Scipio hesitated a moment--"but--"
"Well?"
"I don"t b"lieve, ma.s.s"r, daat"s de reason."
"What, then?"
"Why, ma.s.s"r, to tell de troof, I b"lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal."
Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.
"Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?"
"Ma.s.s"r, "taint for dis ole n.i.g.g.e.r to judge "bout daat; but folks dey say--bof white folks an black folks--daat she am de best-lookin" an hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna."
"Ha! a _quadroon_?"
"Daat are a fact, ma.s.s"r, daat same--she be a gal ob colour--nebber mind--she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr"all daat dar am great difference--one rich lady-- t"other poor slave--jes like Ole Zip--ay, jes like Ole Zip--buy "em, sell "em, all de same."
"Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?"
It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me--those features of strange type--its strangely-beautiful expression, not Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible--probable--
"Could you describe her, Scipio?" I repeated.
""Scribe her, ma.s.s"r; daat what you mean? ye--yes."
I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few "points" would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no dream, but a reality.
"Well, ma.s.s"r, some folks says she am proud, case de common n.i.g.g.e.rs envy ob her--daat"s de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows--she talk to "im, an tell "im many tings--she help teach Ole Zip read, and de ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she--"
"It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio."
"Oh! a "scription ob her person--ye--daat is, what am she like?"
"So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?"
"Brack, ma.s.s"r; brack as a boot."
"Is it straight hair?"
"No, ma.s.s"r--ob course not--Aurore am a quaderoom."
"It curls?"
"Well, not dzactly like this hyar;" here Scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; "but for all daat, ma.s.s"r, it curls--what folks call de wave."
"I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?"
"Daat it do, ma.s.s"r, down to de berry small ob her back."
"Luxuriant?"
"What am dat, ma.s.s"r?"
"Thick--bushy."
"Golly! it am as bushy as de ole c.o.o.n"s tail."
"Now the eyes?"
Scipio"s description of the quadroon"s eyes was rather a confused one.
He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: "Dey am big an round--dey shine like de eyes of a deer." The nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was straight and small. The eyebrows--the teeth--the complexion--were all faithfully pictured--that of the cheeks by a simile, "like de red ob a Georgium peach."
Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety I could not account for.
The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair--this priceless quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.
"Scipio wanted, ma.s.s"r--daat him bell--be back, "gain in a minute, ma.s.s"r."
So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.
I lay reflecting on the singular--somewhat romantic--situation in which circ.u.mstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday--but the night before--a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me--to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried--the invalid guest--laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended.
These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio"s picture of the quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.
The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
THE CREOLE AND QUADROON.
I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.
Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.
"He wakes, ma"amselle!" half whispered a sweet voice.
My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek--all before me!
"Is it a dream? No--she breathes; she moves; she speaks!"
"See! ma"amselle--he looks at us! Surely he is awake!"
"It is no dream, then--no vision; it is she--it is Aurore!"
Up to this moment I was still but half conscious. The thought had pa.s.sed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that followed fully awoke me, and I now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugenie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!