”
It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every word of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Little knew they that the “young Englishman” was near, listening to them, and as little the dire effect their words were producing.
It was not what they said of Eugénie that gave me pain. It was their free speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk in relation to her – their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.
One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sévigné, was more bizarre than any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning upon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was successful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able to endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That event was the entrance of Aurore!
They had again commenced speaking of her – of her chastity – of her rare charms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become possessed of her, and the certainty that she would be the maîtresse of whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty, and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out —
“Voilà! voilà! elle vient!”
I turned mechanically at the words. Aurore was in the entrance.