The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West. Майн Рид
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side of the carriage, and bowed to the lady. I was close to the spot, and every word reached me.
“Monsieur! are you the captain of the Belle of the West?”
The lady spoke in French, a smattering of which the Captain in his intercourse with the Creoles had picked up.
“Yes, madame,” was the reply.
“I wish to take passage with you.”
“I shall be most happy to accommodate you, madame. There is still one state-room disengaged, I believe, Mr. Shirley?”
Here the Captain appealed to the clerk, in order to ascertain if such was the case.
“Never mind!” said the lady, interrupting him, “for the matter of a state-room it is of no importance! You will reach my plantation before midnight, and therefore I shall not require to sleep aboard.”
The phrase, “my plantation,” evidently had an effect upon the Captain. Naturally not a rude man, it seemed to render him still more attentive and polite. The proprietor of a Louisiana plantation is a somebody not to be treated with nonchalance; but, when that proprietor chances to be a young and charming lady, who could be otherwise than amiable? Not Captain B., commander of the “Belle of the West!” The very name of his boat negatived the presumption!
Smiling blandly, he inquired where he was to land his fair charge.
“At Bringiers,” replied the lady. “My residence is a little below, but our landing is not a good one; besides, there is some freight which it would be better to put ashore at Bringiers.”
Here the occupant of the barouche pointed to a train of drays, loaded with barrels and boxes, that had just driven up, and halted in the rear of the carriage.
The sight of the freight had a still further pleasant effect on the Captain, who was himself part owner of his boat. He became profuse in offers of service, and expressed his willingness to accommodate his new passenger in every way she might desire.
“Monsieur Capitaine,” continued this handsome lady, still remaining seated in her carriage, and speaking in a tone of good-natured seriousness, “I must make one condition with you.”
“Please to name it, madame.”
“Well then! It is reported that your boat is likely to have a race with some other one. If that be so, I cannot become your passenger.” The Captain looked somewhat disconcerted. “The fact is,” continued she, “I had a narrow escape once before, and I am determined to run no such risk in future.”
“Madame—,” stammered the Captain—then hesitating—
“Oh, then!” interrupted the lady, “if you cannot give me the assurance that you will not race, I must wait for some other boat.”
The Captain hung his head for some seconds. He was evidently reflecting upon his answer. To be thus denied the anticipated excitement and pleasure of the race—the victory which he confidently expected, and its grand consequences; to appear, as it were, afraid of trying the speed of his boat; afraid that she would be beaten; would give his rival a large opportunity for future bragging, and would place himself in no enviable light in the eyes of his crew and passengers—all of whom had already made up their minds for a race. On the other hand, to refuse the request of the lady—not very unreasonable when properly viewed—and still more reasonable when it was considered that that lady was the proprietress of several dray-loads of freight, and when still further considered that that lady was a rich plantress of the “French coast,” and might see fit next fall to send several hundred casks of sugar and as many hogsheads of tobacco down on his (the Captain’s) boat;—these considerations, I say, made the request quite reasonable. And so we suppose, upon reflection, it must have appeared to Captain B—, for after a little hesitation he granted it. Not with the best grace, however. It evidently cost him a struggle; but interest prevailed, and he granted it.
“I accept your conditions, madame. The boat shall not run. I give you my promise to that effect.”
“Assez! thanks! Monsieur le Capitaine; I am greatly obliged to you. If you will be so good as to have my freight taken aboard. The carriage goes along. This gentleman is my steward. Here, Antoine! He will look to everything. And now pray, Capitaine, when do you contemplate starting?”
“In fifteen minutes, madame, at the latest.”
“Are you sure of that, mon Capitaine?” she inquired, with a significant laugh, which told she was no stranger to the want of punctuality of the boats.
“Quite sure, madame,” replied the Captain; “you may depend on the time.”
“Ah! then, I shall go aboard at once!” And, so saying, she lightly tripped down the steps of the barouche, and giving her arm to the Captain, who had gallantly proffered himself, was conducted to the ladies’ cabin, and of course for a time lost to the admiring eyes, not only of myself, but of a goodly number of others who had already been attracted to gaze upon this beautiful apparition.
Chapter Six.
Antoine the Steward.
I had been very much struck by the appearance of this dame. Not so much on account of her physical beauty—though that was of a rare kind—as by the air that characterised her. I should feel a difficulty in describing this, which consisted in a certain braverie that bespoke courage and self-possession. There was no coarseness of manner—only the levity of a heart gay as summer, and light as gossamer, but capable, when occasion required, of exhibiting a wonderful boldness and strength. She was a woman that would be termed beautiful in any country; but with her beauty there was combined elegance, both in dress and manner, that told you at once she was a lady accustomed to society and the world. And this, although still young—she certainly could not have been much over twenty. Louisiana has a precocious climate, however; and a Creole of twenty will count for an Englishwoman of ten years older.
Was she married? I could not bring myself to think so; besides the expressions, “my plantation” and “my steward,” would scarcely have been used by a lady who had “somebody” at home, unless, indeed, that somebody were held in very low estimation—in short, considered a “nobody.” A widow she might be—a very young widow—but even that did not seem to me probable. She had not the “cut” of a widow in my eyes, and there was not the semblance of a “weed” either about her dress or her looks. The Captain had styled her Madame, but he was evidently unacquainted with her, and also with the French idiom. In a doubtful case such as this, it should have been “Mademoiselle.”
Inexperienced as I was at the time—“green,” as the Americans have it—I was not without some curiosity in regard to women, especially when these chanced to be beautiful. My curiosity in the present case had been stimulated by several circumstances. First, by the attractive loveliness of the lady herself; second, by the style of her conversation and the facts it had revealed; third, by the circumstance that the lady was, or I fancied her to be, a “Creole.”
I had as yet had but little intercourse with people of this peculiar race, and was somewhat curious to know more about them. I had found them by no means ready to open their doors to the Saxon stranger—especially the old “Creole noblesse,” who even to this hour regard their Anglo-American fellow-citizens somewhat in the light of invaders and usurpers! This feeling was at one time deeply rooted. With time, however, it is dying out.
A fourth spur to my curiosity was found in the fact, that the lady in passing had eyed me with a glance of more than ordinary inquisitiveness. Do not be too hasty in blaming me for this declaration. Hear me first. I did not for a moment fancy that that glance was one of admiration. I had no such thoughts. I was too young at the time to flatter myself with such fancies. Besides, at that precise moment I was far from