No doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found Squire Claiborne in
his chair of office, ready to hear the case. In the tall, thin old man,
with white hair and dignified aspect, I recognised a fit representative
of justice--one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect not
only by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personal
character. In spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, I read in
the serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fair
play.
I was no longer uneasy. On the way, Reigart had told me to be of good
cheer. He had whispered something about "strange developments to be
made;" but I had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehend
what he meant. In the hurry and crush I had found no opportunity for an
explanation.
"Keep up your spirits!" said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me.
"Don't have any fear about the result. It's rather an odd affair, and
will have an odd ending--rather unexpected for somebody, I should say--
ha! ha! ha!"
Reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee! What
could such conduct mean?
I was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a high
tone of authority, commanded that no one should "hold communication with
the prisoner;" and my friend and I were abruptly separated. Strange, I
did not dislike the sheriff for this! I had a secret belief that his
manner--apparently somewhat hostile to me--was assumed for a purpose.
The mob required conciliation; and all this _brusquerie_ was a bit of
management on the part of Sheriff Hickman.
On arriving before Justice Claiborne, it required all the authority of
both sheriff and justice to obtain silence. A partial lull, however,
enabled the latter to proceed with the case.
"Now, gentlemen!" said he, speaking in a firm, magisterial tone, "I am
ready to hear the charge against this young man. Of what is he accused,
Colonel Hickman?" inquired the justice, turning to the sheriff.
"Of negro-stealing, I believe," replied the latter.
"Who prefers the charge?"
"Dominique Gayarre," replied a voice from the crowd, which I recognised
as that of Gayarre himself.
"Is Monsieur Gayarre present?" inquired the justice.
The voice again replied in the affirmative, and the fox-like face of the
avocat now presented itself in front of the rostrum.
"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre," said the magistrate, recognising him,
"what is the charge you bring against the prisoner? State it in full
and upon oath."
Gayarre having gone through the formula of the oath, proceeded with his
plaint in true lawyer style.
I need not follow the circumlocution of legal phraseology. Suffice it
to say, that there were several counts in his indictment.
I was first accused of having endeavoured to instigate to mutiny and
revolt the slaves of the plantation Besancon, by having interfered to
prevent one of their number from receiving his _just_ punishment!
Secondly, I had caused another of these to strike down his overseer; and
afterwards had induced him to run away to the woods, and aided him in so
doing! This was the slave Gabriel, who had just that day been captured
in my company. Thirdly and Gayarre now came to the cream of his
accusation.
"Thirdly," continued he, "I accuse this person of having entered my
house on the night of October the 18th, and having stolen therefrom the
female slave Aurore Besancon."
"It is false!" cried a voice, interrupting him. "It is false! _Aurore
Besancon_ is _not a slave_!"
Gayarre started, as though some one had thrust a knife into him.
"Who says that?" he demanded, though with a voice that evidently
faltered.
"I!" replied the voice; and at the same instant a young man leaped upon
one of the benches, and stood with his head overtopping the crowd. It
was D'Hauteville!
"I say it!" he repeated, in the same firm tone. "_Aurore Besancon is no
slave, but a free Quadroon_! Here, Justice Claiborne," continued
D'Hauteville, "do me the favour to read this document!" At the same
time the speaker handed a folded parchment across the room.
The sheriff passed it to the magistrate, who opened it and read aloud.
It proved to be the "free papers" of Aurore the Quadroon--the
certificate of her manumission--regularly signed and attested by her
master, Auguste Besancon, and left by him in his will.
The astonishment was extreme--so much so that the crowd seemed
petrified, and preserved silence. Their feelings were on the turn.
The effect produced upon Gayarre was visible to all. He seemed covered
with confusion. In his embarrassment he faltered out--
"I protest against this--that paper has been stolen from my bureau,
and--"
"So much the better, Monsieur Gayarre!" said D'Hauteville, again
interrupting him; "so much the better! You confess to its being stolen,
and therefore you confess to its being genuine. Now, sir, having this
document in your possession, and knowing its contents, how could you
claim Aurore Besancon as your slave?"
Gayarre was confounded. His cadaverous face became of a white, sickly
hue; and his habitual look of malice rapidly gave way to an expression
of terror. He appeared as if he wanted to be gone; and already crouched
behind the taller men who stood around him.
"Stop, Monsieur Gayarre!" continued the inexorable D'Hauteville, "I have
not done with you yet. Here, Justice Claiborne! I have another
document that may interest you. Will you have the goodness to give it
your attention?"
Saying this, the speaker held out a second folded parchment, which was
handed to the magistrate--who, as before, opened the document and read
it aloud.
This was a codicil to the will of Auguste Besancon, by which the sum of
fifty thousand dollars in bank stock was bequeathed to his daughter,
Eugenie Besancon, to be paid to her upon the day on which she should be
of age by the joint executors of the estate--Monsieur Dominique Gayarre
and Antoine Lereux--and these executors were instructed not to make
known to the recipient the existence of this sum in her favour, until
the very day of its payment.
"Now, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!" continued D'Hauteville, as soon as
the reading was finished, "I charge you with the embezzlement of this
fifty thousand dollars, with various other sums--of which more
hereafter. I charge you with having concealed the existence of this
money--of having withheld it from the assets of the estate Besancon--of
having appropriated it to your own use!"
"This is a serious charge," said Justice Claiborne, evidently impressed
with its truth, and prepared to entertain it. "Your name, sir, if you
please?" continued he, interrogating D'Hauteville, in a mild tone of
voice.
It was the first time I had seen D'Hauteville in the full light of day.
All that had yet passed between us had taken place either in the
darkness of night or by the light of lamps. That morning alone had we
been together for a few minutes by daylight; but even then it was under
the sombre shadow of the woods--where I could have but a faint view of
his features.
Now that he stood in the light of the open window, I had a full, clear
view of his face. The resemblance to some one I had seen before again
impressed me. It grew stronger as I gazed; and before the magistrate's
interrogatory had received its reply, the shock of my astonishment had
passed.
"Your name, sir, if you please?" repeated the justice.
"_Eugenie Besancon_!"
At the same instant the hat was pulled off--the black curls were drawn
aside--and the fair, golden tresses of the beautiful Creole exhibited to
the view.
A loud huzza broke out--in which all joined, excepting Gayarre and his
two or three ruffian adherents. I felt that I was free.
The conditions had suddenly changed, and the plaintiff had taken the
place of the defendant. Even before the excitement had quieted down, I
saw the sheriff, at the instigation of Reigart and others, stride
forward to Gayarre, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the
latter, arrest him as his prisoner.
"It is false!" cried Gayarre; "a plot--a damnable plot! These documents
are forgeries! the signatures are false--false!"
"Not so, Monsieur Gayarre," said the justice, interrupting him. "Those
documents are not forgeries. This is the handwriting of Auguste
Besancon. I knew him well. This is his signature--I could myself swear
to it."
"And I!" responded a voice, in a deep solemn tone, which drew the
attention of all.
The transformation of Eugene D'Hauteville to Eugenie Besancon had
astonished the crowd; but a greater surprise awaited them in the
resurrection of the _steward Antoine_!
Reader! my story is ended. Here upon our little drama must the curtain
drop. I might offer you other tableaux to illustrate the after history
of our characters, but a slight summary must suffice. Your fancy will
supply the details.
It will glad you to know, then, that Eugenie Besancon recovered the
whole of her property--which was soon restored to its flourishing
condition under the faithful stewardship of Antoine.
Alas! there was that that could never be restored--the young cheerful
heart--the buoyant spirit--the virgin love!
But do not imagine that Eugenie Besancon yielded to despair--that she
was ever after the victim of that unhappy passion. No--hers was a
mighty will; and all its energies were employed to pluck the fatal arrow
from her heart.
Time and a virtuous life have much power; but far more effective was
that sympathy of the object beloved--that _pity for love_--which to her
was fully accorded.
Her heart's young hope was crushed--her gay spirit shrouded--but there
are other joys in life besides the play of the passions; and, it may be,
the path of love is not the true road to happiness. Oh! that I could
believe this! Oh! that I could reason myself into the belief, that that
calm and unruffled mien--that soft sweet smile were the tokens of a
heart at rest. Alas! I cannot. Fate will have its victims. Poor
Eugenie! God be merciful to thee! Oh, that I could steep thy heart in
the waters of Lethe!
And Reigart? You, reader, will be glad to know that the good doctor
prospered--prospered until he was enabled to lay aside his lancet, and
become a grandee planter--nay more, a distinguished legislator,--one of
those to whom belongs the credit of having modelled the present system
of Louisiana law--the most advanced code in the civilised world.
You will be glad to learn that Scipio, with his Chloe and the "leetle
Chloe," were brought back to their old and now happy home--that the
snake-charmer still retained his brawny arms, and never afterwards had
occasion to seek refuge in his tree-cavern.
You will not be grieved to know, that Gayarre passed several years of
his after-life in the palace-prison of Baton Rouge, and then disappeared
altogether from the scene. It was said that under a changed name he
returned to France, his native country. His conviction was easy.
Antoine had long suspected him of a design to plunder their joint ward,
and had determined to put him to the proof. The raft of chairs had
floated after all; and by the help of these the faithful steward had
gained the shore, far down the river. No one knew of his escape; and
the idea occurred to this strange old man to remain for a while _en
perdu_--a silent spectator of the conduct of Monsieur Dominique. No
sooner did Gayarre believe him gone, than the latter advanced boldly
upon his purpose, and hurried events to the described crisis. It was
just what Antoine had expected; and acting himself as the accuser, the
conviction of the avocat was easy and certain. A sentence of five years
to the State Penitentiary wound up Gayarre's connexion with the
characters of our story.
It will scarce grieve you to know that "Bully Bill" experienced a
somewhat similar fate--that Ruffin, the man-hunter, was drowned by a
sudden rising of the swamp--and that the "nigger-trader" afterwards
became a "nigger-stealer;" and for that crime was sentenced at the court
of Judge Lynch to the punishment of "tar and feathers."
The "sportsmen," Chorley and Hatcher, I never saw again--though their
future is not unknown to me. Chorley--the brave and accomplished, but
wicked Chorley--was killed in a duel by a Creole of New Orleans, with
whom he had quarrelled at play.
Hatcher's bank "got broke" soon after, and a series of ill-fortune at
length reduced him to the condition of a race-course thimble-rig, and
small sharper in general.
The pork-merchant I met many years afterward, as a successful _monte_
dealer in the "Halls of the Montezumas." Thither he had gone,--a
camp-follower of the American army--and had accumulated an enormous
fortune by keeping a gambling-table for the officers. He did not live
long to enjoy his evil gains. The "_vomito prieto_" caught him at Vera
Cruz; and his dust is now mingled with the sands of that dreary shore.
Thus, reader, it has been my happy fortune to record _poetical justice_
to the various characters that have figured in the pages of our history.