When I awoke to consciousness, it was day. A bright sun was pouring his
yellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonal
slanting of the beam, I could perceive that it was either very early in
the morning, or near sunset.
But birds were singing without. It must be morning, reasoned I.
I perceived that I was upon a low couch of elegant construction--without
curtains--but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshes
above and around me. The snow-white colour and fineness of the linen,
the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattress
beneath, imparted to me the knowledge that I lay upon a luxurious bed.
But for its extreme elegance and fineness, I might not have noticed
this; for I awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain.
The incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, and
passed rapidly one by one as they had occurred. Up to our reaching the
bank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clear
enough. Beyond that time I could recall nothing distinctly. A house, a
large gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, black
servants, were all jumbled together on my memory.
There was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusion
a face of extraordinary beauty--the face of a lovely girl! Something
angelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that I had seen,
or only the vision of a dream, I could not now tell. And yet its
lineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of my
mind, so clearly outlined, that, had I been an artist, I could have
portrayed them! The face alone I could remember nothing else. I
remembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers a
beautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else is
forgotten! Strange to say, I did not associate this face with my
companion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all like
that of Eugenie Besancon!
Was there any one besides--any one on board the boat that my dream
resembled? No, not one--I could not think of one. There was none in
whom I had taken even a momentary interest--with the exception of the
Creole--but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up were
entirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character!
Before my mind's eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along the
brows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters. Within this
ebon framework were features to mock the sculptor's chisel. The mouth,
with its delicate rose-coloured ellipse; the nose, with smooth straight
outline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the long
fringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike the
features of Eugenie Besancon. The colour of the skin, too--even that
was different. It was not that Circassian white that characterised the
complexion of the Creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged with
a blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks a
tint of crimson. The eye I fancied, or remembered well--better than
aught else. It was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but its
peculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely. Its
brilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled. It was
more like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest. Its
light did not blaze--it seemed rather to burn.
Despite some pain which I felt, I lay for many minutes pondering over
this lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream.
A singular reflection crossed my mind. I could not help thinking, that
if such a face were real, I could forget Mademoiselle Besancon, despite
the romantic incident that had attended our introduction!
The pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, and
recalled me to my present situation. On throwing back the counterpane,
I observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidently
by a surgeon! Satisfied on this head, I cast my eye abroad to make a
reconnoissance of my quarters.
The room I occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction of
the mosquito bar, I could see that it was furnished with taste and
elegance. The furniture was light--mostly cane-work--and the floor was
covered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained into
various colours. The windows were garnished with curtains of silk
damask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work. A
table richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, with
_portefeuille_, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, and
over this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of red
cedar-wood. A handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the open
fireplace was a pair of small "andirons," with silver knobs, cast after
a fanciful device, and richly chased. Of course, there was no fire at
that season of the year. Even the heat caused by the mosquito bar would
have been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and the
window on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze that
penetrated through the nettings of my couch.
Along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance--the essence of
flowers. Through both door and window I could see their thousand
clustering corollas--roses, red, pink, and white--the rare camelia--
azaleas, and jessamines--the sweet-scented China-tree--and farther off a
little I could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossoms
of the great American laurel--the _Magnolia grandiflora_. I could hear
the voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that I
supposed to be the noise of falling water. These were the only sounds
that reached my ears.
Was I alone? I looked inquiringly around the chamber. It appeared so--
no living thing met my glance.
I was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment I occupied. It
appeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other!
The only door I could see, opened directly to the outside. So did the
window, reaching door-like to the ground. Both appeared to lead into a
garden filled with shrubs and flowers. Excepting the chimney, I could
perceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment!
This at first seemed odd; but a moment's reflection explained it. It is
not uncommon upon American plantations to have a kind of office or
summer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in a
style of comfort and luxuriance. This becomes upon occasions the
"stranger's room." Perhaps I was in such an apartment.
At all events, I was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; that
was evident. The manner in which I was encouched, along with certain
preparations,--the signs of a projected _dejeuner_ that appeared upon
the table, attested this. But who was my host? or was it a hostess?
Was it Eugenie Besancon? Did she not say something of her house--"_ma
maison_?" or did I only dream it?
I lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but I
could not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest I was.
Nevertheless, I had a sort of belief that I was in the house of my last
night's companion.
I became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed at
being left alone. I would have rung, but no bell was within reach. At
that moment, however, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft,
made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest,
tiniest pebble--stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake the
sleeping invalid--and then, in the midst of bird-music, and humming
waters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in the
doorway, and I saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in a
timid inquiring glance, gazing upon me. You will fancy all this, no
doubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like the
reality.
The footsteps I heard were made by a pair of thick "brogans" of
alligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans the
next moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes.
On raising my glance a little higher, I perceived a pair of legs, in
wide copper-coloured "jeans," pantaloons; and carrying my eye still
higher, I perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cotton
shirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by the
shining face and woolly head of a jet black negro!
The face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyes
dwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until I at length, despite
the pain I was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh! If I had
been dying, I could not have helped it; there was something so comic, so
irresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder.
He was a full-grown and rather large negro, as black as charcoal, with a
splendid tier of "ivories;" and with eyeballs, pupil and irides
excepted, as white as his teeth. But it was not these that had tickled
my fancy. It was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and size
of his ears. The former was as round as a globe, and thickly covered
with small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemed
to root at both ends, and form a "nap!" From the sides of this sable
sphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings,
and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance.
It was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous though
it was, for the life of me I could not help it.
My visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss. On the contrary, he
at once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature of
his mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly as
myself!
Good-natured was he. His bat-like ears had infused nothing of the
vampire into his character. No--the very type of jollity and fun was
the broad black face of "Scipio Besancon," for such was the cognomen of
my visitor.