The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

by Mayne Reid

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

  THE CREOLE AND QUADROON.

  I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I layfor some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.

  Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and Icould distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presenceof well-dressed women.

  "He wakes, ma'amselle!" half whispered a sweet voice.

  My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thoughtit was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, theblack 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 hadpassed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loudenough to be heard. An ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and Inow saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stoodregarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugenie; beyonddoubt 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 aninquiring glance.

  I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses--enough to perceivethat I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon's namewould require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what tosay. To tell what I had been thinking--to account for the expressions Ihad uttered--would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet tomaintain silence might leave Ma'amselle Besancon busy with some strangethoughts. Something must be said--a little deceit was absolutelynecessary.

  In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what Ishould say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. Ipretended 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 nolonger; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the firsttime to be aware of Mademoiselle's presence, at the same time offeringmy 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 hername? Thanks to Scipio's faithful portraiture, I knew at the firstglance that this was Aurore."

  I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stoodsilent 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 drawnlargely on Scipio's knowledge of plantation affairs. I am alreadyacquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of yourpeople. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisianalife."

  "Monsieur," replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation,"I am glad you are so well. The doctor has given me the assurance youwill soon recover. Noble stranger! I have heard how you received yourwound. 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 asimple duty on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you."

  "No risk, monsieur! Every risk--from the knife of an assassin--from thewaves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall bein 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 afaithful servant."

  "Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed!Since my poor father's death, he has been my father. All my cares werehis; 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 theruffian who wounded you?"

  "He was.--It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope--none--theboat 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 sheshould 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'sfriend--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. Icould not restrain myself--the eyes of childhood returned, and I toowept.

  This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugenie, whoappearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached thebedside.

  "Monsieur," said she, "I fear for some time you will find in me a sadhost. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon mefor thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! Ishall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I havelodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach ofnoises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this presentintrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but--I--Icould not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered himmy thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!"

  I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It hadimpressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for EugenieBesancon;--more than friendship--sympathy: for I could not resist thebelief that, somehow or other, she was in peril--that over that youngheart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.

  I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,--nothing more. And whynothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?

  Because I loved another--_I loved Aurore_!