The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me.

To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for D’Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only hope.

I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. Of course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. There was the regular “negro-trader,” a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide, – the “cowskin,” – fit emblem of his calling.

In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter “bootees,” laced shirt, and diamond studs.

An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair.

The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp, New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze – trousers of like material with the coat – boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.

The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There, too, the snug smooth banker – the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned – the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look – the rich planter of the coast – the proprietor of the cotton press or “pickery” – with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.

As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green “shad-bellied” coat, passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head – that at once proclaimed his calling.

His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, “Here he comes!” “Yon’s him!” “Here comes the major!”

This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green “shad-belly.” The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B – , the celebrated auctioneer.

In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.

Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.

Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full – there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.

Chapter Sixty

The Slave-Mart

I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. As yet no appearance of D’Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o’clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.

No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a long time.

I had full reliance upon my new friend – almost unknown, but not untried. His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it was money I expected him to bring. He had hinted as much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list – the last lot – Lot 65!

Notwithstanding my confidence in D’Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my gaze upon the door, hoping every moment to see him enter.

Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing. Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that her turn would soon come – too soon. With the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. Surely D’Hauteville will not disappoint me!

A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and fashionably dressed, – the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse. They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them. Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The name was Marigny. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me – a Marigny who had proposed to purchase Aurore. Of course I remembered the name.

“Marigny!” I listened.

“So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?” asked one.

“Qui,” replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. “Oui – oui – oui,” he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. “I do intend —ma foi! – yes.”

“How high will you go?”

“Oh – ah! une petite somme, mon cher ami.”

“A little sum will not do, Marigny,” said the first speaker. “I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her – rich dogs all of them.”

“Who?” inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, “Who, may I inquire?”

“Who? Well there’s Gardette the dentist, who’s half crazed about her; there’s the old Marquis; there’s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for a housekeeper! Ha! ha! ha!”

“I can name another,” suggested a third speaker.

“Name!” demanded several; “yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons.”

“No, not myself,” replied the speaker; “I don’t buy coturiers at that price —deux mille dollares, at the least, my friends. Pardieu! no. I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Tremé.”

“Who, then? Name him!”

“Without hesitation I do, – the old wizen-face Gayarre.”

“Gayarre the avocat?”

“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!”

“Improbable,” rejoined one. “Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady habits – a moralist – a miser.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Le Ber; “it’s plain, Messieurs, you don’t understand the character of Monsieur Gayarre. Perhaps I know him better. Miser though he be, in a general sense, there’s one class with whom he’s generous enough. Il a une douzaine des maîtresses! Besides, you must remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor. He wants a good housekeeper – a femme-de-chambre. Come, friends, I have heard something —un petit chose. I’ll lay a wager the miser outbids every one of you, – even rich generous Marigny here!”

Marigny stood biting his lips. His was but a feeling of annoyance or chagrin – mine was utter agony. I had no longer a doubt as to who was the subject of the conversation.

“It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?” asked one.

“’Tis so said.”

“Why, he was considered the great friend of the family – the associate of old Besançon?”

“Yes, the lawyer-friend of the family – Ha! ha!” significantly rejoined another.

“Poor Eugénie! she’ll be no longer the belle. She’ll now be less difficult to please in her choice of a husband.”

“That’s some consolation for you, Le Ber. Ha! ha!”

“Oh!” interposed another, “Le Ber had no chance lately. There’s a young Englishman the favourite now – the same who swam ashore with her at the blowing-up of the Belle steamer. So I have heard, at least. Is it so, Le Ber?”

“You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besançon,” replied the latter, in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, “I would,” replied the questioner, “but I know not where to find her. Where is she? She’s not at her plantation. I was up there, and she had left two days before. She’s not with the aunt here. Where is she, Monsieur?”

I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest. I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugénie, and had sought for her that day, but in vain. It was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. And I now remembered what she had said in her letter of “Sacré Coeur.” Perhaps, thought I, she has really gone to the convent. Poor Eugénie!

“Ay, where is she, Monsieur?” asked another of the party.

“Very strange!” said several at once. “Where can she be? Le Ber, you must know.”