The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West. Майн Рид
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must have perished.
“Poor Pierre, too. We hab lost Pierre.”
“Pierre? Who was he?”
“De coachman, mass’r, he war.”
“Oh! I remember. You think he is drowned, also?”
“I’se afeerd so, mass’r. Ole Zip sorry, too, for Pierre. A good nigger war daat Pierre. But, Mass’r Toney, Mass’r Toney, ebberybody sorry for Mass’r Toney.”
“He was a favourite among you?”
“Ebberybody like ’im—black folks, white folks, all lub ’im. Missa ’Génie lub ’im. He live wi’ ole Mass’r Sançon all him life. I believe war one ob Missy ’Génie gardiums, or whatever you call ’em. Gorramighty! what will young Missa do now? She hab no friends leff; and daat ole fox Gayarre—he no good—”
Here the speaker suddenly interrupted himself, as if he feared that his tongue was going too freely.
The name he had pronounced and the expression by which it was qualified, at once awakened my curiosity—the name more than the qualification.
“If it be the same,” thought I, “Scipio has characterised him not otherwise than justly. Can it be the same?”
“You mean Monsieur Dominique Gayarre, the avocat?” I asked, after a pause.
Scipio’s great white eyeballs rolled about with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension, and rather stammeringly he replied:—
“Daat am de genl’um’s name. Know ’im, young mass’r?”
“Only very slightly,” I answered, and this answer seemed to set my companion at his ease again.
The truth is, I had no personal acquaintance with the individual mentioned; but during my stay in New Orleans, accident had brought me in contact with the name. A little adventure had befallen me, in which the bearer of it figured—not to advantage. On the contrary, I had conceived a strong dislike for the man, who, as already stated, was a lawyer, or avocat of the New Orleans bar. Scipio’s man was no doubt the same. The name was too rare a one to be borne by two individuals; besides, I had heard that he was owner of a plantation somewhere up the coast—at Bringiers, I remembered. The probabilities were it was he. If so, and Mademoiselle Besançon had no other friend, then, indeed, had Scipio spoken truly when he said, “She hab no friends leff.”
Scipio’s observation had not only roused my curiosity, but had imparted to me a vague feeling of uneasiness. It is needless to say that I was now deeply interested in this young Creole. A man who has saved a life—the life of a beautiful woman—and under such peculiar circumstances, could not well be indifferent to the after-fate of her he has rescued.
Was it a lover’s interest that had been awakened within me?
My heart answered, No! To my own astonishment, it gave this answer. On the boat I had fancied myself half in love with this young lady; and now, after a romantic incident—one that might appear a very provocative to the sublime passion—I lay on my couch contemplating the whole affair with a coolness that surprised even myself! I felt that I had lost much blood—had my incipient passion flowed out of my veins at the same time?
I endeavoured to find some explanation for this rare psychological fact; but at that time I was but an indifferent student of the mind. The land of love was to me a terre inconnue.
One thing was odd enough. Whenever I essayed to recall the features of the Creole, the dream-face rose up before me more palpable than ever!
“Strange!” thought I, “this lovely vision! this dream of my diseased brain! Oh! what would I not give to embody this fair spectral form!”
I had no longer a doubt about it. I was certain I did not love Mademoiselle Besançon, and yet I was far from feeling indifferent towards her. Friendship was the feeling that now actuated me. The interest, I felt for her was that of a friend. Strong enough was it to render me anxious on her account—to make me desirous of knowing more both of herself and her affairs.
Scipio was not of secretive habit; and in less than half an hour I was the confidant of all he knew.
Eugénie Besançon was the daughter and only child of a Creole planter, who had died some two years before, as some thought wealthy, while others believed that his affairs were embarrassed. Monsieur Dominique Gayarre had been left joint-administrator of the estate with the steward Antoine, both being “guardiums” (sic Scipio) of the young lady. Gayarre had been the lawyer of Besançon, and Antoine his faithful servitor. Hence the trust reposed in the old steward, who in latter years stood in the relation of friend and companion rather than of servant to Besançon himself.
In a few months mademoiselle would be of age; but whether her inheritance was large, Scipio could not tell. He only knew that since her father’s death, Monsieur Dominique, the principal executor, had furnished her with ample funds whenever called upon; that she had not been restricted in any way; that she was generous; that she was profuse in her expenditure, or, as Scipio described it, “berry wasteful, an flung about de shinin dollars as ef dey war donicks!”
The black gave some glowing details of many a grand ball and fête champètre that had taken place on the plantation, and hinted at the expensive life which “young missa” led while in the city, where she usually resided during most part of the winter. All this I could easily credit. From what had occurred on the boat, and other circumstances, I was impressed with the belief that Eugénie Besançon was just the person to answer to the description of Scipio. Ardent of soul—full of warm impulses—generous to a fault—reckless in expenditure—living altogether in the present—and not caring to make any calculation for the future. Just such an heiress as would exactly suit the purposes of an unprincipled administrator.
I could see that poor Scipio had a great regard for his young mistress; but, even ignorant as he was, he had some suspicion that all this profuse outlay boded no good. He shook his head as he talked of these matters, adding—
“I’se afeerd, young mass’r, it’ll nebber, nebber last. De Planters’ bank hisseff would be broke by such a constant drawin ob money.”
When Scipio came to speak of Gayarre he shook his head still more significantly. He had evidently some strange suspicions about this individual, though he was unwilling, just then, to declare them.
I learnt enough to identify Monsieur Dominique Gayarre with my avocat of the Rue—, New Orleans. No doubt remained on my mind that it was the same. A lawyer by profession, but more of a speculator in stocks—a money-lender, in other words, usurer. In the country a planter, owning the plantation adjoining that of Besançon, with more than a hundred slaves, whom he treats with the utmost severity. All this is in correspondence with the calling and character of my Monsieur Dominique. They are the same.
Scipio gives me some additional details of him. He was the law adviser and the companion of Monsieur Besançon—Scipio says, “Too often for ole mass’r’s good,” and believes that the latter suffered much from his acquaintance: or, as Scipio phrases it, “Mass’r Gayarre humbug ole mass’r; he cheat ’im many an many a time, I’se certain.”
Furthermore, I learn from my attendant, that Gayarre resides upon his plantation during the summer months; that he is a daily visitor at the “big house”—the residence of Mademoiselle Besançon—where he makes himself quite at home; acting, says Scipio, “as ef de place ’longed to him, and he war de boss ob de plantation.”
I fancied Scipio knew something more about this man—some definite matter that he did not like to talk about. It was natural enough, considering our recent acquaintance. I could see that he had a strong dislike towards Gayarre. Did he found it on some actual knowledge of the latter, or was it instinct—a principle strongly developed in these poor slaves, who are not permitted to reason?
His information, however, comprised too many facts to be the product of mere