The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 instinct: it savoured of actual knowledge. He must have learnt these things from some quarter. Where could he have gathered them?

      “Who told you all this, Scipio?”

      “Aurore, mass’r.”

      “Aurore!”

Chapter Sixteen.

       Table of Contents

      Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.

      I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was “Aurore.” Why? Was it the singularity and beauty of the name—for novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name “Aurore?”

      I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther. At that moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.

      “Da doctor, mass’r,” whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the gentlemen to approach.

      Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the “doctor.” The professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man, who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius, as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his door-plate in the other.

      He was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one that would be termed handsome. It was, however, interesting, from a quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual expression of kind feeling. It had been a German face some two or three generations before, but an American climate—political, I mean—had tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of European despotism, and had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature. Afterwards, when better acquainted with American types, I should have known it as a Pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was. I saw before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of Philadelphia, Dr. Edward Reigart. The name confirmed my suspicion of German origin.

      Altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at first sight.

      How different was that I received on glancing toward his companion—antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust! A face purely French;—not that noble French face we see in the Duguesclins, the Jean Barts, and among many of the old Huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a Rollin, a Hugo, an Arago, or a Pyat;—but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds sneaking around the Bourse or the coulisses of the Opera, or in thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian soldiery. A countenance that I cannot describe better than by saying that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox. I am not in jest. I observed this resemblance plainly. I observed the same obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel inhumanity.

      In the Doctor’s companion I beheld a type of this face—the fox in human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed.

      My instincts chimed with Scipio’s, for I had not the slightest doubt that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. It was he.

      A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who could endure a great deal before parting with life. He had all the subtle wiry look of the carnivora, as well as their disposition. The eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. The balls were not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the apex. Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of a weasel. They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this smile was purely cynical and deceptive. If any one knew themselves guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. When a case of misfortune did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident delight. He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.

      For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp—shaggy dark brows, set obliquely—face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. His dress had somewhat of a professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black ribbon. In age he looked fifty.

      The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue, felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep myself “as quiet as possible.” As an inducement to do so he told me I was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped that a few days would restore me to my strength. Scipio was charged with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled chicken, for my breakfast.

      The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound. This I thought somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain quiet. He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. I was too anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. Nothing more had been heard of him. He was certainly lost.

      I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the wound. I could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the features of Gayarre as I spoke. He was all attention, and when I told of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not support the steward a single moment, I fancied I saw the dark eyes of the avocat flashing СКАЧАТЬ