The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

Into this room, then, was I hurried by the sheriff and his assistants – the mob rushing in after, until every available space was occupied.

Chapter Seventy Nine

The Crisis

No doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found Squire Claiborne in his chair of office, ready to hear the case. In the tall, thin old man, with white hair and dignified aspect, I recognised a fit representative of justice – one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect not only by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personal character. In spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, I read in the serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fair play.

I was no longer uneasy. On the way, Reigart had told me to be of good cheer. He had whispered something about “strange developments to be made;” but I had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehend what he meant. In the hurry and crush I had found no opportunity for an explanation.

“Keep up your spirits!” said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me. “Don’t have any fear about the result. It’s rather an odd affair, and will have an odd ending – rather unexpected for somebody, I should say – ha! ha! ha!”

Reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee! What could such conduct mean?

I was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a high tone of authority, commanded that no one should “hold communication with the prisoner;” and my friend and I were abruptly separated. Strange, I did not dislike the sheriff for this! I had a secret belief that his manner – apparently somewhat hostile to me – was assumed for a purpose. The mob required conciliation; and all this brusquerie was a bit of management on the part of Sheriff Hickman.

On arriving before Justice Claiborne, it required all the authority of both sheriff and justice to obtain silence. A partial lull, however, enabled the latter to proceed with the case.

“Now, gentlemen!” said he, speaking in a firm, magisterial tone, “I am ready to hear the charge against this young man. Of what is he accused, Colonel Hickman?” inquired the justice, turning to the sheriff.

“Of negro-stealing, I believe,” replied the latter.

“Who prefers the charge?”

“Dominique Gayarre,” replied a voice from the crowd, which I recognised as that of Gayarre himself.

“Is Monsieur Gayarre present?” inquired the justice.

The voice again replied in the affirmative, and the fox-like face of the avocat now presented itself in front of the rostrum.

“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre,” said the magistrate, recognising him, “what is the charge you bring against the prisoner? State it in full and upon oath.”

Gayarre having gone through the formula of the oath, proceeded with his plaint in true lawyer style.

I need not follow the circumlocution of legal phraseology. Suffice it to say, that there were several counts in his indictment.

I was first accused of having endeavoured to instigate to mutiny and revolt the slaves of the plantation Besançon, by having interfered to prevent one of their number from receiving his just punishment! Secondly, I had caused another of these to strike down his overseer; and afterwards had induced him to run away to the woods, and aided him in so doing! This was the slave Gabriel, who had just that day been captured in my company. Thirdly and Gayarre now came to the cream of his accusation.

“Thirdly,” continued he, “I accuse this person of having entered my house on the night of October the 18th, and having stolen therefrom the female slave Aurore Besançon.”

“It is false!” cried a voice, interrupting him. “It is false! Aurore Besançon is not a slave!”

Gayarre started, as though some one had thrust a knife into him.

“Who says that?” he demanded, though with a voice that evidently faltered.

“I!” replied the voice; and at the same instant a young man leaped upon one of the benches, and stood with his head overtopping the crowd. It was D’Hauteville!

“I say it!” he repeated, in the same firm tone. “Aurore Besançon is no slave, but a free Quadroon! Here, Justice Claiborne,” continued D’Hauteville, “do me the favour to read this document!” At the same time the speaker handed a folded parchment across the room.

The sheriff passed it to the magistrate, who opened it and read aloud.

It proved to be the “free papers” of Aurore the Quadroon – the certificate of her manumission – regularly signed and attested by her master, Auguste Besançon, and left by him in his will.

The astonishment was extreme – so much so that the crowd seemed petrified, and preserved silence. Their feelings were on the turn.

The effect produced upon Gayarre was visible to all. He seemed covered with confusion. In his embarrassment he faltered out —

“I protest against this – that paper has been stolen from my bureau, and – ”

“So much the better, Monsieur Gayarre!” said D’Hauteville, again interrupting him; “so much the better! You confess to its being stolen, and therefore you confess to its being genuine. Now, sir, having this document in your possession, and knowing its contents, how could you claim Aurore Besançon as your slave?”

Gayarre was confounded. His cadaverous face became of a white, sickly hue; and his habitual look of malice rapidly gave way to an expression of terror. He appeared as if he wanted to be gone; and already crouched behind the taller men who stood around him.

“Stop, Monsieur Gayarre!” continued the inexorable D’Hauteville, “I have not done with you yet. Here, Justice Claiborne! I have another document that may interest you. Will you have the goodness to give it your attention?”

Saying this, the speaker held out a second folded parchment, which was handed to the magistrate – who, as before, opened the document and read it aloud.

This was a codicil to the will of Auguste Besançon, by which the sum of fifty thousand dollars in bank stock was bequeathed to his daughter, Eugénie Besançon, to be paid to her upon the day on which she should be of age by the joint executors of the estate – Monsieur Dominique Gayarre and Antoine Lereux – and these executors were instructed not to make known to the recipient the existence of this sum in her favour, until the very day of its payment.

“Now, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!” continued D’Hauteville, as soon as the reading was finished, “I charge you with the embezzlement of this fifty thousand dollars, with various other sums – of which more hereafter. I charge you with having concealed the existence of this money – of having withheld it from the assets of the estate Besançon – of having appropriated it to your own use!”

“This is a serious charge,” said Justice Claiborne, evidently impressed with its truth, and prepared to entertain it. “Your name, sir, if you please?” continued he, interrogating D’Hauteville, in a mild tone of voice.

It was the first time I had seen D’Hauteville in the full light of day. All that had yet passed between us had taken place either in the darkness of night or by the light of lamps. That morning alone had we been together for a few minutes by daylight; but even then it was under the sombre shadow of the woods – where I could have but a faint view of his features.

Now that he stood in the light of the open window, I had a full, clear view of his face. The resemblance to some one I had seen before again impressed me. It grew stronger as I gazed; and before the magistrate’s interrogatory had received its reply, the shock of my astonishment had passed.

“Your name, sir, if you please?” repeated the justice.

“Eugénie Besançon!”

At the same instant the hat was pulled off – the black curls were drawn aside – and the fair, golden tresses of the beautiful Creole exhibited to the view.

A loud huzza broke out – in which all joined, excepting Gayarre and his two or three ruffian adherents. I felt that I was free.

The conditions had suddenly changed, and the plaintiff had taken the place of the defendant. Even before the excitement had quieted down, I saw the sheriff, at the instigation of Reigart and others, stride forward to Gayarre, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the latter, arrest him as his prisoner.

“It is false!” cried Gayarre; “a plot – a damnable plot! These documents are forgeries! the signatures are false – false!”

“Not so, Monsieur Gayarre,” said the justice, interrupting him. “Those documents are not forgeries. This is the handwriting of Auguste Besançon. I knew him well. This is his signature – I could myself swear to it.”

“And I!” responded a voice, in a deep solemn tone, which drew the attention of all.

The transformation of Eugène D’Hauteville to Eugénie Besançon had astonished the crowd; but a greater surprise awaited them in the resurrection of the steward Antoine!

Reader! my story is ended. Here upon our little drama must the curtain drop. I might offer you other tableaux to illustrate the after history of our characters, but a slight summary must suffice. Your fancy will supply the details.

It will glad you to know, then, that Eugénie Besançon recovered the whole of her property – which was soon restored to its flourishing condition under the faithful stewardship of Antoine.