 | CHAPTER XIII.
SCENE BETWEEN THE QUADROONE-MOTHER AND HER SON. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
SCENE BETWEEN THE QUADROONE-MOTHER AND HER SON.
Renault closed the door behind him, and, crossing
a small paved hall, tapped lightly at a half-open door
on the opposite side.
“Come in, Renault,” said the richly-toned voice of
his mother.
He entered a sumptuous chamber, characterized by
luxury and voluptuous ease, and found his mother reclining
on one of those elegant open couches so much
in use in tropical countries. She half rose to receive
him with an indolent, indifferent air, in which coldness
rather than affection was predominant.
“What have you come for, Renault?” she asked,
without looking upon him.
“My beloved sister's happiness,” he said, firmly.
“You are ever a marplot, boy,” she said, quickly,
fixing upon him an angry glance.
“Azèlie shall never submit to the fate of her race.
She is too lovely and pure. She has all the virtues of
a wife, and none of the vices of a mistress. Ere she
shall be one, I will kill her with my own hand.”
“Thou wouldst be a fratricide to save thy sister's
honour! Azèlie is a quadroone, and must fulfil her
destiny. Surely there is nothing degrading to her.
its obedience and slavish duties. I would rather
be thy father's concubine than his wedded wife. This
silly notion and sickly sentiment that has possessed
thee, boy, and with which the girl has gone mad, will
ne'er make her a bride. The law has forbidden her
marriage with a cavalier and gentleman, and she shall
never wed with a quadroon.”
“It were more honourable to be the wife of a slave
than to be the mistress of a prince.”
“This is high language. Dost thou forget that
thou art a quadroon, and that thy sister is one also?”
“Dishonour in a quadroone is no less dishonour.”
“Has not the very law that has forbidden honourable
marriage legalized its substitute, boy, and made it
honourable? If we are forbidden to marry, there is
no guilt in all that we have left to us—wedlock without
priest.”
“I cannot reason with thee, mother. Education—
thy own life—all that thou seest around thee, strengthen
thee in thy singular opinion. I have thought that
female virtue in a daughter was dear to a mother.”
“So it is; and it is therefore that we provide for
our daughters, whom we cannot wed to whom we
would, suitable protectors.”
“Paramours, you should have said. But this, you
say, is not true, mother. Quadroones may wed with
quadroons; though so differently are our men educated,
that I must allow with sorrow that the union would
be unequal. Cease to educate your daughters as baits
to criminal passion, and their conditions will be less
unequal. It is your pride, your love of display and
finery, your female ambition and envious desire to surpass
wives and honourable mothers, ay, to rob them
of the honourable love which is justly their due; to
share favours which are not thine own, but belong to
those whose title and claim to them is more sacred
than thine! Seek not to cast the blame upon others;
the fault lies in thee, and the secret of it is guilty ambition,
that, to attain its end, has degraded female virtue
become a proverb and a by-word.”
While the indignant youth was speaking, she fixed
her large eyes upon his excited countenance with surprise,
which, as he ceased, changed to anger.
“Slave, thou hast sealed thy fate, and that of her
thou hast dared to teach rebellion.”
“Ha! what mean you by this dark threat?” he
cried, alarmed at the malicious energy of her voice
and manner more than by the words.
“I hold in my hands the papers of my manumission,
which the marquis gave me and forgot to record.”
“Then hath Heaven preserved them to prevent the
commission of a blacker crime than earth hath ever
witnessed. But that cold, dark eye tells me thou hast
not told me this for any good. Out with thy wickedness.”
“Azèlie, as I have this night told her, shall never
more be troubled with thy brother's suit. I have higher
game than even he!”
“I knew it, and came here to find it out,” he exclaimed.
“Knew it!” she repeated, with amazement; “how
knew you it?”
“By knowing thee!” he replied, in a tone and manner
that caused her to change colour, and for an instant
shake her foot, that rested on an ottoman by
her couch, with a rapid and nervous motion. “I
knew,” he added, observing the effects of his words,
“that thou wouldst never give up an end which thou
hast had so near to thy heart as this sale of Azèlie to
the Marquis of Caronde, unless thou hadst a full equivalent
for him.”
She smiled meaningly, and then said, in a slow, deliberate
tone of voice, “I have done with Jules; he
shall never be master nor protector to your sister;
who will be, I shall not mention. But mark me, if
you step between her and me in my future plans for
her happiness and best interests, I will place the papers
governor Osma, and enslave her to him.”
“And thyself—”
“I care not for myself, so that I punish her pride
and have my revenge of thee.”
“Thou art an incarnate fiend if thou didst give me
birth—if thou didst—for methinks thou shouldst have
been my brother Jules's mother.”
“Ah! what is this thou sayest?” she cried, quickly,
following him with her eyes as he strode across the
room, spurred by his excited feelings. But, instantly
seeing that he spoke at random, and meant no more
than he said, she recovered her composure; for her
face had flushed, and she had half risen to her feet at
his insinuation.
“Dare to do this thing, woman!” he said, returning
to her and almost whispering, so deep was his voice,
which seemed to issue from his soul.
She quailed before his piercing eye and menacing
tones, yet her spirit was not less firm than his.
“I will do it, if thou come between me and thy sister.”
“Azèlie shall become the bride of Death ere she
shall live in guilt,” he replied, resolutely.
“If she becomes a slave, thou mayst thank thy fraternal
care and love!”
“Thou art my mother, and I may not use violence
towards thee, as I am tempted to do, to get possession
of those papers. But, I repeat, beware how thou makest
use of them!”
“Beware how thou thwart my plans!” she responded,
in the same tone.
For a few moments Renault stood lost in thought.
All at once a change came over his countenance, as
if hope had been suddenly revived. With a careless
air, and assuming the indolent action of his mother, he
cast himself upon an ottoman beside the couch, and
said, with a light laugh,
“Well, well, ma mèré! have it thy own way.”
She gave him her soft, elegant hand, the fingers of
which came like a flash of sunlight on her face—for
lightning is scarce quicker than the changes of passion
in the quadroone—
“You have done well, Renault. It is for the child's
happiness and thy own that she be well cared for.
You are armed, I perceive, and look as if you were
about to ride. Attend to thy own affairs, Renault,
abroad, and leave Azèlie to me. Thou wilt not repent
it!”
“Maybe not—maybe not! This is a rare jewel
on thy little finger,” he added, as if for the first time
struck with its beauty; “doubtless a gift from my father.”
“It was, Renault. Ah, the good, dear marquis!
He never thought I could be happy unless loaded with
diamonds! Azèlie, I wish she could do as well; she
has beauty enough.”
“Never mind Azèlie, mother. This turquoise—
was that given thee by my father?”
“It was a gift from him the day Jules was born.”
“Jules! 'tis strange!” he said, with surprise.
“No, no—thyself I meant.”
The youth fixed upon her a glance of inquiry, and
then resumed his careless toying with her jewelled hand.
“Ma mère,” he said, in a natural tone, though the
expression of his eye, as he rested it upon her face, betrayed
a deep purpose beneath his careless manner,
“do you believe in dreams?”
“I used to in childhood.”
“Thou dost not now?”
“No. They are idle nothings.”
“Dost thou dream now?”
“Seldom, save in fever.”
“Never of the sheeted dead?”
“No, boy. What mean you?” she asked, turning
pale.
“Nothing; I did but ask you. I had a dream last
night.”
“Dost thou believe in them?”
“Sometimes.”
“What are dreams, boy?”
“Dreams, some think, are of Heaven. I have also
thought so. But I can understand them now. Thou
hast doubtless observed that conscience sleeps in
dreaming.”
“Conscience!”
“Nay, I meant nothing. 'Tis so. Conscience sleeps
in dreams. The moral sense is then wanting. Then
we do commit the blackest crimes, nor think it wrong.”
“Crimes!”
“Nay, I meant nothing. We do bathe our hands
in innocent blood in dreams, and nothing teaches us
'tis wrong. Conscience — moral sense — that divine
something which, when waking, accuses or condemns
our acts, is then silent. 'Tis strange, but 'tis so. I
have thought we act in dreams as brute beasts act—
with intelligence, but without reason. And that, waking,
we should by nature be and act the same way
but for that divine light. This light sets like the sun
in sleep, and leaves the soul to its unillumined native
darkness. There are, ma mère,” he continued, in an
indifferent tone, “human beings in whom this light
hath not shone when awake. Such persons, awake,
act as if they dreamed, so far as conscience hath its
play. Crimes to them leave no compunction. Thou
hast heard of such, doubtless.”
The hand he held trembled in his, and the eyes of
his mother furtively sought his immoveable countenance.
“Thou didst not answer. It matters not: such persons
have lived as I speak of. Christ pity them, and
save them from wo; for death will wake them up, and
give to them back their consciences, armed with a thousand
stings.”
“Of whom speakest thou, Renault?” she faintly
asked, pale with some inward emotion she sought to
overcome and conceal.
“Nay, I have tired thee: I will relate the dream I
had last night. Methought I slept within a bower in
said,
“`Renault, dost thou love thy sister?'
“`Dearly as life,' I answered.
“`She is in danger,' said the voice, which was like
that of a female.
“`I will defend her with my life,' I replied.”
“What said the voice?” asked his mother, eagerly.
“`Thou wilt, unaided, be overcome,' said the voice;
`thy power is human, and thy enemies stronger than
thou. If thou wilt save her, go to thy mother, and say
to her that the Fates have marked the day of her
death!'
“`Is the secret with thee?' I asked of the voice.
“`It is with her. It is the day on which she does
with thy sister as she has meditated.”'
“What said she farther?” asked the Quadroone, with
a contemptuous smile of incredulity; “did she not bid
thee turn seer for thy wisdom, and prophesy in silly
women's ears? Out! Renault! This mockery is too
contemptible.”
“I saw her!” he said, solemnly, and meeting her
eyes with a searching look.
“It was courteous in the mysterious speaker to appear,
after amusing you so long unseen,” she said,
striving to laugh, but with ill success; for in the ghastly
smile that distorted her features she betrayed herself
to be a guilty woman, and was in her soul trembling
at the anticipated revelation of some secret crime.
“She was tall, very tall,” he said, without appearing
to observe her emotion, although keenly watching every
motion of the least muscle of her face; “and she
wore a long gray mantle, that covered her from her
eyes to the feet.”
As he said this, his eyes seemed as if they would
pierce her soul. Instead of betraying the feelings he
had anticipated, he scarcely knew why, she seemed
suddenly relieved by the description, and breathed
freely; for she had ceased respiring to hang upon the
words as they fell from him, as if she feared some
dreaded result.
“Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed; “thou hast made a
pleasant tale of it.”
This did not escape him, but he was not to be
defeated. He was now more confident than before
that there was some secret, the discovery of which
would give him the key to her will; and he was fully
impressed with the conviction that the extraordinary
being who had visited his sister in her boudoir was
connected with it. He therefore betrayed no disappointment,
but, in the same tone of indolent indifference
in which he had detailed to her his readily-invented
dream, continued,
“Her accent was foreign, which I thought odd in an
apparition.”
“Was it Moorish?” she asked, with a rapidity that
surprised him.
“Nay, I am not skilled in dialects, but methinks
'twas something so; her face was dark brown, like a
Moor's; and I noticed—”
“Well—” and she caught him nervously by the
arm, and, looking with wild inquiry in his face, cried,
“thou wouldst add something more—”
“And, now that I remember,” he added, with a coolness
that ill concealed his anticipated triumph, “beneath
her mantle she wore the dress of a necromanceress.”
The Quadroone uttered a wild shriek, and, burying
her face in the pillow, her whole frame became convulsed—with
what feeling, whether of terror, of rage,
or of despair, or all three united, Renault could not
tell. But, alarmed at the violence of the paroxysm,
and almost repenting the course he had taken to possess
himself of the secret of the stranger's power over
her, which he had now proved to exist, he was about
to confess his stratagem, and leave what he wished developed
to the future, when she rose to her feet without
assistance, but with the pallor of death in her face.
“My mother, forgive me,” he cried, casting himself
at her feet, overcome by the wo and anguish of her
looks.
“Nay, Renault, thou art not to blame; Heaven hath
done this thing. Be it as thou wilt with Azèlie. I
shall soon be beyond all earthly desires and human
ambition. Go: leave me, I would be alone.”
“Not so: I will remain with thee till thou art better,”
he said, tenderly, and bitterly condemning himself,
while he wondered at the power of the strange
being who could produce such an effect upon the human
mind as he was now a witness to.
“No, Renault, I would be alone,” she said, firmly.
“Wilt thou not embrace me, mother?”
She returned his filial kiss mechanically, and then
waved her hand commandingly for him to depart.
With his mind filled with wonder and his heart with
grief at the effect his words had produced, he obeyed.
Her eyes followed him until he had disappeared by a
door opening upon the corridor. She then bent her
ear, and listened till the last echo of his footfall ceased;
till she heard the sound of the closing gate of the mansion,
and until the receding hoofs of his rapid steed, as
he galloped away, could no longer be heard. Then
clasping together her jewelled fingers, with a face on
which fear and remorse were stamped, cried fervently,
“This hath been Heaven's judgment. My doom is
sealed. The terrible threat, pronounced twelve long
years ago, now rings in my ears like my death-knell.
Yet the sacrifice has not been made; Azèlie is yet
free and spotless! So shall my punishment be lighter.
My ambition and pride have endangered my
soul! Ah! 'tis strange, all! Do the dead come back
again? Do they, invisible to us, hold watch and ward
over the innocent they loved on earth? This is terrible
to think of, when I remember of what I am guilty!
My soul shrinks,” she said, fearfully, closing her eyes
with a shudder, “lest her sudden presence from the
world of spirits should confound me! 'Tis wonderful!
Yet my guilt is not consummated; Heaven hath stepped
between my ambition and her innocence ere it had
been to late! and Renault hath been its instrument!
Doth he know, doth he suspect? Nay, it cannot be;
he would not have embraced me at parting!”
She continued to reflect, now calmly, now with excitement,
upon the events related, and at length began
to weigh in her mind, as the impressions were gradually
weakened by the scale of probability, the circumstances
of Renault's relation. As she remembered he said it
was a dream, her fears strangely lessened; and the supernatural
influence that at first so vividly affected her
sensibility, lost its power, till finally she was ready to
attribute the whole to one of those unaccountable contingencies
of place, time, and events, which occasionally
occur, as if to bewilder the human mind; or,
thought she, Renault, by some intelligible means unknown
to her, might have acquired a knowledge of
some mysterious connexion between her and a sorceress
(which it was now plain there had been), and made
use of it to accomplish his own ends by the influence
it would probably have over her.
Arguments are never wanting when the mind would
strengthen itself against its own fears. Renault had
not been absent half an hour, before nearly every trace
of the emotions he had awakened had subsided, though
they were not wholly eradicated. There yet remained
sufficient traces of superstitious fear to ensure, at least
for the present, the fulfilment of her promise to him,
that Azèlie should be subject to his control. But the
event will show that even this lingering influence became
too weak to restrain her when tempted by her
long-cherished interests and aspiring ambition, and that
in moral as well as in spiritual things, the heart back-slides
when the present fear that moves it is no longer
apparent to the senses.
| CHAPTER XIII.
SCENE BETWEEN THE QUADROONE-MOTHER AND HER SON. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |