by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.
THE CRISIS.
No doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found Squire Claiborne inhis chair of office, ready to hear the case. In the tall, thin old man,with white hair and dignified aspect, I recognised a fit representativeof justice--one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect notonly by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personalcharacter. In spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, I read inthe serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fairplay.
I was no longer uneasy. On the way, Reigart had told me to be of goodcheer. He had whispered something about "strange developments to bemade;" but I had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehendwhat he meant. In the hurry and crush I had found no opportunity for anexplanation.
"Keep up your spirits!" said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me."Don't have any fear about the result. It's rather an odd affair, andwill have an odd ending--rather unexpected for somebody, I should say--ha! ha! ha!"
Reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee! Whatcould such conduct mean?
I was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a hightone of authority, commanded that no one should "hold communication withthe prisoner;" and my friend and I were abruptly separated. Strange, Idid not dislike the sheriff for this! I had a secret belief that hismanner--apparently somewhat hostile to me--was assumed for a purpose.The mob required conciliation; and all this _brusquerie_ was a bit ofmanagement on the part of Sheriff Hickman.
On arriving before Justice Claiborne, it required all the authority ofboth sheriff and justice to obtain silence. A partial lull, however,enabled the latter to proceed with the case.
"Now, gentlemen!" said he, speaking in a firm, magisterial tone, "I amready to hear the charge against this young man. Of what is he accused,Colonel Hickman?" inquired the justice, turning to the sheriff.
"Of negro-stealing, I believe," replied the latter.
"Who prefers the charge?"
"Dominique Gayarre," replied a voice from the crowd, which I recognisedas that of Gayarre himself.
"Is Monsieur Gayarre present?" inquired the justice.
The voice again replied in the affirmative, and the fox-like face of theavocat now presented itself in front of the rostrum.
"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre," said the magistrate, recognising him,"what is the charge you bring against the prisoner? State it in fulland upon oath."
Gayarre having gone through the formula of the oath, proceeded with hisplaint in true lawyer style.
I need not follow the circumlocution of legal phraseology. Suffice itto say, that there were several counts in his indictment.
I was first accused of having endeavoured to instigate to mutiny andrevolt the slaves of the plantation Besancon, by having interfered toprevent one of their number from receiving his _just_ punishment!Secondly, I had caused another of these to strike down his overseer; andafterwards had induced him to run away to the woods, and aided him in sodoing! This was the slave Gabriel, who had just that day been capturedin my company. Thirdly and Gayarre now came to the cream of hisaccusation.
"Thirdly," continued he, "I accuse this person of having entered myhouse on the night of October the 18th, and having stolen therefrom thefemale slave Aurore Besancon."
"It is false!" cried a voice, interrupting him. "It is false! _AuroreBesancon_ is _not a slave_!"
Gayarre started, as though some one had thrust a knife into him.
"Who says that?" he demanded, though with a voice that evidentlyfaltered.
"I!" replied the voice; and at the same instant a young man leaped uponone of the benches, and stood with his head overtopping the crowd. Itwas D'Hauteville!
"I say it!" he repeated, in the same firm tone. "_Aurore Besancon is noslave, but a free Quadroon_! Here, Justice Claiborne," continuedD'Hauteville, "do me the favour to read this document!" At the sametime the speaker handed a folded parchment across the room.
The sheriff passed it to the magistrate, who opened it and read aloud.
It proved to be the "free papers" of Aurore the Quadroon--thecertificate of her manumission--regularly signed and attested by hermaster, Auguste Besancon, and left by him in his will.
The astonishment was extreme--so much so that the crowd seemedpetrified, and preserved silence. Their feelings were on the turn.
The effect produced upon Gayarre was visible to all. He seemed coveredwith confusion. In his embarrassment he faltered out--
"I protest against this--that paper has been stolen from my bureau,and--"
"So much the better, Monsieur Gayarre!" said D'Hauteville, againinterrupting him; "so much the better! You confess to its being stolen,and therefore you confess to its being genuine. Now, sir, having thisdocument in your possession, and knowing its contents, how could youclaim Aurore Besancon as your slave?"
Gayarre was confounded. His cadaverous face became of a white, sicklyhue; and his habitual look of malice rapidly gave way to an expressionof terror. He appeared as if he wanted to be gone; and already crouchedbehind the taller men who stood around him.
"Stop, Monsieur Gayarre!" continued the inexorable D'Hauteville, "I havenot done with you yet. Here, Justice Claiborne! I have anotherdocument that may interest you. Will you have the goodness to give ityour attention?"
Saying this, the speaker held out a second folded parchment, which washanded to the magistrate--who, as before, opened the document and readit aloud.
This was a codicil to the will of Auguste Besancon, by which the sum offifty thousand dollars in bank stock was bequeathed to his daughter,Eugenie Besancon, to be paid to her upon the day on which she should beof age by the joint executors of the estate--Monsieur Dominique Gayarreand Antoine Lereux--and these executors were instructed not to makeknown to the recipient the existence of this sum in her favour, untilthe very day of its payment.
"Now, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!" continued D'Hauteville, as soon asthe reading was finished, "I charge you with the embezzlement of thisfifty thousand dollars, with various other sums--of which morehereafter. I charge you with having concealed the existence of thismoney--of having withheld it from the assets of the estate Besancon--ofhaving appropriated it to your own use!"
"This is a serious charge," said Justice Claiborne, evidently impressedwith its truth, and prepared to entertain it. "Your name, sir, if youplease?" continued he, interrogating D'Hauteville, in a mild tone ofvoice.
It was the first time I had seen D'Hauteville in the full light of day.All that had yet passed between us had taken place either in thedarkness of night or by the light of lamps. That morning alone had webeen together for a few minutes by daylight; but even then it was underthe sombre shadow of the woods--where I could have but a faint view ofhis features.
Now that he stood in the light of the open window, I had a full, clearview of his face. The resemblance to some one I had seen before againimpressed me. It grew stronger as I gazed; and before the magistrate'sinterrogatory had received its reply, the shock of my astonishment hadpassed.
"Your name, sir, if you please?" repeated the justice.
"_Eugenie Besancon_!"
At the same instant the hat was pulled off--the black curls were drawnaside--and the fair, golden tresses of the beautiful Creole exhibited tothe view.
A loud huzza broke out--in which all joined, excepting Gayarre and histwo or three ruffian adherents. I felt that I was free.
The conditions had suddenly changed, and the plaintiff had taken theplace of the defendant. Even before the excitement had quieted down, Isaw the sheriff, at the instigation of Reigart and others, strideforward to Gayarre, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of thelatter, arrest him as his prisoner.
"It is false!" cried Gayarre; "a plot--a damnable plot! These documentsare forgeries! the signatures are false--false!"
"Not so, Monsieur Gayarre," said the justice, interrupting him. "Thosedocuments are
not forgeries. This is the handwriting of AugusteBesancon. I knew him well. This is his signature--I could myself swearto it."
"And I!" responded a voice, in a deep solemn tone, which drew theattention of all.
The transformation of Eugene D'Hauteville to Eugenie Besancon hadastonished the crowd; but a greater surprise awaited them in theresurrection of the _steward Antoine_!
Reader! my story is ended. Here upon our little drama must the curtaindrop. I might offer you other tableaux to illustrate the after historyof our characters, but a slight summary must suffice. Your fancy willsupply the details.
It will glad you to know, then, that Eugenie Besancon recovered thewhole of her property--which was soon restored to its flourishingcondition under the faithful stewardship of Antoine.
Alas! there was that that could never be restored--the young cheerfulheart--the buoyant spirit--the virgin love!
But do not imagine that Eugenie Besancon yielded to despair--that shewas ever after the victim of that unhappy passion. No--hers was amighty will; and all its energies were employed to pluck the fatal arrowfrom her heart.
Time and a virtuous life have much power; but far more effective wasthat sympathy of the object beloved--that _pity for love_--which to herwas fully accorded.
Her heart's young hope was crushed--her gay spirit shrouded--but thereare other joys in life besides the play of the passions; and, it may be,the path of love is not the true road to happiness. Oh! that I couldbelieve this! Oh! that I could reason myself into the belief, that thatcalm and unruffled mien--that soft sweet smile were the tokens of aheart at rest. Alas! I cannot. Fate will have its victims. PoorEugenie! God be merciful to thee! Oh, that I could steep thy heart inthe waters of Lethe!
And Reigart? You, reader, will be glad to know that the good doctorprospered--prospered until he was enabled to lay aside his lancet, andbecome a grandee planter--nay more, a distinguished legislator,--one ofthose to whom belongs the credit of having modelled the present systemof Louisiana law--the most advanced code in the civilised world.
You will be glad to learn that Scipio, with his Chloe and the "leetleChloe," were brought back to their old and now happy home--that thesnake-charmer still retained his brawny arms, and never afterwards hadoccasion to seek refuge in his tree-cavern.
You will not be grieved to know, that Gayarre passed several years ofhis after-life in the palace-prison of Baton Rouge, and then disappearedaltogether from the scene. It was said that under a changed name hereturned to France, his native country. His conviction was easy.Antoine had long suspected him of a design to plunder their joint ward,and had determined to put him to the proof. The raft of chairs hadfloated after all; and by the help of these the faithful steward hadgained the shore, far down the river. No one knew of his escape; andthe idea occurred to this strange old man to remain for a while _enperdu_--a silent spectator of the conduct of Monsieur Dominique. Nosooner did Gayarre believe him gone, than the latter advanced boldlyupon his purpose, and hurried events to the described crisis. It wasjust what Antoine had expected; and acting himself as the accuser, theconviction of the avocat was easy and certain. A sentence of five yearsto the State Penitentiary wound up Gayarre's connexion with thecharacters of our story.
It will scarce grieve you to know that "Bully Bill" experienced asomewhat similar fate--that Ruffin, the man-hunter, was drowned by asudden rising of the swamp--and that the "nigger-trader" afterwardsbecame a "nigger-stealer;" and for that crime was sentenced at the courtof Judge Lynch to the punishment of "tar and feathers."
The "sportsmen," Chorley and Hatcher, I never saw again--though theirfuture is not unknown to me. Chorley--the brave and accomplished, butwicked Chorley--was killed in a duel by a Creole of New Orleans, withwhom he had quarrelled at play.
Hatcher's bank "got broke" soon after, and a series of ill-fortune atlength reduced him to the condition of a race-course thimble-rig, andsmall sharper in general.
The pork-merchant I met many years afterward, as a successful _monte_dealer in the "Halls of the Montezumas." Thither he had gone,--acamp-follower of the American army--and had accumulated an enormousfortune by keeping a gambling-table for the officers. He did not livelong to enjoy his evil gains. The "_vomito prieto_" caught him at VeraCruz; and his dust is now mingled with the sands of that dreary shore.
Thus, reader, it has been my happy fortune to record _poetical justice_to the various characters that have figured in the pages of our history.
I hear you exclaim, that two have been forgotten, the hero and heroine?
Ah! no--not forgotten. Would you have me paint the ceremony--the pompand splendour--the ribbons and rosettes--the after-scenes of perfectbliss?
Hymen, forbid! All these must be left to your fancy, if your fancydeign to act. But the interest of a "lover's adventures" usually endswith the consummation of his hopes--not even always extending to thealtar--and you, reader, will scarce be curious to lift the curtain, thatveils the tranquil after-life of myself and my beautiful Quadroon.
NOTE TO THE PREFACE.
After what has been stated in the Preface, it will scarce be necessaryto say that the _names_ and some of the _places_ mentioned in this bookare fictitious. Some of the scenes, and many of the characters thatfigure in these pages, are _real_, and there are those living who willrecognise them.
The book is "founded" upon an actual experience. It was written manyyears ago, and would have been then published, but for the interferenceof a well-known work, which treated of similar scenes and subjects.That work appeared just as the "Quadroon" was about to be put to press;and the author of the the latter, not willing to risk the chances ofbeing considered an imitator had determined on keeping the "Quadroon"from the public.
Circumstances have ruled it otherwise; and having re-written some partsof the work, he now presents it to the reader as a painting--somewhatcoarse and crude, perhaps--of life in Louisiana.
The author disclaims all "intention." The book has been written neitherto aid the Abolitionist nor glorify the planter. The author does notbelieve that by such means he could benefit the slave, else he would notfear to avow it. On the other hand, he is too true a Republican, to bethe instrument that would add one drop to the "bad blood" which,unfortunately for the cause of human freedom, has already arisen between"North" and "South." No; he will be the last man to aid Europeandespots in this, their dearest wish and desperate hope.
_London, July_, 1856.