The Quadroon Part 48

"No, not myself," replied the speaker; "I don't buy _coturiers_ at that price--_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 steady habits--a moralist--a miser."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Le Ber; "it's plain, Messieurs, you don't understand the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser though he be, in a general sense, there's one cla.s.s with whom he's generous enough. _Il a une douzaine des maitresses_! Besides, you must remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good housekeeper--a _femme-de-chambre_. Come, friends, I have heard something--_un pet.i.t 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 or chagrin--mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was the 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 a.s.sociate of old Besancon?"

"Yes, the _lawyer-friend_ of the family--Ha! ha!" significantly rejoined another.

"Poor Eugenie! she'll be no longer the belle. She'll now be less difficult 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 young Englishman the favourite now--the same who swam ash.o.r.e with her at the blowing-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 the questioner, "but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She's not at 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 for her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had said in her letter of "_Sacre Coeur_." Perhaps, thought I, she has really 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, you must know."

"I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besancon," answered the young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his companions 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 Eugenie Besancon."

It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every word of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Little knew they that the "young Englishman" was near, listening to them, and as little the dire effect their words were producing.

It was not what they said of Eugenie that gave me pain. It was their free speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk in relation to her--their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and coldly brutal sneers whenever her chast.i.ty was named.

One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sevigne, was more _bizarre_ than any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning upon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was successful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able to endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That event was _the entrance of Aurore_!

They had again commenced speaking of her--of her chast.i.ty--of her rare charms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become possessed 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 once the 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.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

BIDDING FOR MY BETROTHED.

Yes, Aurore appeared in the doorway of that infernal hall, and stood timidly pausing upon its threshold.

She was not alone. A mulatto girl was by her side--like herself a slave--like herself brought there _to be sold_!

A third individual was of the party, or rather with it; for he did not walk by the side of the girls, but in front, evidently conducting them to the place of sale. This individual was no other than Larkin, the brutal overseer.

"Come along!" said he, roughly, at the same time beckoning to Aurore and her companion: "this way, gals--foller me!"

They obeyed his rude signal, and, pa.s.sing in, followed him across the hall towards the rostrum.

I stood with slouched hat and averted face. Aurore saw me not.

As soon as they were fairly past, and their backs towards me, my eyes followed them. Oh, beautiful Aurore!--beautiful as ever!

I was not single in my admiration. The appearance of the Quadroon created a sensation. The din ceased as if by a signal; every voice became hushed, and every eye was bent upon her as she moved across the floor. Men hurried forward from distant parts of the hall to get a nearer glance; others made way for her, stepping politely back as if she had been a queen. Men did this who would have scorned to offer politeness to another of her race--to the "yellow girl" for instance, who walked by her side! Oh, the power of beauty! Never was it more markedly shown than in the _entree_ of that poor slave.

I heard the whispers, I observed the glances of admiration, of pa.s.sion.

I marked the longing eyes that followed her, noting her splendid form and its undulating outlines as she moved forward.

All this gave me pain. It was a feeling worse than mere jealousy I experienced. It was jealousy embittered by the very brutality of my rivals.

Aurore was simply attired. There was no affectation of the fine lady-- none of the ribbons and flounces that bedecked the dresses of her darker-skinned companion. Such would have ill a.s.sorted with the n.o.ble melancholy that appeared upon her beautiful countenance. None of all this.

A robe of light-coloured muslin, tastefully made, with long skirt and tight sleeves--as was the fas.h.i.+on of the time--a fas.h.i.+on that displayed the pleasing rotundity of her figure. Her head-dress was that worn by all quadroons--the "toque" of the Madras kerchief, which sat upon her brow like a coronet, its green, crimson, and yellow checks contrasting finely with the raven blackness of her hair. She wore no ornaments excepting the broad gold rings that glittered against the rich glow of her cheeks; and upon her finger one other circlet of gold--the token of her betrothal. I knew it well.

I buried myself in the crowd, slouching my hat on that side towards the rostrum. I desired she should not see me, while I could not help gazing upon her. I had taken my stand in such a situation, that I could still command a view of the entrance. More than ever was I anxious about the coming of D'Hauteville.

Aurore had been placed near the foot of the rostrum. I could just see the edge of her turban over the shoulders of the crowd. By elevating myself on my toes, I could observe her face, which by chance was turned towards me. Oh! how my heart heaved as I struggled to read its expression--as I endeavoured to divine the subject of her thoughts!

She looked sad and anxious. That was natural enough. But I looked for another expression--that unquiet anxiety produced by the alternation of hope and fear.

Her eye wandered over the crowd. She scanned the sea of faces that surrounded her. _She was searching for some one. Was it for me_?

I held down my face as her glance pa.s.sed over the spot. I dared not meet her gaze. I feared that I could not restrain myself from addressing her. Sweet Aurore!