The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

“Daat are a fact, mass’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, mass’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, mass’r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers 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, mass’r; brack as a boot.”

“Is it straight hair?”

“No, mass’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, mass’r, it curls – what folks call de wave.”

“I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?”

“Daat it do, mass’r, down to de berry small ob her back.”

“Luxuriant?”

“What am dat, mass’r?”

“Thick – bushy.”

“Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon’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, mass’r – daat him bell – be back, ’gain in a minute, mass’r.”

So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.

I lay reflecting on the singular – somewhat romantic – situation in which circumstances 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 passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An ejaculation 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 Eugénie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!

“Your name!” said the astonished mistress.

“My name!” repeated the equally astonished slave.

“But how? – he knows your name – how?”

“I cannot tell, ma’amselle.”

“Have you been here before?”

“No; not till this moment.”

“’Tis very strange!” said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.

I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses – enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon’s name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking – to account for the expressions I had uttered – would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma’amselle Besançon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said – a little deceit was absolutely necessary.

In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words —

“’Tis very strange he should know your name!”