University of Virginia Library

THE BLACK PATCH;
OR,
A YEAR AND A DAY

THE BLACK PATCH;
OR,
A YEAR AND A DAY.[1]

One Christmas eve, not many years ago, the long,
paved room of an old and renowned café, near the
cathedral in Charles street, New Orleans, was brilliant
with lights and gay with the sound of many voices.
Nearly every one of its little marble tables, arranged
at regular intervals around the wall, was occupied by
one or more individuals, either sipping strong Arabian
coffee, (for which this house was famous,) from cups
the size of half an egg shell; playing at the everlasting
game of “domino,” smoking, reading the gazette, or,
by the loud and energetic conversation, adding to the
confusion characteristic of a well frequented restaurateur.
Waiters in white jackets, white aprons, and red
caps, were flying, jostling to and fro, bearing on little
salvers, coffee, in pots and cups, in size and appearance
like children's tea-sets; liquors of every name
and hue; cigars, and multitudinous glasses of brandy

and water, a favorite New Orleans beverage. A canopy
of tobacco smoke, the density of which, all were
contributing to increase with commendable industry,
(for nearly every one smoked either cigar, pipe, or
segarillo,) concealed the upper half of the columns
supporting the ceiling, and hung low above the heads
of the crowd, which, judging from costume, speech,
and complexion, represented every christianised nation
on the globe.

Apart, at the upper extremity of the room, sat a
young gentleman, who, from his dress and air, was
evidently a Parisian. He was not more than twenty-five
years of age with a slight, almost feminine figure,
of strikingly elegant proportions. His eyes were of a
clear gray color, with an eagle-like expression. In his
small beautiful shaped mouth, softness, I may say
sweetness and manly decision, were equally blended.
His dress was rich and in the fashion of 1830, the
period of our story. He had been taking coffee with
a companion who had just departed and was now
seated facing the room, with one arm on the table and
a foot upon a chair, and with his hat off, leaving exposed
his fine head and temples, over which rich
brown curls fell with natural grace. He was smoking
and surveying the motley assembly, occasionally,
as it seemed, by a slight smile, or a humorous twinkle
of his eyes, amusing himself with the ludicrous features
which an apt and observing mind will always
detect in such a scene. He had finished his third Havanna,
the hour waxed late, and by degrees the tenants
of the tables took their departure. The comparative
stillness of the room first appeared to rouse him
to a consciousness of the lateness of the hour. Hastily
rising, he threw a crown upon the table, and was
about also to depart, when two persons who had
entered as he rose from his chair, advanced up
the room. One of them was a tall, handsome Englishman,
with a large muscular frame, his fine features

were bloated by dissipation, and his whole air
was that of a fashionable roué. His companion, by
the brown cheek, full, black eye, light and symmetrical
form, small hand, profusion of jewels and general
indolence of action, betrayed the wealthy Mexican
exile, many of whom were at this period in New Orleans.
He threw himself into the seat vacated by the
young Frenchman, and ordered the officious “garçon”
to bring a glass of absente. The Englishman was
about to take the opposite chair, calling at the same
time refreshments in a boisterous voice, as if he was
partly intoxicated, when fragments of cigars, little
heaps of ashes, empty cups, and other signs of the
recent occupancy of the table, met his eye.

“What the deuce, Garcia! Take another table.
Some cursed Frenchman has just left this. Faugh! It
smells of garlick. Come, señor, take the table opposite.
These Frenchmen! with their frogs and onions!
Pah! come along.”

As the speaker turned, his eyes encountered those
of the young Frenchman, sparkling with fierce resentment.
For a moment he bore his steady gaze, and
then looked away, as if ashamed, but the next instant,
as if to show that he meant what he had said, and
would abide by it, (for the Frenchman's eyes conveyed
a menace,) he doggedly added, as men sometimes
will do in such cases, “yes, frogs and garlick soup, I
say—ay and all Frenchmen to boot!”

He fixed his eyes for an instant after he had spoken,
with a brow-beaten look upon the young man, and
then sitting down, carelessly repeated his order to the
“garçon.” The Frenchman gazed on him fixedly for
a few seconds longer, and then advanced a step and
spoke, while his eagle eye sparkled with angry excitement.

“Was that remark meant for me?”

“As you please,” replied the Englishman, coolly.
“Garçon, a sardine with my brandy and water.”

“I must consider your words as personally aimed,
monsieur, and shall expect satisfaction.”

“Lest you should be in doubt as to its personality
take that! and be careful how you interfere with my
remarks a second time.”

With the word, the Englishman gave the Frenchman
a blow in the face, which staggered him. For a
moment he stood as if bewildered between surprise
and pain, surveying his antagonist with a burning
cheek and a heaving breast. He thrust his hand into
his bosom as if to grasp a weapon, but instantly withdrew
it, and placed it upon his cheek, where he had
received the disgraceful blow. Then, as if governed
by some new feeling, he approached the Englishman
with a look and manner from which all excitement
was banished, and bending to his ear, as he sat by the
table, whispered, so as to be heard only by him, “your
blood, sir, shall wash out this disgrace. I bide my
time. If it be a year hence, I will be revenged.”

“I will give you a year and a day to win back your
honor.”

“A year and a day.”

The next moment the young Frenchman disappeared.

Eugène Berthoud was the only son of a wealthy
Parisian banker. His grandfather lost his head on the
guillotine for the crime of being noble. His father had
been bred a merchant, to which pursuit he educated
Eugène; and when he became of age, gave him a copartnership
in his extensive house, of which there
were three branches, in the cities of Liverpool, Cadiz,
and New Orleans. Once a year Eugène made the
tour of these marts, to supervise the immense business
which flowed through these channels from the parent
fountain. He had arrived in New Orleans but ten

days before we met him in the café, and had not yet
contemplated the object of his visit. He had withdrawn
to the restaurateur with one of the partners of
his house, after a laborious day, to take coffee; and, as
we have seen, was about to retire, when the language
of the Englishman arrested his ear. A Frenchman is,
perhaps, above other men, keenly sensitive in all that
concerns national honor. His country—“la belle
France”—is his idol. To praise or censure it, is to
praise or censure him individually. They are one,
and indivisible. Eugène Berthoud felt like a Frenchman;
and like a Frenchman resented as personal the
insult cast upon his countrymen. Who would not
have done the same?

When he received the blow, his first impulse was
to take the life of the aggressor upon the spot. But
he was unarmed. Next, the physical power of the
tall, muscular Englishman left him no chance in an
encounter, where success would depend wholly upon
physical superiority; and defeat, he knew, would only
add to his disgrace. His mind rapidly surveyed these
features of his position, and grasped them in all their
bearings. There was yet another argument which had
its weight upon a mind so honorably balanced as his,
and which alone prevented him from making the certain
sacrifice of his life to wipe out his disgrace. This
was the consequences of his death to others. This
reflection is too apt to be disregarded by honorable
minds. A man's honor is as much bound for the interests
of others as for its own reputation; and there
can be no greater absurdity than for a man rashly to
stake his life to uphold his honor, when the loss of his
life would bring ruin upon those to whom he is bound
by some one of the ties of life. It is with honor to
purchase dishonor. The reflection of the injury his
father's commercial affairs, of which he had almost
the sole management, would receive by any fatal rashness
on his part, checked his hand, as he was about to

throw the Englishman his card preparatory to a meeting
the ensuing morning. And feeling that it was his
duty before he acted for himself, to be able to do so
without involving the interests of those with whom he
was connected, he instantly decided on the course he
should pursue; and signifying to his foe that he should
hold him accountable for the insult he had received,
he left the apartment. We leave the most finical of
our readers to decide whether Eugène Berthoud acted
in this instance as a gentleman and merchant should
have done, or whether it would have been more honorable
for the gratification of personal hostility, to
have sacrificed the fortunes of his commercial partners.

“Have I been struck?” he groaned in mental anguish,
giving vent to his emotion as he gained the
street. “Struck! and the man is free who gave the
blow! That Eugène Berthoud should have lived to
suffer such disgrace!”

He hurried along Rue des Chartres with his hand
to his cheek, which he had not uncovered since the
blow, as if he would hide the spot from every human
eye. Arrived at his hotel, and answering no question,
returning no nod of recognition from friends who
passed him in the halls, he sought his room, shut and
locked the door behind him, and cast himself upon his
bed.

“A blow!” he cried, as he buried his face in the
pillow, “and revenge is forbidden me!”

The feelings of a high-minded man, under the circumstances
in which he was placed—injured honor
pointing to instant revenge—but a more sacred and
legitimate honor, withholding, for a time, the expression
of his resentment, are better left to the imagination
than to the pen.

The following day, and, indeed, for several days
afterwards, a young man might have been seen in the
streets of New Orleans, apparently absorbed in business,
wearing a large black patch covering one side of
his face. He answered no questions from inquisitive
friends, and left strangers to wonder. It was Eugène
Berthoud. In a few days it was known that the
“stranger with the black patch,” as he was designated,
had left the city. Men shrugged their shoulders, wondered,
guessed, and grew no wiser. A few months
afterwards, “the stranger with the black patch” excited
successively the curiosity of the citizens of Liverpool
and Cadiz. At length one evening, about the
first of November, 1831, the diligence rumbled up to
the door of one of the principal hotels in Paris. A
gentleman, wrapped to the eyes in a cloak, descended
from it, and walked away at a rapid pace. Hastily
traversing the Rue de Richelieu, he entered a narrow
alley, and soon emerged in an open square, surrounded
by stately dwellings. He crossed the area to one
of them, ascended the steps, and without ringing applied
a master-key, entered, and closed the door. He
passed through the hall with familiar footsteps, and
opened a door at its extremity, and entered what might
be either a library or a counting-room. Before a table
covered with check and account books, bills of lading,
receipts, and all the abstract signs and appendages of
commerce, sat a fine-looking gentleman, about sixty
years of age, poring over an invoice. He raised his
eyes; the stranger dropped his cloak, and Eugène
Berthoud stood before his father.

The parent rose to embrace him.

“Forbear, sir! I am unworthy of your embrace.”

“Wounded, Eugène?” he exclaimed, his eyes having
been arrested by the black patch.

“To the heart's core. I have been struck!”

“Ha!” cried the chivalrous old Frenchman, with a
sparkling eye. “But you gave back the blow?”

“I did not.”

“A Berthoud struck, and the man unscathed who
did it!”

“Lives, and untouched.”

“Then, Eugène Berthoud, you are not my son,”
said the old Frenchman, turning from him with indignant
contempt.

“Sir!—”

“Not a word. In your person the blood of a chivalrous
race has been attainted.”

In a few words, Eugène, with a burning cheek, related
the scene in the café, and his motives in delaying
his revenge.

M. Berthoud commended his nice sense of honor,
and restored him to his affection.

“My affairs,” concluded Eugène, “and those of
our house are all settled. I have devoted the last ten
months to it. You will find by these papers that
every thing is correct. I had no right to expose my
life to the injury of others. Adieu, sir! when we meet
again, the son shall not be ashamed to encounter the
eye of his parent.”

Placing a packet on the table, he wrapped himself
in his cloak, left the house, and hastened to the hotel.
The next evening but one, the hills of “sunny France”
were just sinking beneath the horizon, as the eyes of
the young Frenchmen surveyed from the deck of a
packet ship, perhaps for the last time, the shores of
his native land.

On Christmas eve, one year after the events related
in the commencement of this sketch, the café St. Louis
presented a scene very similar to that we have before
described. There stood the same little marble tables
arranged along the sides—there sat what appeared to
be the same domino-players—the same smokers—the

same brandy and water and liqueur bibbers—the same
newspaper porers, and the same garçons in white
jackets and red caps, with little salvers in their hands,
running the same endless round: and as usual, there
was a constant coming and going of hungry and
thirsty bipeds. By and by their number decreased,
till not more than twenty individuals remained in the
room. No one had entered for some time, when the
door swung open, and Eugène Berthoud, with the
black patch upon his cheek came in. He passed up
the apartment, attracting all eyes, but indifferent to
observation. His piercing glance rested an instant on
every countenance, as he traversed the apartment, but
the face he sought was not among them. He had
been ten days in New Orleans, and night and day had
been seeking the Englishman, whom he knew to be a
resident of the city, in all his haunts. For the tenth
night had he entered the café St. Louis, and waited
till midnight, if perchance he might make his appearance.
“The year expires to-night,” he thought, as
he leaned against a column, and with folded arms
fixed his eyes steadfastly on the distant door, with the
intenseness of a tiger lying in wait for his prey. Who,
in the slight, elegant figure and youthful face of the
young Frenchman, would have looked for that deep,
settled determination of spirit which he possessed—for
the least trace of that fearful vengeance which he was
about to exhibit?

Nine—ten—eleven o'clock passed, and he continued
to lean against the column with his gaze concentrated
on the door. At length it opened, and a party
of young gentlemen entered in high spirits. From
their conversation, they evidently had just come from
the theatre. One after the other he examined their
features till six had entered. The door was still ajar
—there was a moment's delay, and a seventh came
in. It was “the Englishman!”

Reader! you should have witnessed the expression

of Eugène Berthoud's face at that moment! The
party walked up the length of the room; and all had
passed him but the Englishman. He came opposite
the column, and Eugène stepped out and confronted
him.

“The time has come!” he said, in a low and calm,
but strangely impressive voice.

“Who are you, sir?”

“Your foe!”

“I never saw you before.”

“Do you not remember that just one year ago this
night, on this spot, you struck a Frenchman in the
face?”

“Yes.”

“I am he. This patch has ever since hid the spot.”

This was said in the even, quiet tones of familiar
conversation. There was no sign of passion visible
in his countenance. The companions of the Englishman
had gathered round and listened with surprise.

“But it is so long ago—there is no cause for quarrel,”
said the Englishman.

“That you may have cause, I will strike you,” said
Berthoud, quietly.

Instantly the Englishman received a blow on the
face, from his open hand, which made the apartment
ring again. Eugène then took a step backward and
coolly folded his arms. The Englishman would have
returned the blow, had not his friends held him back,
with cries of “No, no! all fair. He is right! blow for
blow! you must meet in the morning!”

After a few moments of excitement and loud talking,
during which Eugène remained calmly standing
before them, as if an unconcerned spectator, cards
were exchanged, and the parties separated.

The ensuing morning witnessed a scene by no

means rare in the metropolis of the south-west. In a
sheltered field, in the suburbs of the lower Faubourg,
on what is termed the “Gentilly road,” two hostile
parties were discovered preparing to engage in mortal
combat. They were the Englishman and Eugène
Berthoud. They have taken their stand at ten paces,
with pistols in their hands.

“Are you ready?” asked Berthoud's second.

“All ready,” was the reply of the second of the opposite
party.

“One—two—three—fire!”

The two pistols went off with one report. The
Englishman leaped half his height into the air and fell
dead, pierced through the heart. Berthoud at the
same time clapped his hand to his side and staggered
backward. Recovering himself, he walked steadily
toward his antagonist and sunk down by his side.
Then, as the warm stream spouted from his breast, he
tore the black patch from his cheek, bathed his hand
in it, and washed the place it had covered.

“Now has his blood wiped out the foul blot his
hand placed there. The honor of Berthoud is without
stain. I am satisfied!”

Eugène Berthoud, then, with a smile on his lip,
breathed out his spirit, and the aggressor and avenger
lay side by side in death.