The Quadroon Part 12

"Your name!" said the astonished mistress.

"My name!" repeated the equally astonished slave.

"But how?--he knows your name--how?"

"I cannot tell, ma'amselle."

"Have you been here before?"

"No; not till this moment."

"'Tis very strange!" said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.

I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses--enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon's name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking--to account for the expressions I had uttered--would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma'amselle Besancon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said--a little deceit was absolutely necessary.

In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed.

She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her att.i.tude of surprise, simply repeating the words--

"'Tis very strange he should know your name!"

My imprudent speech had made an impression. I could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first time to be aware of Mademoiselle's presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.

After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked--

"But how came you to name Aurore?"

"Aurore!" I replied. "Oh! you think it strange that I should know her name? Thanks to Scipio's faithful portraiture, I knew at the first glance that this was Aurore."

I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished.

"Oh! Scipio has been speaking of her?"

"Yes, ma'amselle. He and I have had a busy morning of it. I have drawn largely on Scipio's knowledge of plantation affairs. I am already acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your people. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana life."

"Monsieur," replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, "I am glad you are so well. The doctor has given me the a.s.surance you will soon recover. n.o.ble stranger! I have heard how you received your wound. For me it was--in my defence. Oh! how shall I ever repay you?-- how thank you for my life?"

"No thanks, ma'amselle, are necessary. It was the fulfilment of a simple duty on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you."

"No risk, monsieur! Every risk--from the knife of an a.s.sa.s.sin--from the waves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can a.s.sure you my grat.i.tude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. My heart tells me so;--alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with grat.i.tude and grief."

"Yes, ma'amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant."

"Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed!

Since my poor father's death, he has been my father. All my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. I knew not trouble. But now, alas!

I know not what is before me."

Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired--

"When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?"

"He was.--It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope--none--the boat went down a few moments after. Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!"

Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before.

I could offer no consolation. I did not attempt it. It was better she should weep. Tears alone could relieve her.

"The coachman, Pierre, too--one of the most devoted of my people--he, too, is lost. I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father's friend--he was mine--Oh! the loss--the loss;--friendless; and yet, perhaps, I _may soon need friends. Pauvre Antoine_!"

She wept as she uttered these phrases. Aurore was also in tears. I could not restrain myself--the eyes of childhood returned, and I too wept.

This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugenie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside.

"Monsieur," said she, "I fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! I shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this present intrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but--I--I could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!"

I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugenie Besancon;--more than friendship--sympathy: for I could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril--that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.

I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,--nothing more. And why nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?

Because I loved another--_I loved Aurore_!

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A LOUISIAN LANDSCAPE.

Life in the chamber of an invalid--who cares to listen to its details?

They can interest no one--scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being I loved. At such moments I was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escaped from its death-like la.s.situde; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an Elysium.

Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while the intervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, I fancied them days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion.

Neither ever came alone!

There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My conversation was with the _Creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the _Quadroon_. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language.

Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy--I thought not of such a thing. Eugenie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her.

From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. The Creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me!

How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon! Did _she_ love me? This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare I exchange with _her_, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. I even feared that my burning glances might betray me. Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. What! in love with a slave! her slave!

I understood this feeling well--this black crime of her nation. What was it to me? Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? But under that influence, less did I care to respect them. In the eyes of Love, rank loses its fict.i.tious charm--t.i.tles seem trivial things. For me, Beauty wears the crown.

So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love--not a straw for its scorn. But there were other considerations--the courtesy due to hospitality--to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature--the promptings of _prudence_. The situation in which I was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it. I knew that my pa.s.sion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. Talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian--a ward in Chancery--an heiress of expectant thousands! It is but "child's play"

to break through the _entourage_ that surrounds one of such. To scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the pa.s.sions and prejudices of a people!

My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to be a rugged one.

Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of my convalescence pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. Everything was furnished me that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. Ices, delicious drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me.

For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio's helpmate, Chloe, and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of "gumbo", "fish chowder," frica.s.seed frogs, hot "waffles," stewed tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana _cuisine_. From the hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of "roasted 'possum,"

and went even so far as to taste a "'c.o.o.n steak,"--but only once, and I regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of one at a single sitting!