I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form
that passed in. As yet no appearance of D'Hauteville! Surely he would
soon arrive. He said at twelve o'clock. It was now one, and still he
had not come.
No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so
anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a
long time.
I had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried.
His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect
confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not
shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining
the money, for it was _money_ I expected him to bring. He had hinted as
much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in
time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the last
lot--Lot 65!
Notwithstanding my confidence in D'Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was
very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my
gaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter.
Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and
monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his
ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent
strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing.
Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I
could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that
_her_ turn would soon come--too soon. With the fancy my heart beat
quicker and wilder. Surely D'Hauteville will not disappoint me!
A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and
fashionably dressed,--the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse.
They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them.
Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one
of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The
name was _Marigny_. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with
this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me--a Marigny
who had proposed to _purchase Aurore_. Of course I remembered the name.
"Marigny!" I listened.
"So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one.
"_Qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly
dressed. "_Oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as he
drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. "I do
intend--_ma foi_!--yes."
"How high will you go?"
"Oh--ah! _une petite somme, mon cher ami_."
"A _little sum_ will not do, Marigny," said the first speaker. "I know
half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them."
"Who?" inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference,
"Who, may I inquire?"
"Who? Well there's Gardette the dentist, who's half crazed about her;
there's the old Marquis; there's planter Tillareau and Lebon, of
Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and
who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want
her for a _housekeeper_! Ha! ha! ha!"
"I can name another," suggested a third speaker.
"Name!" demanded several; "yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a
sempstress for your shirt-buttons."
"No, not myself," replied the speaker; "I don't buy _coturiers_ at that
price--_deux mille dollares_, at the least, my friends. _Pardieu_! no.
I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Treme."
"Who, then? Name him!"
"Without hesitation I do,--the old wizen-face Gayarre."
"Gayarre the avocat?"
"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!"
"Improbable," rejoined one. "Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady
habits--a moralist--a miser."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Le Ber; "it's plain, Messieurs, you don't understand
the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser
though he be, in a general sense, there's one class with whom he's
generous enough. _Il a une douzaine des maitresses_! Besides, you must
remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good
housekeeper--a _femme-de-chambre_. Come, friends, I have heard
something--_un petit chose_. I'll lay a wager the miser outbids _every_
one of you,--even rich generous Marigny here!"
Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance or
chagrin--mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was
the subject of the conversation.
"It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?"
asked one.
"'Tis so said."
"Why, he was considered the great friend of the family--the associate of
old Besancon?"
"Yes, the _lawyer-friend_ of the family--Ha! ha!" significantly rejoined
another.
"Poor Eugenie! she'll be no longer the belle. She'll now be less
difficult to please in her choice of a husband."
"That's some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!"
"Oh!" interposed another, "Le Ber had no chance lately. There's a young
Englishman the favourite now--the same who swam ashore with her at the
blowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so,
Le Ber?"
"You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besancon," replied the latter,
in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, "I would," replied the
questioner, "but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She's not
at her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before.
She's not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?"
I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest.
I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugenie, and had sought for
her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no
one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had
said in her letter of "_Sacre Coeur_." Perhaps, thought I, she has
really gone to the convent. Poor Eugenie!
"Ay, where is she, Monsieur?" asked another of the party.
"Very strange!" said several at once. "Where can she be? Le Ber, you
must know."
"I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besancon," answered the
young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really
ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his
companions were making.
"There's something mysterious in all this," continued one of the number.
"I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than Eugenie
Besancon."
It is needless to say that this conversation interested me. Every word
of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have
strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. Little
knew they that the "young Englishman" was near, listening to them, and
as little the dire effect their words were producing.
It was not what they said of Eugenie that gave me pain. It was their
free speech about Aurore. I have not repeated their ribald talk in
relation to her--their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and
coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.
One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sevigne, was more _bizarre_ than
any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning
upon him. It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was
successful, and I stood unmoved. Perhaps I should not have been able to
endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at
once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. That event
was _the entrance of Aurore_!
They had again commenced speaking of her--of her chastity--of her rare
charms. They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become
possessed of her, and the _certainty_ that she would be the _maitresse_
of whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty,
and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once
the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out--
"_Voila! voila! elle vient_!"