ON the banks of a little river, which flowed through my uncle’s estate,
was a small rustic pavilion in the midst of a clump of trees.
Marie was in the habit of coming here every day to enjoy the sea breeze,
which blows regularly in St. Domingo, even during the hottest months of
the year, from sunrise until evening.
Each morning it was my pleasant task to adorn this charming retreat with
the sweetest flowers that I could gather.
One morning Marie came running to me in a great state of alarm: upon
entering her leafy retreat she had perceived, with surprise and terror,
all the flowers which I had arranged in the morning thrown upon the
ground and trampled underfoot, and a bunch of wild marigolds, freshly
gathered, placed upon her accustomed seat. She had hardly recovered from
her terror when, in the adjoining coppice, she heard the sound of a
guitar, and a voice, which was not mine, commenced singing a Spanish
song; but in her excitement she had been unable to catch the meaning of
the words, though she could hear her own name frequently repeated. Then
she had taken to flight, and had come to me full of this strange and
surprising event.
This recital filled me with jealousy and indignation. My first
suspicions pointed to the mulatto with whom I had fought; but, even in
the midst of my perplexity, I resolved to do nothing rashly. I soothed
Marie’s fears as best I could, and promised to watch over her without
ceasing until the marriage tie would give me the right of never leaving
her.
Believing that the intruder whose insolence had so alarmed Marie would
not content himself with what he had already done, I concealed myself
that very evening near the portion of the house in which my betrothed’s
chamber was situated.
Hidden amongst the tall stalks of the sugar-cane, and armed with a
dagger, I waited; and I did not wait in vain. Towards the middle of the
night my attention was suddenly attracted by the notes of a guitar under
the very window of the room in which Marie reposed. Furious with rage,
with my dagger clutched firmly in my hand, I rushed in the direction of
the sound, crushing beneath my feet the brittle stalks of the
sugar-canes. All of a sudden I felt myself seized and thrown upon my
back with what appeared to be superhuman force, my dagger was wrenched
from my grasp, and I saw its point shining above me; at the same moment
I could perceive a pair of eyes and a double row of white teeth gleaming
through the darkness, whilst a voice, in accents of concentrated rage,
muttered, “_Te tengo, te tengo_” (I have you, I have you).
More astonished than frightened, I struggled vainly with my formidable
antagonist, and already the point of the dagger had pierced my clothes,
when Marie, whom the sound of the guitar and the noise of the struggle
had aroused, appeared suddenly at her window. She recognized my voice,
saw the gleam of the knife, and uttered a cry of terror and affright.
This cry seemed to paralyze the hand of my opponent. He stopped as if
petrified; but still, as though undecided, he kept the point of the
dagger pressed upon my chest; then he suddenly exclaimed in French, “No,
I cannot; she would weep too much,” and, casting away the weapon, rose
to his feet, and in an instant disappeared in the canes; and before I
could rise, bruised and shaken from the struggle, no sound and no sign
remained of the presence or the flight of my adversary.
It was some time before I could recover my scattered faculties. I was
more furious than ever with my unknown rival, and was overcome with a
feeling of shame at being indebted to him for my life.
“After all, however,” I thought, “it is to Marie that I owe it; for it
was the sound of _her_ voice that caused him to drop his dagger.”
And yet I could not hide from myself that there was something noble in
the sentiment which had caused my unknown rival to spare me. But who
could he be? One supposition after another rose in my mind, all to be
discarded in turn. It could not be the mulatto planter to whom my
suspicions had first been directed. He was not endowed with such
muscular power; nor was it his voice. The man with whom I had struggled
was naked to the waist. Slaves alone went about half-clothed in this
manner. But this could not be a slave. The feeling which had caused him
to throw away the dagger would not have been found in the bosom of a
slave; and besides, my whole soul revolted at the idea of having a slave
for a rival. What was to be done? I determined to wait and watch.