"Well?"
"I don't b'lieve, mass'r, daat's de reason."
"What, then?"
"Why, mass'r, to tell de troof, I b'lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to
buy de gal."
Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.
"Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?"
"Mass'r, 'taint for dis ole nigger to judge 'bout daat; but folks dey
say--bof white folks an black folks--daat she am de best-lookin' an
hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna."
"Ha! a _quadroon_?"
"Daat are a fact, mass'r, daat same--she be a gal ob colour--nebber
mind--she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many,
many time, but fr'all daat dar am great difference--one rich lady--
t'other poor slave--jes like Ole Zip--ay, jes like Ole Zip--buy 'em,
sell 'em, all de same."
"Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?"
It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A
stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me--those
features of strange type--its strangely-beautiful expression, not
Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible--probable--
"Could you describe her, Scipio?" I repeated.
"'Scribe her, mass'r; daat what you mean? ye--yes."
I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few "points" would
serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait
was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should
easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no
dream, but a reality.
"Well, mass'r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers envy
ob her--daat's de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows--she
talk to 'im, an tell 'im many tings--she help teach Ole Zip read, and de
ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she--"
"It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio."
"Oh! a 'scription ob her person--ye--daat is, what am she like?"
"So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?"
"Brack, mass'r; brack as a boot."
"Is it straight hair?"
"No, mass'r--ob course not--Aurore am a quaderoom."
"It curls?"
"Well, not dzactly like this hyar;" here Scipio pointed to his own kinky
head-covering; "but for all daat, mass'r, it curls--what folks call de
wave."
"I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?"
"Daat it do, mass'r, down to de berry small ob her back."
"Luxuriant?"
"What am dat, mass'r?"
"Thick--bushy."
"Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon's tail."
"Now the eyes?"
Scipio's description of the quadroon's eyes was rather a confused one.
He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: "Dey am
big an round--dey shine like de eyes of a deer." The nose puzzled him,
but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was
straight and small. The eyebrows--the teeth--the complexion--were all
faithfully pictured--that of the cheeks by a simile, "like de red ob a
Georgium peach."
Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused
with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every
detail with an anxiety I could not account for.
The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that
of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my
couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair--this priceless
quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.
"Scipio wanted, mass'r--daat him bell--be back, 'gain in a minute,
mass'r."
So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.
I lay reflecting on the singular--somewhat romantic--situation in which
circumstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday--but the night
before--a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what
roof would next shelter me--to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich,
unmarried--the invalid guest--laid up for an indefinite period; well
cared for and well attended.
These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out
of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio's picture of the
quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their
correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce
probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were
around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the
rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she
among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.
The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak
and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did
not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back
upon my pillow, and fell asleep.