The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

I rode on without heeding the “black looks” that were cast upon me, and indeed soon ceased thinking of them. My mind was too full of anxiety about the approaching interview to be impressed with minor cares.

Of course Eugénie would have heard all about the affair of yesterday. What would be her feelings in relation to it? I felt certain that this ruffian was forced upon, her by Gayarre. She would have no sympathy with him. The question was, would she have the courage – nay, the power to discharge him from her service? Even on hearing who he was? It was doubtful enough!

I was overwhelmed with sympathy for this poor girl. I felt satisfied that Gayarre must be her creditor to a large amount, and in that way had her in his power. What he had said to Aurore convinced me that such was the case. Indeed, Reigart had heard some whisper that his debt had already been proved before the courts in New Orleans; that no opposition had been made; that he had obtained a verdict, and could seize upon her property, or as much of it as would satisfy his demands, at any moment! It was only the night before Reigart had told me this, and the information had rendered me all the more anxious to hasten my business in relation to Aurore.

I spurred into a gallop, and soon came in sight of the plantation. Having arrived at the gate, I dismounted. There was no one to hold my horse, but that is a slight matter in America, where a gate-post or a branch of a tree often serves as a groom.

Bethinking me of this ready expedient I tossed my rein over one of the palings, and walked toward the house.

Chapter Twenty Nine

“Elle t’aime!”

It was natural I should have thoughts about my yesterday’s antagonist. Would I encounter him? Not likely. The butt of my whip had no doubt given him a headache that would confine him for some days to his quarters. But I was prepared for any event. Under my waistcoat were his own double-barrelled pistols, which I intended to use, if attacked. It was my first essay at carrying “concealed weapons,” but it was the fashion of the country at the time – a fashion followed by nineteen out of every twenty persons you met – by planters, merchants, lawyers, doctors, and even divines! So prepared, I had no fear of an encounter with “Bully Bill.” If my pulse beat quick and my step was nervous, it was on account of the anticipated interview with his mistress.

With all the coolness I could command, I entered the house.

I found Mademoiselle in the drawing-room. She received me without reserve or embarrassment. To my surprise as well as gratification she appeared more cheerful than usual. I could even detect a significant smile! I fancied she was pleased at what had occurred; for of course she was aware of it all. I could understand this well enough.

Aurore was not present. I was glad she was not. I hoped she would not come into the room —at least for a time. I was embarrassed. I scarce knew how to open the conversation, much less to break to Mademoiselle the matter that was nearest my heart. A few ordinary phrases passed between us, and then our conversation turned upon the affair of yesterday. I told her all – everything – except the scene with Aurore. That was omitted.

I hesitated for some time whether I should let her know who her overseer was. When she should ascertain that he was the fellow who had wounded me on the boat, and who but for me would have taken away her chances of safety, I felt certain she would insist upon getting rid of him at all risks.

For a moment I reflected upon the consequences. “She will never be safe,” thought I, “with such a ruffian at her side. Better for her to make stand at once.” Under this belief I boldly came out with the information.

She seemed astounded, and clasping her hands, remained for some moments in an attitude of mute agony. At length she cried out —

“Gayarre – Gayarre! it is you, Monsieur Gayarre! Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Where is my father? where is Antoine? God have mercy upon me!”

The expression of grief upon her lovely countenance went to my heart. She looked an angel of sorrow, sad but beautiful.

I interrupted her with consolatory phrases of the ordinary kind. Though I could only guess the nature of her sorrow, she listened to me patiently, and I fancied that what I said gave her pleasure.

Taking courage from this, I proceeded to inquire more particularly the cause of her grief. “Mademoiselle,” said I, “you will pardon the liberty I am taking; but for some time I have observed, or fancied, that you have a cause of – of – unhappiness – ”

She fixed her eyes upon me in a gaze of silent wonder. I hesitated a moment under this strange regard, and then continued —

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I speak too boldly; I assure you my motive – ”

“Speak on, Monsieur!” she said, in a calm sad voice.

“I noticed this the more, because when I first had the pleasure of seeing you, your manner was so very different – in fact, quite the reverse – ”

A sigh and a sad smile were the only reply. These interrupted me for but a moment, and I proceeded: —

“When first observing this change, Mademoiselle, I attributed it to grief for the loss of your faithful servitor and friend.”

Another melancholy smile.

“But the period of sorrowing for such a cause is surely past, and yet – ”

“And yet you observe that I am still sad?”

“Just so, Mademoiselle.”

“True, Monsieur; it is even so.”

“I have ceased therefore to regard that as the cause of your melancholy; and have been forced to think of some other – ”

The gaze of half surprise, half interrogation, that now met mine, caused me for a moment to suspend my speech. After a pause, I resumed it, determined to come at once to the point, “You will pardon me, Mademoiselle, for this free interest in your affairs – you will pardon me for asking. Do I not recognise in Monsieur Gayarre the cause of your unhappiness?”

She started at the question, and turned visibly paler. In a moment, however, she seemed to recover herself, and replied calmly, but with a look of strange significance: —

“Hélas! Monsieur, your suspicions are but partially correct. Hélas! Oh! God, support me!” she added, in a tone that sounded like despair. Then, as if by an effort, her manner seemed to undergo a sudden alteration, and she continued: —

“Please, Monsieur, let us change the subject? I owe you life and gratitude. Would I knew how to repay you for your generous gallantry – your – your —friendship. Perhaps some day you may know all. I would tell you now, but – but – Monsieur – there are – I cannot – ”

“Mademoiselle Besançon, I entreat you, do not for a moment let the questions I have asked have any consideration. They were not put from idle curiosity. I need not tell you, Mademoiselle, that my motive was of a higher kind – ”

“I know it, Monsieur – I know it; but no more of it now, I pray you – let us speak on some other subject.”

Some other subject! I had no longer the choice of one. I had no longer control of my tongue. The subject which was nearest my heart sprang spontaneously to my lips; and in hurried words I declared my love for Aurore.

I detailed the whole course of my passion, from the hour of my dreamlike vision up to that when we had plighted our mutual troth.

My listener was seated upon the low ottoman directly before me; but from motives of bashfulness I had kept my eyes averted during the time I was speaking. She heard me without interruption, and I augured well from this silence.

I concluded at length, and with trembling heart was awaiting her reply; when a deep sigh, followed by a rustling sound, caused me suddenly to turn. Eugénie had fallen upon the floor!

With a glance I saw she had fainted. I flung my arms around her, and carried her to the sofa.

I was about to call for assistance when the door opened, and a form glided into the room. It was Aurore!

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the latter; “vous l’avez faire mourir! Elle t’aime – Elle t’aime!”

Chapter Thirty

Thoughts

That night I passed without repose. How was it with Eugénie? How with Aurore?

Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were singularly blended. The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure; but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole! That the latter loved me I no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from giving me joy, filled me with keen regret. Accursed vanity, that can enjoy such a triumph, – vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable to return! Mine did not: it grieved instead.

In thought I reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed between us – Eugénie Besançon and myself. I communed with my conscience, asking myself the question, Was I innocent? Had I done aught, either by word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love? – to produce the first delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes a fixed and vivid picture? Upon the boat? Or afterwards? I remembered that at first sight I had gazed upon her with admiring eyes. I remembered that in hers I had beheld that strange expression of interest which I had attributed to curiosity or some other cause – I knew not what. Vanity, of which no doubt I possess my share, had not interpreted those tender glances aright – had not even whispered me they were the flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits. Had I been instrumental in nurturing those flowers of the heart? – had I done aught to beguile them to their fatal blooming?

I examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that had passed between us. I thought of all that had occurred during our passage upon the boat – during the tragic scene that followed. I could not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which I might condemn myself. I gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me innocent.

Afterwards – after that terrible night – after those burning eyes and that strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses – after that moment I could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial. During the hours of my convalescence – during the whole period of my stay upon the plantation – I could remember nothing in my intercourse with Eugénie Besançon to give me cause for regret. Towards her I had observed a studied respect – nothing more. Secretly I felt friendship and sympathy; more especially after I had noted the change in her manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune. Alas, poor Eugénie! Little did I guess the nature of that cloud! Little did I dream how dark it was!

Notwithstanding my self-exculpation, I still felt pain. Had Eugénie Besançon been a woman of ordinary character I might have borne my reflections more lightly. But to a heart so highly attuned, so noble, so passionate, what would be the shock of an unrequited love? Terrible it must be; perhaps the more so at thus finding her rival in her own slave!

Strange confidante had I chosen for my secret! Strange ear into which I had poured the tale of my love! Oh that I had not made my confession! What suffering had I caused this fair, this unfortunate lady!

Such painful reflections coursed through my mind; but there were others equally bitter, and with bitterness springing from a far different source. What would be the effect of the disclosure? How would it affect our future – the future of myself and Aurore? How would Eugénie act? Towards me? towards Aurore —her slave?

My confession had received no response. The mute lips murmured neither reply nor adieu. I had gazed but a moment on the insensible form. Aurore had beckoned me away, and I had left the room in a state of embarrassment and confusion – I scarce remembered how.

What would be the result? I trembled to think. Bitterness, hostility, revenge?

Surely a soul so pure, so noble, could not harbour such passions as these?

“No,” thought I; “Eugénie Besançon is too gentle, too womanly, to give way to them. Is there a hope that she may have pity on me, as I pity her? Or is there not? She is a Creole – she inherits the fiery passions of her race. Should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge, her gratitude will soon pass away – her love be changed to scorn. Her own slave!”

Ah! I well understood the meaning of this relationship, though I cannot make it plain to you. You can ill comprehend the horrid feeling. Talk of a mésalliance of the aristocratic lord with the daughter of his peasant retainer, of the high-born dame with her plebeian groom – talk of the scandal and scorn to which such rare events give rise! All this is little – is mild, when compared with the positive disgust and horror felt for the “white” who would ally himself in marriage with a slave! No matter how white she be, no matter how beautiful – even lovely as Aurore – he who would make her his wife must bear her away from her native land, far from the scenes where she has hitherto been known! His mistress– all! that is another affair. An alliance of this nature is pardonable. The “society” of the South is satisfied with the slave-mistress; but the slave-wife– that is an impossibility, an incongruity not to be borne!

I knew that the gifted Eugénie was above the common prejudices of her class; but I should have expected too much to suppose that she was above this one. No; noble, indeed, must be the soul that could have thrown off this chain, coiled around it by education, by habit, by example, by every form of social life. Notwithstanding all – notwithstanding the relations that existed between herself and Aurore, I could not expect this much. Aurore was her companion, her friend; but still Aurore was her slave!

I trembled for the result. I trembled for our next interview. In the future I saw darkness and danger. I had but one hope, one joy – the love of Aurore!

I rose from my sleepless couch. I dressed and ate my breakfast hurriedly, mechanically.

That finished, I was at a loss what to do next. Should I return to the plantation, and seek another interview with Eugénie. No – not then. I had not the courage. It would be better, I reflected, to permit some time to pass – a day or two – before going back. Perhaps Mademoiselle would send for me?

Perhaps – At all events, it would be better to allow some days to elapse. Long days they would be to me!

I could not bear the society of any one. I shunned conversation; although I observed, as on the preceding day, that I was the object of scrutiny – the subject of comment among the loungers of the “bar,” and my acquaintances of the billiard-room. To avoid them, I remained inside my room, and endeavoured to kill time by reading.

I soon grew tired of this chamber-life; and upon the third morning I seized my gun, and plunged into the depth of the forest.

I moved amidst the huge pyramidal trunks of the cypresses, whose thick umbellated foliage, meeting overhead, shut out both sun and sky. The very gloom occasioned by their shade was congenial to my thoughts; and I wandered on, my steps guided rather by accident than design.

I did not search for game. I was not thinking of sport. My gun rested idly in the hollow of my arm. The raccoon, which in the more open woods is nocturnal, is here abroad by day. I saw the creature plunging his food into the waters of the bayou, and skulking around the trunks of the cypresses. I saw the opossum gliding along the fallen log, and the red squirrel, like a stream of fire, brushing up the bark of the tall tulip-tree. I saw the large “swamp-hare” leap from her form by the selvage of the cane-brake; and, still more tempting game, the fallow-deer twice bounded before me, roused from its covert in the shady thickets of the pawpaw-trees. The wild turkey, too, in all the glitter of his metallic plumage, crossed my path; and upon the bayou, whose bank I for some time followed, I had ample opportunity of discharging my piece at the blue heron or the egret, the summer duck or the snake-bird, the slender ibis or the stately crane. Even the king of winged creatures, the white-headed eagle, was more than once within range of my gun, screaming his maniac note among the tops of the tall taxodiums.

And still the brown tubes rested idly across my arm; nor did I once think of casting my eye along their sights. No ordinary game could have tempted me to interrupt the current, of my thoughts, that were dwelling upon a theme to me the most interesting in the world – Aurore the quadroon!

Chapter Thirty One

Dreams

Yielding up my soul to its sweet love-dream, I wandered on – where and how long I cannot tell, for I had taken no note either of distance or direction.

I was roused from my reverie by observing a brighter light gleaming before me; and soon after I emerged from the darker shadow of the forest. My steps, chance-directed, had guided me into a pretty glade, where the sun shone warmly, and the ground was gay with flowers. It was a little wild garden, enamelled by blossoms of many colours, among which, bignonias and the showy corollas of the cotton-rose were conspicuous. Even the forest that bordered and enclosed this little parterre was a forest of flowering-trees. They were magnolias of several kinds; on some of which the large liliaceous blossoms had given place to the scarcely less conspicuous seed-cones of glowing red, whose powerful but pleasant odour filled the atmosphere around. Other beautiful trees grew alongside, mingling their perfume with that of the magnolias. Scarce less interesting were the “honey-locusts” (gleditschias), with their pretty pinnate leaves, and long purple-brown legumes; the Virginian lotus, with its oval amber-coloured drupes, and the singular bow-wood tree (madura), with its large orange-like pericarps, reminding one of the flora of the tropics. The Autumn was just beginning to paint the forest, and already some touches from his glowing palette appeared among the leaves of the sassafras laurel, the sumach (rhus), the persimmon (diospyros), the nymph-named tupelo, and those other species of the American sylva that love to array themselves so gorgeously before parting with their deciduous foliage. Yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, with many an intermediate tint, met the eye; and all these colours, flashing under the brilliant beams of a noonday sun, produced an indescribable coup-d’oeil. The scene resembled the gaudy picture-work of a theatre, more than the sober reality of a natural landscape.

I stood for some minutes wrapt in admiration. The dream of love in which I had been indulging became heightened in its effect; and I could not help thinking that if Aurore were but present to enjoy that lovely scene – to wander with me over that flowery glade – to sit by my side under the shade of the magnolia laurel – then, indeed, would my happiness be complete. Earth itself had no fairer scene than this. A very love-bower it appeared!

Nor was it unoccupied by lovers; for two pretty doves – birds emblematic of the tender passion – sat side by side upon the bough of a tulip-tree, their bronzed throats swelling at intervals with soft amorous notes.

Oh, how I envied those little creatures! How I should have rejoiced in a destiny like theirs! Thus mated and happy – amidst bright flowers and sweet perfumes, loving the livelong day – loving through all their lives!

They deemed me an intruder, and rose on whirring wing at my approach. Perchance they feared my glittering gun. They had not need. I had no intention of harming them. Far was it from my heart to spoil their perfect bliss.

But no – they feared me not – else their flight would have been more distant. They only flitted to the next tree; and there again, seated side by side, resumed their love-converse. Absorbed in mutual fondness, they had already forgotten my presence!

I followed to watch these pretty creatures – the types of gentleness and love. I flung me on the grass, and gazed upon thorn, tenderly kissing and cooing. I envied their delight.

My nerves, that for days had been dancing with more than ordinary excitement, were now experiencing the natural reaction, and I felt weary. There was a drowsiness in the air – a narcotic influence produced by the combined action of the sun’s rays and the perfume of the flowers. It acted upon my spirit, and I fell asleep.

I slept only about an hour, but it was a sleep of dreams; and during that short period I passed through many scenes. Many a visionary tableau appeared before the eye of my slumbering soul, and then melted away. There were more or less characters in each; but in all of them two were constant, both well defined in form and features. They were Eugénie and Aurore.

Gayarre, too, was in my dreams; and the ruffian overseer, and Scipio, and the mild face of Reigart, and what I could remember of the good Antoine. Even the unfortunate Captain of the boat, the boat herself, the Magnolia, and the scene of the wreck – all were reproduced with a painful distinctness!

But my visions were not all of a painful character. Some were the very opposite – scenes of bliss. In company with Aurore, I was wandering through flowery glades, and exchanging the sweet converse of mutual love. The very spot where I lay – the scene around me – was pictured in the dream.

Strangest of all, I thought that Eugénie was with us, and that she, too, was happy; that she had consented to my marrying Aurore, and had even assisted us in bringing about this happy consummation!

In this vision Gayarre was the fiend; and I thought that after a while he endeavoured to drag Aurore from me. A struggle followed, and then the scene ended with confused abruptness.

A new tableau arose – a new vision. In this Eugénie played the part of the evil genius. I thought she had refused my requests – refused to sell Aurore. I fancied her jealous, hostile, vengeful. I thought she was loading me with imprecations, my betrothed with threats. Aurore was weeping. It was a painful vision.

The scene changed again. Aurore and I were happy – she was free – she was now mine, and we were married. But there was a cloud upon our happiness. Eugénie was dead.

Yes, dead. I thought I was bending over her, and had taken her hand. Suddenly her fingers closed upon mine, and held them with a firm pressure. I thought that the contact was disagreeable; and I endeavoured to withdraw my hand, but could not. My fingers remained bound within that cold clammy grasp; and with all my strength I was unable to release them! Suddenly I was stung; and at the same instant the chill hand relaxed its grasp, and set me free.

The stinging sensation, however, awoke me; and my eyes mechanically turned towards the hand, where I still felt pain.

Sure enough my wrist was punctured and bleeding!

A feeling of horror ran through my veins, as the “sker-r-rr” of the crotalus sounded in my ear; and, looking around, I saw the glittering body of the reptile extended along the grass, and gliding rapidly away!

Chapter Thirty Two

Stung by a Snake

The pain was not a dream; the blood upon my wrist was no illusion. Both were real. I was bitten by a rattlesnake!

Terror-stricken I sprang to my feet; and, with an action altogether mechanical, passed my hand over the wound, and wiped away the blood. It was but a trifling puncture, such as might have been made by the point of a lancet, and only a few drops of blood oozed from it.

Such a wound need not have terrified a child, so far as appearance went; but I, a man, was terrified, for I knew that that little incision had been made by a dread instrument – by the envenomed fang of a serpent – and in one hour I might be dead!

My first impulse was to pursue the snake and destroy it; but before I could act upon that impulse the reptile had escaped beyond my reach. A hollow log lay near – the trunk of a large tulip-tree, with the heart-wood decayed and gone. The snake had made for this – no doubt its haunt – and before I could come up with it, I saw the long slimy body, with its rhomboid spots, disappear within the dark cavity. Another “sker-r-rr” reached my ears as it glided out of sight. It seemed a note of triumph, as if uttered to tantalise me!