Chapter 23 - Adventures in the Far West by Mayne Reid
A Surprise
My reflections were interrupted by the neighing of my horse. I glanced forward to ascertain the cause. I was opposite the plantation Besançon. A carriage was just wheeling out from the gate. The horses were headed down the Levee road, and going off at a trot, were soon lost behind the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs and wheels.
I recognised the carriage. It was the barouche of Mademoiselle Besançon. I could not tell who were its occupants, though, from the slight glimpse I had got of them, I saw there were ladies in it.
“Mademoiselle herself, accompanied by Aurore, no doubt.”
I believed that they had not observed me, as the high fence concealed all but my head, and the carriage had turned abruptly on passing out of the gate.
I felt disappointed. I had had my ride for nothing, and might now ride back again to Bringiers.
I had drawn bridle with this intent, when it occurred to me I could still overtake the carriage and change words with its occupants. With her, even the interchange of a glance was worth such a gallop.
I laid the spur to the ribs of my horse and sprang him forward.
As I came opposite the house I saw Scipio by the gate. He was just closing it after the carriage.
“Oh!” thought I, “I may as well be sure as to whom I am galloping after.”
With this idea I inclined my horse’s head a little, and drew up in front of Scipio.
“Gollies! how young mass’r ride! Ef he don’t do daat business jes up to de hub! Daat ’im do. Wugh!”
Without taking notice of his complimentary speech, I inquired hastily if Mademoiselle was at home.
“No, mass’r, she jes dis moment gone out—she drive to Mass’r Marigny.”
“Alone?”
“Ye, mass’r.”
“Of course Aurore is with her?”
“No, mass’r; she gone out by harseff. ’Rore, she ’tay at home.”
If the negro had been observant he might have noticed the effect of this announcement upon me, for I am sure it must have been sufficiently apparent. I felt it in the instant upheaving of my heart, and the flushing that suddenly fevered my cheeks.
“Aurore at home, and alone!”
It was the first time during all the course of my wooing that such a “chance” had offered; and I almost gave expression to my agreeable surprise.
Fortunately I did not; for even the faithful Scipio was not to be trusted with such a secret.
With an effort I collected myself, and tamed down my horse, now chafing to continue his gallop. In doing so his head was turned in the direction of the village. Scipio thought I was going to ride back.
“Sure mass’r not go till he rest a bit? Missa ’Génie not home, but dar am ’Rore. ’Rore get mass’r glass ob claret; Ole Zip make um sangaree. Day berry, berry hot. Wugh!”
“You are about right, Scipio,” I replied, pretending to yield to his persuasion. “Take my horse round to the stable. I shall rest a few minutes.”
I dismounted, and, passing the bridle to Scipio, stepped inside the gate.
It was about a hundred paces to the house, by the direct walk that led from the gate to the front door. But there were two other paths, that wound around the sides of the shrubbery, through copses of low trees—laurels, myrtles, and oranges. A person approaching by either of these could not be seen from the house until close to the very windows. From each of these paths the low verandah could be reached without going by the front. There were steps leading into it—into the interior of the house as well—for the windows that fronted upon the verandah were, after the Creole fashion, glass folding-doors, that opened to the bottom, so that the floors of the rooms and verandah-platform were upon the same level.
On passing through the gate, I turned into one of these side-paths (for certain reasons giving it the preference), and walked silently on towards the house.
I had taken the longer way, and advanced slowly for the purpose of composing myself. I could hear the beating of my own heart, and feel its quick nervous throbs, quicker than my steps, as I approached the long-desired interview. I believe I should have been more collected in going up to the muzzle of an antagonist’s pistol!
The long yearning for such an opportunity—the well-known difficulty of obtaining it—the anticipation of that sweetest pleasure on earth—the pleasure of being alone with her I loved—all blended in my thoughts. No wonder they were wild and somewhat bewildered.
I should now meet Aurore face to face alone, with but Love’s god as a witness. I should speak unrestrainedly and free. I should hear her voice, listen to the soft confession that she loved me. I should fold her in my arms—against my bosom! I should drink love from her swimming eyes, taste it on her crimson cheek, her coral lips! Oh, I should speak love, and hear it spoken! I should listen to its delirious ravings!
A heaven of happiness was before me. No wonder my thoughts were wild—no wonder I vainly strove to calm them.
I reached the house, and mounted the two or three steps that led up into the verandah. The latter was carpeted with a mat of sea-grass, and my chaussure was light, so that my tread was as silent as that of a girl. It could scarce have been heard within the chamber whose windows I was passing.
I proceeded on toward the drawing-room, which opened to the front by two of the large door-windows already mentioned. I turned the angle, and the next moment would have passed the first of these windows, had a sound not reached me that caused me to arrest my steps. The sound was a voice that came from the drawing-room, whose windows stood open. I listened—it was the voice of Aurore!
“In conversation with some one! with whom? Perhaps little Chloe? her mother? some one of the domestics?”
I listened.
“By Heaven! it is the voice of a man! Who can he be? Scipio? No; Scipio cannot yet have left the stable. It cannot be he. Some other of the plantation people? Jules, the wood-chopper? the errand-boy, Baptiste? Ha! it is not a negro’s voice. No, it is the voice of a white man! the overseer?”
As this idea came into my head, a pang at the same time shot through my heart—a pang, not of jealousy, but something like it. I was angry at him rather than jealous with her. As yet I had heard nothing to make me jealous. His being present with her, and in conversation, was no cause.
“So, my bold nigger-driver,” thought I, “you have got over your predilection for the little Chloe. Not to be wondered at! Who would waste time gazing at stars when there is such a moon in the sky? Brute that you are, you are not blind. I see you, too, have an eye to opportunities, and know when to enter the drawing-room.”
“Hush!”
Again I listened. When I had first halted, it was through motives of delicacy. I did not wish to appear too suddenly before the open window, which would have given me a full view of the interior of the apartment. I had paused, intending to herald my approach by some noise—a feigned cough, or a stroke of my foot against the floor. My motives had undergone a change. I now listened with a design. I could not help it.
Aurore was speaking.
I bent my ear close to the window. The voice was at too great a distance, or uttered too low, for me to hear what was said. I could hear the silvery tones, but could not distinguish the words. She must be at the further end of the room, thought I. Perhaps, upon the sofa. This conjecture led me to painful imaginings, till the throbbings of my heart drowned the murmur that was causing them.
At length Aurore’s speech was ended. I waited for the reply. Perhaps I might gather from that what she had said. The tones of the male voice would be loud enough to enable me—
Hush! hark!
I listened—I caught the sound of a voice, but not the words. The sound was enough. It caused me to start as if stung by an adder. It was the voice of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!