The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

by Mayne Reid

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

  EUGENE D'HAUTEVILLE.

  The remainder of the day I was occupied in searching for Aurore. Icould learn nothing of her--not even whether she had yet reached thecity!

  In search of her I went to the quarters where the others had theirtemporary lodgment. She was not these. She had either not yet arrived,or was kept at some other place. They had not seen her! They knewnothing about her.

  Disappointed and wearied with running through the hot and dusty streets,I returned to the hotel.

  I waited for night. I waited for the coming of Eugene d'Hauteville, forsuch was the name of my new acquaintance.

  I was strangely interested in this young man. Our short interview hadinspired me with a singular confidence in him. He had given proof of afriendly design towards me; and still more had impressed me with a highidea of his knowledge of the world. Young as he was, I could not helpfancying him a being possessed of some mysterious power. I could nothelp thinking that in some way he might aid me. There was nothingremarkable in his being so young and still _au-fait_ to all themysteries of life. Precocity is the privilege of the American,especially the native of New Orleans. A Creole at fifteen is a man.

  I felt satisfied that D'Hauteville--about my own age--knew far more ofthe world than I, who had been half my life cloistered within the wallsof an antique university.

  I had an instinct that he both _could_ and _would_ serve me.

  How? you may ask. By lending me the money I required?

  It could not be thus. I believed that he was himself without funds, orpossessed of but little--far too little to be of use to me. My reasonfor thinking so was the reply he had made when I asked for his address.There was something in the tone of his answer that led me to the thoughtthat he was without fortune--even without a home. Perhaps a clerk outof place, thought I; or a poor artist. His dress was rich enough--butdress is no criterion on a Mississippi steamboat.

  With these reflections it was strange I should have been impressed withthe idea _he_ could serve me! But I was so, and had therefore resolvedto make him the confidant of my secret--the secret of my love--thesecret of my misery.

  Perhaps another impulse acted upon me, and aided in bringing me to thisdetermination. He whose heart has been charged with a deep grief mustknow the relief which sympathy can afford. The sympathy of friendshipis sweet and soothing. There is balm in the counsel of a kindcompanion.

  My sorrow had been long pent up within my own bosom, and yearned to findexpression. Stranger among strangers, I had no one to share it with me.Even to the good Reigart I had not confessed myself. With theexception of Aurore herself, Eugenie--poor Eugenie--was alone mistressof my secret. Would that she of all had never known it!

  Now to this youth Eugene--strange coincidence of name!--I was resolvedto impart it--resolved to unburden my heart. Perhaps, in so doing Imight find consolation or relief.

  I waited for the night. It was at night he had promised to come. Iwaited with impatience--with my eyes bent almost continuously on theindex finger of time, and chafing at the slow measured strokes of thependulum.

  I was not disappointed. He came at length. His silvery voice rang inmy ears, and he stood before me.

  As he entered my room, I was once more struck with the melancholyexpression of his countenance--the pale cheek--the resemblance to someface I had met before.

  The room was close and hot. The summer had not yet quite departed. Iproposed a walk. We could converse as freely in the open air, and therewas a lovely moon to light us on our way.

  As we sallied forth, I offered my visitor a cigar. This he declined,giving his reason. He did not smoke.

  Strange, thought I, for one of a race, who almost universally indulge inthe habit. Another peculiarity in the character of my new acquaintance!

  We passed up the Rue Royale, and turned along Canal Street in thedirection of the "Swamp." Presently we crossed the Rue des Rampartes,and soon found ourselves outside the limits of the city.

  Some buildings appeared beyond, but they were not houses--at least notdwelling-places for the living. The numerous cupolas crowned withcrosses--the broken columns--the monuments of white marble, gleamingunder the moon, told us that we looked upon a city of the dead. It wasthe great cemetery of New Orleans--that cemetery where the poor afterdeath are _drowned_, and the rich fare no better, for they are _baked_!

  The gate stood open--the scene within invited me--its solemn characterwas in unison with my spirit. My companion made no objection, and weentered.

  After wending our way among tombs, and statues, and monuments; miniaturetemples, columns, obelisks, sarcophagi carved in snow-white marble--passing graves that spoke of recent affliction--others of older date,but garnished with fresh flowers--the symbols of lore or affection thatstill lingered--we seated ourselves upon a moss-grown slab, with thefronds of the Babylonian willow waving above our heads, and droopingmournfully around us.