by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.
VENTE IMPORTANTE DES NEGRES.
"_L'abeille_, Monsieur?"
The _garcon_ who helped me to the fragrant cup, at the same time handedme a newspaper fresh from the press.
It was a large sheet, headed upon one side "L'Abeille", on the reverseits synonyme in English, "The Bee." Half of its contents were inFrench, half in English: each half was a counterpart--a translation ofthe other.
I mechanically took the journal from the hand of the waiter, but withouteither the design or inclination to read it. Mechanically my eyeswandered over its broad-sheet--scarce heeding the contents.
All at once, the heading of an advertisement fixed my gaze and myattention. It was on the "French side" of the paper.
"Annoncement."
"_Vente importante des Negres_!" Yes--it was they. The announcementwas no surprise to me. I expected as much.
I turned to the translation on the reverse page, in order to comprehendit more clearly. There it was in all its broad black meaning:--
"_Important Sale of Negroes_!" I read on:--"_Estate in Bankruptcy.Plantation Besancon_!"
"Poor Eugenie!"
Farther:--
"_Forty able-bodied field-hands, of different ages. Several first-ratedomestic servants, coachman, cooks, chamber-maids, wagon-drivers. Anumber of likely mulatto boys and girls, from ten to twenty_," etcetera,etcetera.
The list followed _in extenso_. I read--
"Lot 1. _Scipio, 48. Able-bodied black, 5 foot 11 inches, understandshouse-work, and the management of horses. Sound and without blemish_.
"Lot 2. _Hannibal, 40. Dark mulatto, 5 foot 9 inches, good coachman,sound and steady_.
"Lot 3. _Cesar, 43. Black field-hand. Sound_," etcetera, etcetera.
My eyes could not wait for the disgusting details. They ran down thecolumn in search of that name. They would have lit upon it sooner, butthat my hands trembled, and the vibratory motion of the sheet almostprevented me from reading. It was there at length--_last upon thelist_! "Why last?" No matter--her "description" was there.
Can I trust myself to read it? Down, burning heart, still your wildthrobbings!
"Lot 65. _Aurore. 19. Quadroon. Likely_--_good housekeeper, andsempstress_."
Portrait sketched by refined pen--brief and graphic.
"Likely," ha! ha! ha! "Likely," ha! ha! The brute who wrote thatparagraph would have described Venus as a likely gal.
'Sdeath! I cannot jest--this desecration of all that is lovely--allthat is sacred--all that is dear to my heart, is torture itself. Theblood is boiling in my veins--my bosom is wrung with dire emotions!
The journal fell from my hands, and I bent forward over the table, myfingers clutching each other. I could have groaned aloud had I beenalone. But I was not. I sat in the great refectory of the hotel. Menwere near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known itscause.
Some minutes elapsed before I could reflect on what I had read. I satin a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions.
Reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action. Morethan ever did I now desire to become the purchaser of the beautifulslave--to redeem her from this hideous bondage. I should buy her. Ishould set her free. True or false to me, I should accomplish this allthe same. I should make no claim for gratitude. She should choose forherself. She should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude,at least in that of her love. A love based only on gratitude would notcontent me. Such could not last. Her heart should freely bestowitself. If I had already won it, well. If not, and it had fixed itsaffection upon another--mine be the grief. Aurore, at all events, shallbe happy.
My love had elevated my soul--had filled it with such noble resolves.
And now to set her free.
When was this hideous exhibition--this "Important Sale," to come off?When was my betrothed to be sold, and I to assist at the spectacle?
I took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place. The place Iknew well--the Rotundo of the Saint Louis exchange--adjoining the hotel,and within twenty yards of where I sat. That was the slave-market. Butthe time--it was of more importance--indeed of all importance. StrangeI did not think of this before! Should it be at an early date, and myletter not have arrived! I dared not trust myself with such asupposition. Surely it would be a week--several days, at the least--before a sale of so much importance would take place. Ha! it may havebeen advertised for some days. The negroes may have been brought downonly at the last moment!
My hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph. At length theyrested upon it. I read with painful surprise:--
"_To-morrow at twelve_!"
I looked to the date of the journal. All correct. It was the issue ofthat morning. I looked to the dial on the wall. The clock was on thestroke of _twelve_! Just one day to elapse.
"O God! if my letter should not have arrived!"
I drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents. I knewnot why I did so. I knew it contained but a hundred dollars. The"sportsmen" had reduced it in bulk. When I had finished counting it, Icould not help smiling at the absurdity of the thing. "A hundreddollars _for the quadroon! Likely_--_good housekeeper, etcetera! ahundred dollars bid_!" The auctioneer would not be likely to repeat thebid.
All now depended on the English mail. If it had not arrived already, ordid not before the morning, I would be helpless. Without the letter onmy New Orleans banker, I could not raise fifty pounds--watch, jewels,and all. As to borrowing, I did not think of such a thing. Who was tolend me money? Who to an almost perfect stranger would advance such asum as I required? No one I felt certain. Reigart could not havehelped me to so large an amount, even had there been time to communicatewith him. No--there was no one who _would_, that _could_ have favouredme. No one I could think of.
"Stop:"--the banker himself! Happy thought, the banker Brown! Good,generous Brown, of the English house, Brown and Co., who, with smilingface, has already cashed my drafts for me. He will do it! The veryman! Why did I not think of him sooner? Yes; if the letter have notreached him I shall tell him that I expect it every day, and its amount.He will advance the money.
"Twelve o'clock gone. There is no time to be lost. He's in hiscounting-house by this. I shall at once apply to him."
I seized my hat, and hastening out of the hotel, took my way through thestreets towards the banking-house of Brown and Co.