I waited for the result, as the condemned waits for the falling of the trap or the descent of the axe. My heart could not have endured very long that terrible suspense. But I had not long to endure it.
“Three thousand one hundred dollars!—three thousand one hundred bid—thirty-one hundred dollars—”
I cast one look upon Aurore. It was a look of hopeless despair; and turning away, I staggered mechanically across the hall.
Before I had reached the entrance I could hear the voice of the auctioneer, in the same prolonged drawl, calling out, “Three thousand five hundred bid for the Quadroon girl?”
I halted and listened. The sale was coming to its close.
“Three thousand five hundred—going at three thousand five hundred—going—going—”
The sharp stroke of the hammer fell upon my ear. It drowned the final word “gone!” but my heart pronounced that word in the emphasis of its agony.
There was a noisy scene of confusion, loud words and high excitement among the crowd of disappointed bidders. Who was the fortunate one?
I leant over to ascertain. The tall dark man was in conversation with the auctioneer. Aurore stood beside him. I now remembered having seen the man on the boat. He was the agent of whom D’Hauteville had spoken. The Creole had guessed aright, and so, too, had Le Ber.
Gayarre had outbid them all!