As Estelle spoke, her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved.
“How did he behave to you, Estelle?”
“How should the lord of a plantation behave to a comely female slave? Of course he insulted me both with looks and words. What more could you expect of such a connoisseur in flesh and blood as the planter who recruits his gangs at slave-auctions? Do not ask me how he behaved.”
I rose, deeply agitated, and paced the room.
“What sort of a looking man is this Mr. Ratcliff?”
She went to an étagère in a corner, opened a little box, and took from it a daguerrotype, which she placed in my hand.
Looking at the likeness, I recognized the man who once insulted me at the theatre.
“I must go and attend to Madame Dufour,” said Estelle.
“Let me accompany you,” said I.
She made no objection. We went together into the chamber. Estelle rushed to the bedside,—shook the invalid,—called her aloud by name,—put her ear down to learn if she breathed,—put her hand on the breast to find if the heart beat,—then turned to me, and shrieked, “She is dead!”