Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in the esteem of the neighbouring planters. Indeed, many of these--the "grandees" among them--keep physicians of their own, and pay them handsomely, too! It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than that of the "poor white folks" in many a European state.
I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besancon. I could only make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no very satisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a "close man," and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.
"Poor young lady!" said he; "quite alone in the world. I believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to have everything in his hands."
I gathered from the doctor that Eugenie"s father had been much richer at one period--one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of "open house," and dispensed hospitality in princely style. "Fetes" on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father"s guests after her father"s fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a "lover."
Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besancon. Why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists between _debtor_ and _creditor_.
The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has already told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past--darker even than that produced by the memory of Antoine!
_July 28th_.--Gayarre has been here to-day--at the house, I mean. In fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me something new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the "black rascals deserved all they had got, and more," and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt his _protege_. The lady was silent.
Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous in all this.
Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief.
He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon "him kettle Chloe." The brute! if this be so!--My blood boils at the thought--oh!
slavery!
_August 2nd_.--I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, and made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to do with her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that is impossible! And yet such frequent visits--such long conferences! If she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!--for victim will she be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. He seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his "n.i.g.g.e.r-driver," as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is more feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards "him leettle Chloe." Poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child!
I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio himself!
_August 3rd_.--To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my room. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. I encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. What would I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only was I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.
She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. She _seemed_ pleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. The exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the n.o.ble outlines of her form.
I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. It exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure--a certain _embonpoint_ characteristic of her race. She was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration.
The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary chamber.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
A CHANGE OF QUARTERS.
I was thinking over my short interview with Aurore--congratulating myself upon some expressions she had dropped--happy in the antic.i.p.ation that such encounters would recur frequently, now that I was able to be abroad--when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my apartment became darkened. I looked up, and beheld the hated face of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.
It was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the plantation. What could _he_ want with _me_?
I was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once.
"Monsieur," began he, "I have made arrangements for your removal to the hotel at Bringiers."
"You have?" said I, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something more indignant than his own. "And who, sir, may I ask, has commissioned _you_ to take this trouble?"
"Ah--oh!" stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, "I beg pardon, Monsieur. Perhaps you are not aware that I am the agent-- the friend--in fact, the guardian of Mademoiselle Besancon--and--and--"
"Is it Mademoiselle Besancon"s wish that I go to Bringiers?"
"Well--the truth is--not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it is a delicate affair--your remaining here, now that you are almost quite recovered, upon which I congratulate you--and--and--"
"Go on, sir!"
"Your remaining here any longer--under the circ.u.mstances--would be--you can judge for yourself, sir--would be, in fact, a thing that would be talked about in the neighbourhood--in fact, considered highly improper."
"Hold, Monsieur Gayarre! I am old enough not to require lessons in etiquette from you, sir."
"I beg pardon, sir. I do not mean that but--I--you will observe--I, as the lawful guardian of the young lady--"
"Enough, sir. I understand you perfectly. For _your purposes, whatever they be_, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation.
Your desire shall be gratified. I shall leave the place, though certainly not with any intention of accommodating you. I shall go hence this very evening."
The words upon which I had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a galvanic shock. I saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the wrinkles deepened about his eyes. I had touched a chord, which he deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him. Lawyer-like, however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy--
"My dear monsieur! I regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see-- the world--the busy, meddling world--"
"Spare your homilies, sir! Your business, I fancy, is ended; at all events your company is no longer desired."
"Humph!" muttered he. "I regret you should take it in this way--I am sorry--"
And with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit.
I stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would take. He walked direct to the house! I saw him go in!
This visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though I had not been without some antic.i.p.ation of such an event. The conversation I had overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such would be the result; though I hardly expected being obliged to change my quarters so soon. For another week or two I had intended to stay where I was. When quite recovered, I should have moved to the hotel of my own accord.
I felt vexed, and for several reasons. It chagrined me to think that this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for I did not believe that Mademoiselle Besancon had anything to do with my removal.
Quite the contrary. She had visited me but a few hours before, and not a word had been said of the matter. Perhaps she might have thought of it, and did not desire to mention it? But no. This could hardly be. I noticed no change in her manner during the interview. The same kindness--the same interest in my recovery--the same solicitude about the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up to the last moment. She evidently contemplated no change so sudden as that proposed by Gayarre. Reflection convinced me that the proposal had been made without any previous communication with _her_.
What must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between her and the rites of hospitality? It was a painful thought to me, to see this fair creature in the power of such a villain.
But another thought was still more painful--the thought of parting with Aurore. Though I did not fancy that parting was to be for ever. No!
Had I believed that, I should not have yielded so easily. I should have put Monsieur Dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion. Of course, I had no apprehension that by removing to the village I should be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as I felt inclined.
Had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful indeed.
After all, the change would signify little. I should return as a visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest--more free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love! I could come as often as I pleased. The same opportunities of seeing her would still be open to me. I wanted but one--one moment alone with Aurore--and then bliss or blighted hopes!
But there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment.
How was I to live at the hotel? Would the proprietor believe in promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be answered? Already I had been provided with suitable apparel, mysteriously indeed. I awoke one morning and found it by my bedside. I made no inquiry as to how it came there. That would be an after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be obtained? Must I become _her_ debtor? Or am I to be under obligations to Gayarre? Cruel dilemma!
At this juncture I thought of Reigart. His calm, kind face came up before me.
"An alternative!" soliloquised I; "he will help me!"