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 could he want with me?
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 commissioned you to 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. For your 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 with her.
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 become her debtor? 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, that I had expressed my intention of 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 used arguments to 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 that she 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 other pressure was upon her.
I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every direction. Where was she? Was I not to have even 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 to me, but not to you. 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 the sylva of 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 of tillandsia; 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 of samarce– 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 – the Sabal palm 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; the bignonias, with trumpet-shaped corollas; the smilacae, among which are conspicuous the Smilax 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, that I was beloved by Aurore!
I learnt it not from her lips – no words had given me the assurance – and yet I was certain that it was so; 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 upon his grounds 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, a quadroon! – 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 the price 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 Mademoiselle sell her to me? An odd proposal, that of buying her slave 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. With her, 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 hear her voice, 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 my chaussure was 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 at him rather than jealous with her. 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 what she had 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!