The Quadroon Part 22

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 att.i.tude 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? G.o.d 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 a.s.sure 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:--

"Helas! Monsieur, your suspicions are but _partially_ correct. Helas!

Oh! G.o.d, 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 grat.i.tude. 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 Besancon, 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 pa.s.sion, 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. _Eugenie 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sed without repose. How was it with Eugenie? 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 a.s.surance, 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 pa.s.sed between us--Eugenie Besancon 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 pa.s.sed between us. I thought of all that had occurred during our pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sed 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 Eugenie Besancon 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 Eugenie! 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 Eugenie Besancon been a woman of ordinary character I might have borne my reflections more lightly. But to a heart so highly attuned, so n.o.ble, so pa.s.sionate, 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 Eugenie 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 embarra.s.sment and confusion--I scarce remembered how.

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

Surely a soul so pure, so n.o.ble, could not harbour such pa.s.sions as these?

"No," thought I; "Eugenie Besancon 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 pa.s.sions of her race. Should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge, her grat.i.tude will soon pa.s.s 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 _mesalliance_ 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. .h.i.therto 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!