I loved this young girl—passionately and devotedly I loved her. She loved me. She had not declared it in words, but her looks; and now and then a slight incident—scarce more than a fleeting glance or gesture—had convinced me that it was so.
Love taught me its own language. I needed no interpreter—no tongue to tell I was beloved.
These reflections were pleasant, far more than pleasant; but others followed them of a very different nature.
With whom was I in love? A slave! True, a beautiful slave—but still a slave! How the world would laugh! how Louisiana would laugh—nay, scorn and persecute! The very proposal to make her my wife would subject me to derision and abuse. “What! marry a slave! ’Tis contrary to the laws of the land!” Dared I to marry her—even were she free?—she, a quadroon!—I should be hunted from the land, or shut up in one of its prisons!
All this I knew, but not one straw cared I for it. The world’s obloquy in one scale, my love for Aurore in the other—the former weighed but a feather.
True, I had deep regret that Aurore was a slave, but it sprang not from that consideration. Far different was the reason of my regret. How was I to obtain her freedom? That was the question that troubled me.
Up to this time I had made light of the matter. Before I knew that I was beloved it seemed a sequence very remote. But it was now brought nearer, and all the faculties of my mind became concentrated on that one thought—“How was I to obtain her freedom?” Had she been an ordinary slave, the answer would have been easy enough; for though not rich, my fortune was still equal to the price of a human being!
In my eyes Aurore was priceless. Would she also appear so in the eyes of her young mistress? Was my bride for sale on any terms? But even if money should be deemed an equivalent, would Mademoiselle sell her to me? An odd proposal, that of buying her slave for my wife! What would Eugénie Besançon think of it?
The very idea of this proposal awed me; but the time to make it had not yet arrived.
I must first have an interview with Aurore, demand a confession of her love, and then, if she consent to become mine,—my wife,—the rest may be arranged. I see not clearly the way, but a love like mine will triumph over everything. My passion nerves me with power, with courage, with energy. Obstacles must yield; opposing wills be coaxed or crushed; everything must give way that stands between myself and my love! “Aurore! I come! I come!”