by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER SIX.
ANTOINE THE STEWARD.
I had been very much struck by the appearance of this dame. Not so muchon account of her physical beauty--though that was of a rare kind--as bythe air that characterised her. I should feel a difficulty indescribing this, which consisted in a certain _braverie_ that bespokecourage and self-possession. There was no coarseness of manner--onlythe levity of a heart gay as summer, and light as gossamer, but capable,when occasion required, of exhibiting a wonderful boldness and strength.She was a woman that would be termed beautiful in any country; but withher beauty there was combined elegance, both in dress and manner, thattold you at once she was a lady accustomed to society and the world.And this, although still young--she certainly could not have been muchover twenty. Louisiana has a precocious climate, however; and a Creoleof twenty will count for an Englishwoman of ten years older.
Was she married? I could not bring myself to think so; besides theexpressions, "my plantation" and "my steward," would scarcely have beenused by a lady who had "somebody" at home, unless, indeed, that somebodywere held in very low estimation--in short, considered a "nobody." Awidow she might be--a very young widow--but even that did not seem to meprobable. She had not the "cut" of a widow in my eyes, and there wasnot the semblance of a "weed" either about her dress or her looks. TheCaptain had styled her _Madame_, but he was evidently unacquainted withher, and also with the French idiom. In a doubtful case such as this,it should have been "Mademoiselle."
Inexperienced as I was at the time--"green," as the Americans have it--Iwas not without some curiosity in regard to women, especially when thesechanced to be beautiful. My curiosity in the present case had beenstimulated by several circumstances. First, by the attractiveloveliness of the lady herself; second, by the style of her conversationand the facts it had revealed; third, by the circumstance that the ladywas, or I fancied her to be, a "Creole."
I had as yet had but little intercourse with people of this peculiarrace, and was somewhat curious to know more about them. I had foundthem by no means ready to open their doors to the Saxon stranger--especially the old "Creole _noblesse_," who even to this hour regardtheir Anglo-American fellow-citizens somewhat in the light of invadersand usurpers! This feeling was at one time deeply rooted. With time,however, it is dying out.
A fourth spur to my curiosity was found in the fact, that the lady inpassing had eyed me with a glance of more than ordinary inquisitiveness.Do not be too hasty in blaming me for this declaration. Hear me first.I did not for a moment fancy that that glance was one of admiration. Ihad no such thoughts. I was too young at the time to flatter myselfwith such fancies. Besides, at that precise moment I was far from being"in my zenith." With scarce five dollars in my purse, I felt ratherforlorn; and how could I have fancied that a brilliant beauty such asshe--a star of first magnitude--a rich proprietress--the owner of aplantation, a steward, and a host of slaves--would condescend to lookadmiringly on such a friendless wretch as I?
In truth, I did not flatter myself with such thoughts. I supposed thatit was simple curiosity on her part--and no more. She saw that I wasnot of her own race. My complexion--the colour of my eyes--the cut ofmy garments--perhaps something _gauche_ in my manner--told her I was astranger to the soil, and that had excited her interest for a passingmoment. A mere ethnological reflection--nothing more.
The act, however, had helped to pique my curiosity; and I felt desirousof knowing at least the name of this distinguished creature.
The "steward," thought I, may serve my purpose, and I turned towardsthat individual.
He was a tall, grey-haired, lathy, old Frenchman, well-dressed, andsufficiently respectable-looking to have passed for the lady's father.His aspect, too, was quite venerable, giving you the idea of longservice and a very old family.
I saw, as I approached him, that my chances were but indifferent. Ifound him as "close as a clam." Our conversation was very brief; hisanswers laconic.
"Monsieur, may I ask who is your mistress?"
"A lady."
"True: any one may tell that who has the good fortune of looking at her.It was her name I asked for."
"It does not concern you to know it."
"Not if it be of so much importance to keep it a secret!"
"_Sacr-r-re_!"
This exclamation, muttered, rather than spoken aloud, ended thedialogue; and the old fellow turned away on giving expression to it--nodoubt cursing me in his heart as a meddling Yankee.
I applied myself to the sable Jehu of the barouche, but with no bettersuccess. He was getting his horses aboard, and not liking to givedirect answers to my questions, he "dodged" them by dodging around hishorses, and appearing to be very busy on the offside. Even the _name_ Iwas unable to get out of him, and I also gave _him_ up in despair.
The name, however, was furnished me shortly after from an unexpectedsource. I had returned to the boat, and had seated myself once moreunder the awning, watching the boatmen, with rolled-up red shirts, usetheir brawny arms in getting their freight aboard. I saw it was thesame which had been delivered from the drays--the property of the lady.It consisted, for the most part, of barrels of pork and flour, with aquantity of dried hams, and some bags of coffee.
"Provisions for her large establishment," soliloquised I.
Just then some packages of a different character were pushed upon thestaging. These were leathern trunks, travelling bags, rosewood cases,bonnet-boxes, and the like.
"Ha! her personal luggage," I again reflected, and continued to puff mycigar. Regarding the transfer of the trunks, my eye was suddenlyattracted to some lettering that appeared upon one of the packages--aleathern portmanteau. I sprang from my seat, and as the article wascarried up the gangway stair I met it halfway. I glanced my eye overthe lettering, and read--
"_Mademoiselle Eugenie Besancon_."