The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

We had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell. I was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom I now regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the same.

What generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice! Ah! little did I then know of the vast extent—the noble grandeur of that sacrifice!

“There now remains but one chance,” I said; “the chance that to-morrow’s mail, or rather to-day’s, may bring my letter. It might still arrive in time; the mail is due by ten o’clock in the morning.”

“True,” replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts to give much heed to what I had said.

“If not,” I continued, “then there is only the hope that he who shall become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her to me. I care not at what price, if I – ”

“Ah!” interrupted D’Hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; “it is just that which troubles me – that is exactly what I have been thinking upon. I fear, Monsieur, I fear – ”

“Speak on!”

“I fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell her again.”

“And why? Will not a large sum – ?”

“No – no – I fear that he who buys will not give her up again, at any price.”

“Ha! Why do you think so, Monsieur D’Hauteville.”

“I have my suspicion that a certain individual designs – ”

“Who?”

“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.”

“Oh! heavens! Gayarre! Gayarre!”

“Yes; from what you have told me – from what I know myself – for I, too, have some knowledge of Dominique Gayarre.”

“Gayarre! Gayarre! Oh, God!”

I could only ejaculate. The announcement had almost deprived me of the power of speech. A sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me – a prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh, and I without the power to avert it.

Strange this thought had not occurred to me before. I had supposed that the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some one who would be disposed to resell at a profit – perhaps an enormous one; but in time I should be prepared for that. Strange I had never thought of Gayarre becoming the purchaser. But, indeed, since the hour when I first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything.

Now it was clear. It was no longer a conjecture; most certainly, Gayarre would become the master of Aurore. Ere another night her body would be his property. Her soul – Oh, God! Am I awake? – do I dream?

“I had a suspicion of this before,” continued D’Hauteville; “for I may tell you I know something of this family history – of Eugénie Besançon – of Aurore – of Gayarre the avocat. I had a suspicion before that Gayarre might desire to be the owner of Aurore. But now that you have told me of the scene in the dining-room, I no longer doubt this villain’s design. Oh! it is infamous.”

“Still further proof of it,” continued D’Hauteville. “There was a man on the boat – you did not notice him, perhaps – an agent for Gayarre in such matters. A negro-trader – a fit tool for such a purpose. No doubt his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale – to bid for the poor girl.”

“But why,” I asked, catching at a straw of hope, – “why, since he wishes to possess Aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract? – why send her to the slave-market to public auction?”

“The law requires it. The slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be sold publicly to the highest bidder. Besides, Monsieur, bad as may be this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have suggested. He is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness, wishes to stand well before the world. There are many who believe Gayarre a good man! He dare not act openly in this villainous design, and will not appear in it. To save scandal, the negro-trader will be supposed to purchase for himself. It is infamous!”

“Beyond conception! Oh! what is to be done to save her from this fearful man? to save me – ”

“It is of that I am thinking, and have been for the last hour. Be of good cheer, Monsieur! all hope is not lost. There is still one chance of saving Aurore. There is one hope left. Alas! I have known the time, – I, too, have been unfortunate – sadly – sadly – unfortunate. No matter now. We shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been relieved. Perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs – no more of that now. There is still one chance for Aurore, and she and you – both – may yet be happy. It must be so; I am resolved upon it. ’Twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story. Enough – I have no time to spare – I must be gone. Now to your hotel! – go and rest. To-morrow at twelve I shall be with you – at twelve in the Rotundo. Good night! Adieu.”

Without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply, the Creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon passed out of sight!

Pondering over his incoherent words – over his unintelligible promise – upon his strange looks and manner, – I walked slowly to my hotel.

Without undressing I flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going to sleep.

Chapter Fifty Nine

The Rotundo

The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night – the thousand and one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear – the theoretic tentation of a hundred projects – all passed before my waking spirit. Yet when morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. All my hopes centred upon D’Hauteville – for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.

To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co. The negative answer to my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. I had anticipated it. When did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? Slowly roll the golden circles – slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly parted with. This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail; yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my affairs, had made some cause of delay.

Never trust your business affairs to a friend. Never trust to a day for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of sending it. So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and Co.

It was twelve o’clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis. I did not re-enter the hotel – I walked direct to the Rotundo.

My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under the shadow of that spacious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I experienced at that moment.

I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe – I have passed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt – pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me – I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain – but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.

Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upon desecrated ground – desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famed slave-market of New Orleans– the place where human bodies – I might almost say human souls– were bought and sold!

Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had the husband been here severed from his wife – the mother from her child. Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement – oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh – nay more – the cry of the anguished heart!

I repeat it – my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within the precincts of that spacious hall. And no wonder – with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.

You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator – a reporter cool and unmoved by what was passing – I might have noted the details, and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought alone was in my mind – my eyes sought for one sole object – and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.

A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated daïs, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two objects I divined.

A stone “kerb,” or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The purpose of this was equally apparent.

The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall.

There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds. Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude, were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red “brogans,” their coarse garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of “nigger cloth” died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree, – these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall – a distinct race of beings.

But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion – even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the air of the conqueror – those were motionless with the passive look and downcast mien of the captive. These were masters– those were slaves! They were the slaves of the plantation Besançon.

All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at ease. Mothers sat holding their “piccaninnies” in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate – no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them.

Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent to their future. Some even seemed happy – laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the “white folks.” A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather anticipated such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard – perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past.

I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. A glance was enough to satisfy me that she was not there. There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came.

I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances – perhaps insulting speeches – of which she might be the object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.