That night I passed without repose. How was it with Eugenie? How with
Aurore?
Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were
singularly blended. The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure;
but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole! That
the latter loved me I no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from
giving me joy, filled me with keen regret. Accursed vanity, that can
enjoy such a triumph,--vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable
to return! Mine did not: it grieved instead.
In thought I reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed
between us--Eugenie Besancon and myself. I communed with my conscience,
asking myself the question, Was I innocent? Had I done aught, either by
word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love?--to produce the first
delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes
a fixed and vivid picture? Upon the boat? Or afterwards? I remembered
that at first sight I had gazed upon her with admiring eyes. I
remembered that in hers I had beheld that strange expression of interest
which I had attributed to curiosity or some other cause--I knew not
what. Vanity, of which no doubt I possess my share, had not interpreted
those tender glances aright--had not even whispered me they were the
flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits. Had I been instrumental
in nurturing those flowers of the heart?--had I done aught to beguile
them to their fatal blooming?
I examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that
had passed between us. I thought of all that had occurred during our
passage upon the boat--during the tragic scene that followed. I could
not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which I might
condemn myself. I gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me
innocent.
Afterwards--after that terrible night--after those burning eyes and that
strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses--after
that moment I could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial.
During the hours of my convalescence--during the whole period of my stay
upon the plantation--I could remember nothing in my intercourse with
Eugenie Besancon to give me cause for regret. Towards her I had
observed a studied respect--nothing more. Secretly I felt friendship
and sympathy; more especially after I had noted the change in her
manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune. Alas,
poor Eugenie! Little did I guess the nature of that cloud! Little did
I dream how dark it was!
Notwithstanding my self-exculpation, I still felt pain. Had Eugenie
Besancon been a woman of ordinary character I might have borne my
reflections more lightly. But to a heart so highly attuned, so noble,
so passionate, what would be the shock of an unrequited love? Terrible
it must be; perhaps the more so at thus finding her rival in her own
slave!
Strange confidante had I chosen for my secret! Strange ear into which I
had poured the tale of my love! Oh that I had not made my confession!
What suffering had I caused this fair, this unfortunate lady!
Such painful reflections coursed through my mind; but there were others
equally bitter, and with bitterness springing from a far different
source. What would be the effect of the disclosure? How would it
affect our future--the future of myself and Aurore? How would Eugenie
act? Towards me? towards Aurore--_her slave_?
My confession had received no response. The mute lips murmured neither
reply nor adieu. I had gazed but a moment on the insensible form.
Aurore had beckoned me away, and I had left the room in a state of
embarrassment and confusion--I scarce remembered how.
What would be the result? I trembled to think. Bitterness, hostility,
revenge?
Surely a soul so pure, so noble, could not harbour such passions as
these?
"No," thought I; "Eugenie Besancon is too gentle, too womanly, to give
way to them. Is there a hope that she may have pity on _me_, as I pity
_her_? Or is there not? She is a Creole--she inherits the fiery
passions of her race. Should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge,
her gratitude will soon pass away--her love be changed to scorn. _Her
own slave_!"
Ah! I well understood the meaning of this relationship, though I cannot
make it plain to you. You can ill comprehend the horrid feeling. Talk
of a _mesalliance_ of the aristocratic lord with the daughter of his
peasant retainer, of the high-born dame with her plebeian groom--talk of
the scandal and scorn to which such rare events give rise! All this is
little--is mild, when compared with the positive disgust and horror felt
for the "white" who would ally himself _in marriage_ with a _slave_! No
matter how white _she_ be, no matter how beautiful--even lovely as
Aurore--he who would make her his _wife_ must bear her away from her
native land, far from the scenes where she has hitherto been known! His
_mistress_--all! that is another affair. An alliance of this nature is
pardonable. The "society" of the South is satisfied with the
_slave-mistress_; but the _slave-wife_--that is an impossibility, an
incongruity not to be borne!
I knew that the gifted Eugenie was above the common prejudices of her
class; but I should have expected too much to suppose that she was above
this one. No; noble, indeed, must be the soul that could have thrown
off this chain, coiled around it by education, by habit, by example, by
every form of social life. Notwithstanding all--notwithstanding the
relations that existed between herself and Aurore, I could not expect
this much. Aurore was her companion, her friend; but still Aurore was
_her slave_!
I trembled for the result. I trembled for our next interview. In the
future I saw darkness and danger. I had but one hope, one joy--the love
of Aurore!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I rose from my sleepless couch. I dressed and ate my breakfast
hurriedly, mechanically.
That finished, I was at a loss what to do next. Should I return to the
plantation, and seek another interview with Eugenie. No--not then. I
had not the courage. It would be better, I reflected, to permit some
time to pass--a day or two--before going back. Perhaps Mademoiselle
would send for me?
Perhaps--At all events, it would be better to allow some days to elapse.
Long days they would be to me!
I could not bear the society of any one. I shunned conversation;
although I observed, as on the preceding day, that I was the object of
scrutiny--the subject of comment among the loungers of the "bar," and my
acquaintances of the billiard-room. To avoid them, I remained inside my
room, and endeavoured to kill time by reading.
I soon grew tired of this chamber-life; and upon the third morning I
seized my gun, and plunged into the depth of the forest.
I moved amidst the huge pyramidal trunks of the cypresses, whose thick
umbellated foliage, meeting overhead, shut out both sun and sky. The
very gloom occasioned by their shade was congenial to my thoughts; and I
wandered on, my steps guided rather by accident than design.
I did not search for game. I was not thinking of sport. My gun rested
idly in the hollow of my arm. The raccoon, which in the more open woods
is nocturnal, is here abroad by day. I saw the creature plunging his
food into the waters of the bayou, and skulking around the trunks of the
cypresses. I saw the opossum gliding along the fallen log, and the red
squirrel, like a stream of fire, brushing up the bark of the tall
tulip-tree. I saw the large "swamp-hare" leap from her form by the
selvage of the cane-brake; and, still more tempting game, the
fallow-deer twice bounded before me, roused from its covert in the shady
thickets of the pawpaw-trees. The wild turkey, too, in all the glitter
of his metallic plumage, crossed my path; and upon the bayou, whose bank
I for some time followed, I had ample opportunity of discharging my
piece at the blue heron or the egret, the summer duck or the snake-bird,
the slender ibis or the stately crane. Even the king of winged
creatures, the white-headed eagle, was more than once within range of my
gun, screaming his maniac note among the tops of the tall taxodiums.
And still the brown tubes rested idly across my arm; nor did I once
think of casting my eye along their sights. No ordinary game could have
tempted me to interrupt the current, of my thoughts, that were dwelling
upon a theme to me the most interesting in the world--Aurore the
quadroon!