by Reid, Mayne
The tone of Scipio’s laugh showed that he was more than satisfied—proud, in fact—of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a little creature as Chloe!
Chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had saved her mistress’ life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and dishes; for which negligence Scipio would have boxed her ears, but for my intercession. The odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life, interested me.
I had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness. I had eaten nothing on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by most of the passengers, myself among the number. Scipio’s preparations now put my palate in tune, and I did ample justice to the skill of Chloe’s mother, who, as Scipio informed me, was “de boss in de kitchen.” The tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasséed and garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood. With the exception of the slight pain of my wound, I already felt quite restored.
My attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while Scipio returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders.
“And now, Scipio,” I said, as soon as we were alone, “tell me of Aurore!”
“’Rore, mass’r!”
“Yes—Who is Aurore?”
“Poor slave, mass’r; jes like Ole Zip heamseff.”
The vague interest I had begun to feel in “Aurore” vanished at once.
“A slave!” repeated I, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment.
“She Missa ’Génie’s maid,” continued Scipio; “dress missa’s hair—wait on her—sit wi’ her—read to her—do ebbery ting—”
“Read to her! what!—a slave?”
My interest in Aurore began to return.
“Ye, mass’r—daat do ’Rore. But I ’splain to you. Ole Mass’r ’Sançon berry good to de coloured people—teach many ob um read de books—’specially ’Rore. ’Rore he ’struckt read, write, many, many tings, and young Missa ’Génie she teach her de music. ’Rore she ’complish gal—berry ’complish gal. Know many ting; jes like de white folks. Plays on de peany—plays on de guitar—guitar jes like banjo, an Ole Zip play on daat heamseff—he do. Wugh!”
“And withal, Aurore is a poor slave just like the rest of you, Scipio?”
“Oh! no, mass’r; she be berry different from de rest. She lib different life from de other nigga—she no hard work—she berry vallyble—she fetch two thousand dollar!”
“Fetch two thousand dollars!”
“Ye, mass’r, ebbery cent—ebbery cent ob daat.”
“How know you?”
“’Case daat much war bid for her. Mass’r Marigny want buy ’Rore, an Mass’r Crozat, and de American Colonel on de oder side ob ribber—dey all bid two thousand dollar—ole mass’r he only larf at um, and say he won’t sell de gal for no money.”
“This was in old master’s time?”
“Ye—ye—but one bid since—one boss ob ribber-boat—he say he want ’Rore for de lady cabin. He talk rough to her. Missa she angry—tell ’im go. Mass’r Toney he angry, tell ’im go; and de boat captain he go angry like de rest. Hya! hya! hya!”
“And why should Aurore command such a price?”
“Oh! she berry good gal—berry good gal—but—”
Scipio hesitated a moment—“but—”
“Well?”
“I don’t b’lieve, mass’r, daat’s de reason.”
“What, then?”
“Why, mass’r, to tell de troof, I b’lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal.”
Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.
“Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?”
“Mass’r, ’taint for dis ole nigger to judge ’bout daat; but folks dey say—bof white folks an black folks—daat she am de best-lookin’ an hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna.”
“Ha! a quadroon?”
“Daat are a fact, mass’r, daat same—she be a gal ob colour—nebber mind—she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr’all daat dar am great difference—one rich lady—t’other poor slave—jes like Ole Zip—ay, jes like Ole Zip—buy ’em, sell ’em, all de same.”
“Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?”
It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me—those features of strange type—its strangely-beautiful expression, not Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible—probable—
“Could you describe her, Scipio?” I repeated.
“’Scribe her, mass’r; daat what you mean? ye—yes.”
I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few “points” would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no dream, but a reality.
“Well, mass’r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers envy ob her—daat’s de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows—she talk to ’im, an tell ’im many tings—she help teach Ole Zip read, and de ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she—”
“It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio.”
“Oh! a ’scription ob her person—ye—daat is, what am she like?”
“So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?”
“Brack, mass’r; brack as a boot.”
“Is it straight hair?”
“No, mass’r—ob course not—Aurore am a quaderoom.”
“It curls?”
“Well, not dzactly like this hyar;” here Scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; “but for all daat, mass’r, it curls—what folks call de wave.”
“I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?”
“Daat it do, mass’r, down to de berry small ob her back.”
“Luxuriant?”
“What am dat, mass’r?”
“Thick—bushy.”
“Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon’s tail.”
“Now the eyes?”
Scipio’s description of the quadroon’s eyes was rather a confused one. He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: “Dey am big an round—dey shine like de eyes of a deer.” The nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was straight and small. The eyebrows—the teeth—the complexion—were all faithfully pictured—that of the cheeks by a simile, “like de red ob a Georgium peach.”
Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety I could not account for.
The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair—this priceless quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.
“Scipio wanted, mass’r—daat him bell—be back, ’gain in a minute, mass’r.”
So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.
I lay reflecting on the singular—somewhat romantic—situation in which circumstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday—but the night before—a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me—to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried—the invalid guest—laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended.
These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio’s picture of the quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were around me when I
fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.
The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen.
The Creole and Quadroon.
I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.
Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.
“He wakes, ma’amselle!” half whispered a sweet voice.
My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek—all before me!
“Is it a dream? No—she breathes; she moves; she speaks!”
“See! ma’amselle—he looks at us! Surely he is awake!”
“It is no dream, then—no vision; it is she—it is Aurore!”
Up to this moment I was still but half conscious. The thought had passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and I now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugénie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!
“Your name!” said the astonished mistress.
“My name!” repeated the equally astonished slave.
“But how?—he knows your name—how?”
“I cannot tell, ma’amselle.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No; not till this moment.”
“’Tis very strange!” said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.
I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses—enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon’s name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking—to account for the expressions I had uttered—would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma’amselle Besançon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said—a little deceit was absolutely necessary.
In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words—
“’Tis very strange he should know your name!”
My imprudent speech had made an impression. I could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first time to be aware of Mademoiselle’s presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.
After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked—
“But how came you to name Aurore?”
“Aurore!” I replied. “Oh! you think it strange that I should know her name? Thanks to Scipio’s faithful portraiture, I knew at the first glance that this was Aurore.”
I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished.
“Oh! Scipio has been speaking of her?”
“Yes, ma’amselle. He and I have had a busy morning of it. I have drawn largely on Scipio’s knowledge of plantation affairs. I am already acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your people. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana life.”
“Monsieur,” replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, “I am glad you are so well. The doctor has given me the assurance you will soon recover. Noble stranger! I have heard how you received your wound. For me it was—in my defence. Oh! how shall I ever repay you?—how thank you for my life?”
“No thanks, ma’amselle, are necessary. It was the fulfilment of a simple duty on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you.”
“No risk, monsieur! Every risk—from the knife of an assassin—from the waves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. My heart tells me so;—alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant.”
“Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed! Since my poor father’s death, he has been my father. All my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. I knew not trouble. But now, alas! I know not what is before me.”
Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired—
“When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?”
“He was.—It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope—none—the boat went down a few moments after. Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!”
Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before. I could offer no consolation. I did not attempt it. It was better she should weep. Tears alone could relieve her.
“The coachman, Pierre, too—one of the most devoted of my people—he, too, is lost. I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father’s friend—he was mine—Oh! the loss—the loss;—friendless; and yet, perhaps, I may soon need friends. Pauvre Antoine!”
She wept as she uttered these phrases. Aurore was also in tears. I could not restrain myself—the eyes of childhood returned, and I too wept.
This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugénie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside.
“Monsieur,” said she, “I fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! I shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this present intrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but—I—I could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!”
I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugénie Besançon;—more than friendship—sympathy: for I could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril—that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.
I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,—nothing more. And why nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?
Because I loved another—I loved Aurore!
* * *
Chapter Nineteen.
A Louisian Landscape.
Life in the chamber of an invalid—who cares to listen to its details? They can interest no one—scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections—a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being I loved. At such moments I was no longer ennuyé; my spirit escaped from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an Elysium.
Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes’ duration, while the intervals between them were hours—long hours—so long, I fancied them days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion. Neither ever came alone!
There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My conversation was with the Creole, my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the
conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language.
Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy—I thought not of such a thing. Eugénie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her. From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me!
How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Did she love me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare I exchange with her, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!
I understood this feeling well—this black crime of her nation. What was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of Love, rank loses its fictitious charm—titles seem trivial things. For me, Beauty wears the crown.
So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love—not a straw for its scorn. But there were other considerations—the courtesy due to hospitality—to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature—the promptings of prudence. The situation in which I was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my passion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian—a ward in Chancery—an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but “child’s play” to break through the entourage that surrounds one of such. To scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!