The Belle of Bowling Green

“You have been told things about him, father. Then he has been in New York more than two days?” “He has been here about two weeks.” “Oh! I understood from Annette that he had flown to grandmother’s friendship at once. She spoke as if they were to have the introducing of him to society in New York.” “Well, then, they can do a great deal for Mr. St. Ange in that way. I fancy he is rather popular already among the Livingston and Clinton set. My mother can give him equally fine introductions among the Dutch aristocracy. I believe him to be a gentleman, and I should think it quite prudent to offer him any courtesy that comes in your way.” After the judge had left home the two women continued the conversation. Mrs. Bloommaert was certain St. Ange was at least of French parentage. “His name is one of the best names among the nobility of France,” she said. “And if he is truly a French gentleman, you will see of what expression that word ‘gentleman’ is capable. But I wish not that you should meet him through Annette--her airs will be insufferable. I think it possible he may be at the Girauds’ ball to-morrow night. There you would meet him quite naturally. It is strange Josette Giraud did not name him to you when she called last Monday.” “Josette loves my brother Peter. Peter has her whole heart. There would not be room for the finest French gentleman in the world in it.” “Josette is a good girl. I wish much that Peter would marry her. But no, Peter thinks only of ships.” “Oh, you don’t know, mother! Peter talks about ships, but not about girls. All the same he thinks a deal about Josette Giraud.” “Sometimes I fear Annette. I have seen her! She makes eyes at Peter, she admires him, and lets him see it--and men are so easily captured.” “But then, Annette does not want to capture Peter. She is only amusing herself. She makes eyes at all good-looking young men. She cannot help it.” “Your grandmother ought not to allow her to do so.” “Poor grandmother! She does not know it, or see it. If she did, she could as easily prevent a bird from singing as keep Annette from looking lovely things out of her beautiful eyes. And really, mother, she intends no wrong. How can she help being so pretty and so clever?” “Peter could have taken them home last night without the assistance of Leonard Murray--and Leonard wanted to stay a while here, but Annette asked him with one of those ‘lovely looks’ to walk with them, and Leonard never once objected.” “How could he?” “And this morning she will have no recollection of either Peter or Leonard. She will be busy with the conquest of this Mr. St. Ange.” “If so, Mr. St. Ange will soon be her captive. I shall think no worse of him for a ready submission. ‘Honour to the vanquished!’ was a favourite device of the knights of the olden times.” Mrs. Bloommaert was, however, a little out of her calculation. So was Annette. Both had been sure St. Ange would avail himself of the earliest possible hour in which a call could be politely possible; and Annette, somewhat to her grandmother’s amusement, had dressed herself in the fascinating little Dutch costume she had worn at a St. Nicholas festival. She said she had done so because it was so warm and comfortable for a cold morning; and she smoothed the quilted silk petticoat and the cloth jacket down, and made little explanations about them and the vest of white embroidery, which neither deceived madame nor herself. Her fair hair was in two long braids, tied with blue ribbons; her short petticoat revealed her small feet dressed in grey stockings clocked with orange; and high-heeled shoes fastened with silver latchets. She was picturesque and very pretty, and armed from head to feet for conquest. But, alas! St. Ange came not. In fact he was comfortably sleeping while she was watching; and it was not until the middle of the afternoon he made the promised visit. He had been dining at Mr. Grinnel’s the previous evening, and had afterwards gone to the theatre with a large party. And he lamented with an almost womanly plaintiveness the bitter cold, that, for him, spoiled every entertainment. The theatre, he said, was at freezing point; and how the ladies endured the temperature in their evening gowns was to him a marvel. Then he looked round madame’s fine old room with its solid oak, and massive silver, its curtained windows, thick carpet, plentiful bearskin rugs, and huge blazing fire, and said with a happy sigh: “It was the only room fit to live in that he had seen in New York. Handsome rooms! oh, yes, very handsome rooms he had seen, but all cold, killing cold!” Madame reminded him that New York and Lousiana were in different latitudes; and Annette found him the most cosey chair in the warmest corner, and the general warmth and sympathy was soon effectual. Complaint was changed for admiration, and as the day waned, and the firelight made itself more and more impressive, his conversation lost its business and social character, and became personal and reminiscent. Madame asked him if he was born in New Orleans, and at the question his eyes flashed like living furnaces filled with flame. “But no,” he answered. “No, no! I was born in that island that God made like Paradise, and negroes have made like hell. Near the town of Cayes I was born, in a vast stone mansion standing on a terrace and shaded by stately palms. Six terraces led from it to the ocean, and marble steps led from one terrace to another. My father had left France very early in the reign of Louis the Sixteenth, and I have heard that even at that time he had a positive prescience of the horrors of the coming revolution. However, without this incentive he would have made the emigration; for he had fallen heir to immense hereditary estates in Hayti, which had been in the possession of our family from the time of Columbus. Here he cultivated the cane, introducing it himself from the West Indies; and he also exported great quantities of mahogany, and of that beautiful wood which is fragrant in its native forests as the sweetest of roses. There were many slaves on the estate, who lived in a little village of their own, about a mile away from the house. During the awful insurrection of 1791 my father defended his mansion, and as he had great influence with the blacks he was not seriously interfered with; but he was never afterwards happy. He foresaw that the continual fighting between the blacks and the mulattoes must finally drive all white people from the island, and he prepared for this emergency by sending to New Orleans at every opportunity all the money he could spare. In 1803 the long years of continual horrors culminated, and the United States having bought Louisiana, my father resolved to remove there at once. A British frigate was in the harbour of Cayes at the time, and arrangements were made with the captain for our immediate removal. I was then of fourteen years, and I knew only too well the demoniac character of these insurrections. This one also was likely to be especially cruel, owing to the presence of French troops sent by Napoleon to subjugate the blacks. Secretly I assisted my father to carry to the ship the money, jewels, and papers we intended to take with us, but ere this duty was quite accomplished we saw that there was no time to lose. With anxious hearts we watched the ship sail northward, but this movement was only a feint. We knew that about midnight she would return to the appointed place for us. “Sick with many fears we watched for the setting of the sun. It had been a hot, suffocating day, and every hour of it had indicated a fierce, and still more fierce, gathering of the combatants. Hellish cries, and shouts to the beating of drums, and the wild chanting of the Obeah priests had filled the daylight with unspeakable terrors. But when the sun sank, suddenly a preternatural calm followed. Mysterious lights were seen in the thick woods, howlings and cries, horrible and inhuman, came out of its dense darkness. Abominable sacrifices were being offered to the demon they worshipped, and we knew that as soon as these rites were over indiscriminate slaughter and devilish cruelties would begin. My mother had my little sister in her arms, and I went with her through the forest to the seaside. She reached our meeting place by one exit, I by another; for we were suspiciously watched, and durst not leave the house in a body. My father and my two eldest brothers were to join us by different routes. “That awful walk! That enchanted walk through the hot, thick forest! I shall never forget it in this life or the next--I shall never forget it! Even the insects were voiceless, and the huge serpents lay prone in spellbound stillness. We had not reached the sea before a terrific thunder storm broke over us. Then the glare and gloom made each other more awful; the black sky was torn by such lightning as you have no conception of; and in the midst of natural terrors no one can describe the blacks held a carnival of outrage and death in every conceivable form of hellish cruelty that Obeah could devise. “Nearly dead with fatigue and fright my mother reached the little cove where the ship was to meet us, and there we waited in an agony of terror for the arrival of my father and brothers. They came not. And if the ship was noticed lying near we should be discovered. I walked back as far as I durst, looking for any trace of them. My mother lay upon the sand praying. My little sister slept at her side. In that hour childhood left me forever. In that hour I learned how much one may suffer, and yet not die. Daylight began to appear, and the ship was about half a mile from the land. Then I called,--not with the voice I am now using,--but with some far mightier force, ‘_Father! Father!_’ And at that moment he appeared, pushing his way through the green tangle. And his face was whiter than death, because it was full of horror and agony, which the face of death very rarely is. “He could not speak. He made motions to me to signal the ship, which I instantly did. It was not many minutes till we saw our signal answered and a little boat coming quickly toward us. But my father quivered with anxiety, and he said, afterwards, they were the most awful moments of his existence. For he knew there was a party of negroes in pursuit, and, indeed, we were just getting into the boat when we heard them crashing through the underwood. My mother had said only two words, ‘August! Victor!’ and my father had answered only, ‘Dead.’ Then the sailors pulled with all their strength to escape the bullets that followed us; but one struck and killed the babe in my mother’s arms, and another fatally wounded a man at one of the oars. He fell, and my father took his place.” Annette was watching St. Ange like one fascinated; her blue eyes were wide open, her face terror-stricken, her little form all a-tremble. Madame had covered her face, but when Achille ceased speaking she stretched out her hand to him, and for a few moments there was an intense passionful silence. Madame broke it. “You reached New Orleans safely?” “It was a hard journey. The captain had taken on a great number of the fugitives, and he waited around the island for two days, rescuing many more who had trusted to the mercy of the sea rather than dare the bloody riot on land; so that we were much overcrowded and soon suffering for food and water. Fever followed, and when we reached New Orleans we were in a pitiable plight. My mother did not recover from this experience. She never asked further about my brothers, and my father would not have told her the truth, if she had asked. ‘They are dead! They died like heroes!’ That was all my father ever told me. It was all that I wished to know.