“Good!” whispered D’Hauteville, as we recognised them; “they have left Gayarre’s—they are on their way home to the plantation Besançon.”
The very same thought had occurred to myself. No doubt they were returning to their homes—the overseer to the plantation Besançon, and the trader to his own house—which I know to be farther down the coast. I now remembered having often seen this man in company with Gayarre.
The thought had occurred to myself as D’Hauteville spoke, but how knew he? He must be well acquainted with the country, thought I.
I had no time to reflect or ask him any question. The conversation of these two ruffians—for ruffians both were—occupied all my attention. They were evidently in high glee, laughing as they went, and jesting as they talked. No doubt their vile work had been remunerative.
“Wal, Bill,” said the trader, “it air the biggest price I ever giv for a nigger.”
“Darn the old French fool! He’s paid well for his whistle this time—he ain’t allers so open-fisted. Dog darned if he is!”
“Wal—she air dear; an she ain’t when a man has the dollars to spare. She’s as putty a piece o’ goods as there air in all Louisiana. I wouldn’t mind myself—”
“Ha! ha! ha!” boisterously laughed the overseer. “I guess you can get a chance if you’ve a mind to,” he added, in a significant tone.
“Say, Bill!—tell me—be candid, old feller—have you ever—?”
“Wal, to tell the truth, I hain’t; but I reckon I mout if I had pushed the thing. I wan’t long enough on the plantation. Beside, she’s so stuck up with cussed pride an larnin’, that she thinks herself as good as white. I calclate old Foxey ’ll bring down her notions a bit. She won’t be long wi’ him till she’ll be glad to take a ramble in the woods wi’ anybody that asks her. There’ll be chance enough yet, I reckon.”