by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER SIXTY.
THE SLAVE-MART.
I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every formthat passed in. As yet no appearance of D'Hauteville! Surely he wouldsoon arrive. He said at twelve o'clock. It was now one, and still hehad not come.
No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be soanxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be along time.
I had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried.His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfectconfidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did notshake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtainingthe money, for it was _money_ I expected him to bring. He had hinted asmuch. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be intime. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the lastlot--Lot 65!
Notwithstanding my confidence in D'Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It wasvery natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept mygaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter.
Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant andmonotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of hisivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequentstrokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing.Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, Icould not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that_her_ turn would soon come--too soon. With the fancy my heart beatquicker and wilder. Surely D'Hauteville will not disappoint me!
A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, andfashionably dressed,--the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse.They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them.Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not oneof them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. Thename was _Marigny_. I had an unpleasant recollection associated withthis name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me--a Marignywho had proposed to _purchase Aurore_. Of course I remembered the name.
"Marigny!" I listened.
"So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one.
"_Qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishlydressed. "_Oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as hedrew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. "I dointend--_ma foi_!--yes."
"How high will you go?"
"Oh--ah! _une petite somme, mon cher ami_."
"A _little sum_ will not do, Marigny," said the first speaker. "I knowhalf-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them."
"Who?" inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference,"Who, may I inquire?"
"Who? Well there's Gardette the dentist, who's half crazed about her;there's the old Marquis; there's planter Tillareau and Lebon, ofLafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; andwho knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may wanther for a _housekeeper_! Ha! ha! ha!"
"I can name another," suggested a third speaker.
"Name!" demanded several; "yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want asempstress for your shirt-buttons."
"No, not myself," replied the speaker; "I don't buy _coturiers_ at thatprice--_deux mille dollares_, at the least, my friends. _Pardieu_! no.I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Treme."
"Who, then? Name him!"
"Without hesitation I do,--the old wizen-face Gayarre."
"Gayarre the avocat?"
"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!"
"Improbable," rejoined one. "Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steadyhabits--a moralist--a miser."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Le Ber; "it's plain, Messieurs, you don't understandthe character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miserthough he be, in a general sense, there's one class with whom he'sgenerous enough. _Il a une douzaine des maitresses_! Besides, you mustremember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a goodhousekeeper--a _femme-de-chambre_. Come, friends, I have heardsomething--_un petit chose_. I'll lay a wager the miser outbids _every_one of you,--even rich generous Marigny here!"
Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance orchagrin--mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who wasthe subject of the conversation.
"It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?"asked one.
"'Tis so said."
"Why, he was considered the great friend of the family--the associate ofold Besancon?"
"Yes, the _lawyer-friend_ of the family--Ha! ha!" significantly rejoinedanother.
"Poor Eugenie! she'll be no longer the belle. She'll now be lessdifficult to please in her choice of a husband."
"That's some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!"
"Oh!" interposed another, "Le Ber had no chance lately. There's a youngEnglishman the favourite now--the same who swam ashore with her at theblowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so,Le Ber?"
"You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besancon," replied the latter,in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, "I would," replied thequestioner, "but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She's notat her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before.She's not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?"
I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest.I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugenie, and had sought forher that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but noone could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she hadsaid in her letter of "_Sacre Coeur_." Perhaps, thought I, she hasreally gone to the convent. Poor Eugenie!
"Ay, where is she, Monsieur?" asked another of the party.
"Very strange!" said several at once. "Where can she be? Le Ber, youmust know."
"I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besancon," answered theyoung man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was reallyignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which hiscompanions were making.
"There's something mysterious in all this," continued one of the number."I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than EugenieBesancon."
It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every wordof it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could havestrangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Littleknew they that the "young Englishman" was near, listening to them, andas little the dire effect their words were producing.
It was not what they said of Eugenie that gave me pain. It was theirfree speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk inrelation to her--their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, andcoldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.
One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sevigne, was more _bizarre_ thanany of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turningupon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort wassuccessful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able toendure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which atonce drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That eventwas _the entrance of Aurore_!
They had again commenced speaking of her--of her chastity--of her rarecharms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would becomepossessed of her, and the _certainty_ that she would be the _maitresse_of whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty,and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at oncethe clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out--
"_Voila! voila! elle vient_!"
I turned mechanically at the words. Aurore was in the entrance.