"We could not get married," she continued, evidently suffering under
painful emotion, "we could not unless you could swear there was African
blood in your veins! Only think of such a law in a Christian land!"
"Think _not_ of it, Aurore," said I, wishing to cheer her. "There shall
be no difficulty about swearing that. I shall take this gold pin from
your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and
take the oath!"
The quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned.
"Come, dearest Aurore! chase away such thoughts! What care we to be
married here? We shall go elsewhere. There are lands as fair as
Louisiana, and churches as fine as Saint Gabriel to be married in. We
shall go northward--to England--to France--anywhere. Let not that
grieve you!"
"It is not that which grieves me."
"What then, dearest?"
"Oh! It is--I fear--"
"Tear not to tell me."
"That you will not be able--"
"Declare it, Aurore."
"To become _my master_--_to_--_to buy me_!"
Here the poor girl hung her head, as if ashamed to speak of such
conditions. I saw the hot tears springing from her eyes.
"And why do you fear." I inquired.
"Others have tried. Large sums they offered--larger even than that you
have named, and they could not. They failed in their intentions, and
oh! how grateful was I to Mademoiselle! That was my only protection.
She would not part with me. How glad was I then! but now--now how
different!--the very opposite!"
"But I shall give more--my whole fortune. Surely that will suffice.
The offers you speak of were infamous proposals, like that of Monsieur
Gayarre. Mademoiselle knew it; she was too good to accept them."
"That is true, but she will equally refuse yours. I fear it, alas!
alas!"
"Nay, I shall confess all to Mademoiselle. I shall declare to her my
honourable design. I shall implore her consent. Surely she will not
refuse. Surely she feels gratitude--"
"Oh, Monsieur!" cried Aurore, interrupting me, "she _is_ grateful--you
know not how grateful; but never, never will she--You know not all--
alas! alas!"
With a fresh burst of tears filling her eyes, the beautiful girl sank
down on the sofa, hiding her face under the folds of her luxuriant hair.
I was puzzled by these expressions, and about to ask for an explanation,
when the noise of carriage-wheels fell upon my ear. I sprang forward to
the open window, and looked over the tops of the orange-trees. I could
just see the head of a man, whom I recognised as the coachman of
Mademoiselle Besancon. The carriage was approaching the gate.
In the then tumult of my feelings I could not trust myself to meet the
lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to Aurore, I rushed from the
apartment.
When outside I saw that, if I went by the front gate I should risk an
encounter. I knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the
stables, and a road ran thence to the woods. This would carry me to
Bringiers by a back way, and stepping off from the verandah, I passed
through the wicket, and directed myself towards the stables in the rear.