The Belle of Bowling Green
“On Bayou Têche we bought a plantation, and began again the cultivation
of the cane, but mother died visibly, day by day, and within six weeks
we buried her under the waving banners of the grey moss that hung so
mournfully from the live oaks, that January morning. As to my father, he
was never again the same. He had been a very joyous man, but he smiled
no more, and he fretted continually over the loss of his family and his
beautiful home in Hayti. For some years we were all in all to each
other, and he laboured hard to bring our new plantation into a fine
condition. Then he, too, left me, and the place was hateful in my sight.
I wished to escape forever from the sight of negroes. I feared them,
even in my sleep. Had not those who had shared our food, and games, and
constant society slain with fiendish delight my poor brothers and my
only sister? I was acquainted with Mr. Edward Livingston, a lawyer in
New Orleans, and who himself had married a beautiful refugee from the
great Haitian insurrection, and he advised me not to sell my plantation,
as in view of the war I could not get its value. I would not listen to
him--a simpler life with the black cloud removed seemed to me the only
thing I desired. But no, I have not here escaped it. What shall I do?”
“The blacks in New York are mostly free, and they are comparatively few
in number,” said madame.
“Few in number--that is some security. But now, I must tell you, that
this summer, on the very night that there was a great volcanic eruption
from the burning heart of St. Vincent, there was another massacre. Amid
the roaring darkness, the intolerable heat, the rain of ashes, the
stench of sulphur, and the stygian horror of the heavens and the earth,
the blacks,
made frantic by their terror, and led by the priests of Obeah, fell upon
the whites indiscriminately. They fled to the ships in the harbour--to
the sea--anywhere, anywhere, from those huge animal natures whose eyes
were flaming with rage, and whose souls were without pity. Nearly one
hundred of these fugitives finally reached Norfolk and Virginia. Some
had been warned either by their own souls, or by friends, and had money
and jewels with them; others were quite destitute; many were sick, and
their condition was pitiable. All desired to reach the French
settlements in Louisiana, but transit by water was most uncertain,
nearly all the usual shipping being employed in the more congenial
business of privateering. Then, in the midst of their distress, comes
into port one day Captain Christopher Bloommaert. He had with him a fine
English frigate, the prize of his skill and valour. And when he
understood the case of these poor souls, he called his men together and
proposed to them the God-like voyage of carrying the miserables to New
Orleans. ‘’Tis but a little way out of our purposed course,’ he said,
‘and who knows on what tack good fortune may meet us?’ And the men
answered with a shout of ready assent, and so they finally reached New
Orleans. I saw them land. Many of them were old friends of my family,
and I heard such stories from their lips as make men mad. One old
planter, who had money with him, bought my estate, and took those with
him to its shelter who had neither money nor friends. Their kindness to
each other was wonderful. As for me, I hastened away from scenes that
had cast a pall over all my life. Yet I forget not; to forget would be
an impossible mercy.”
Then madame talked comfortably to the young man, and after a while tea
was brought in, and Annette, grave and silent for once, made it; and
quietly watched, and listened, and served. St. Ange liked her better in
this mood. The other Annette, with her little coquetries, had not
pleased him half so well. When he left she understood that she had
gained favour in his eyes; he kissed her hand with an enthralling grace
and respect--or, at least, Annette found it so. And that night, though
she felt certain Leonard Murray was singing the new songs with Sappha,
she told herself that she “did not care if he was. Achille was twice as
interesting; he was, indeed, a romantic, a tragic hero--and very nearly
a lover. And he was so captivating, so unusually handsome!” She went
over the rather long list of young men with whom she was friendly, and
positively assured herself that all were commonplace compared with this
wonderful Achille. And, to be sure, his small but elegant figure, his
pale passionate face, set in those straight black locks, his caressing
voice, his subtle smile, his gentle pressure of the hand--all these
charms were not the prominent ones of the practical, business-like young
men with whom she was most familiar.
After St. Ange’s departure madame sat silent for some time, and Annette
watched her with a strange speculation in her mind--did people really
keep their emotions fresh when they were three-score and ten years old?
Her grandmother had seemed to feel all that she had felt. Her hands, her
feet, her whole figure had revealed strong sensation, her eyes been
tender with sympathy and keen with anger; her interest had never
flagged. In passionate sensibility had twenty years no superiority over
seventy years? Patience, Annette! Time will tell you the secret. Oh, the
soul keeps its youth!
She considered this question, however, until it wearied her, and then
she asked abruptly: “Grandmother, of what are you dreaming?”
“Mr. St. Ange. I was recalling the day on which his grandfather carried
off to France pretty Gertrude Bergen. She went to France and died in
Haiti, and now her grandson is driven back by events he cannot control
to New York.”
“Where he will probably marry some other pretty Dutch maiden.”
“And small heed we take of such things; we even count them of chance;
yet, how often that which flowers to-day grows from very old roots.”
“Grandmother, I want two new dresses. Can I have them?”
“Stuffs of every kind are very dear, Annette.”
“Only two, grandmother.”
“And Madame Lafarge’s charges for making dresses are extravagant--the
making is the worst.”
“It has to be done, grandmother.”
“Yes--but if you will turn to your Bible, Annette, you will find that
the woman whose ‘price was above rubies’ made her own dresses.”[1]
“Indeed, grandmother, you need only glance at any picture of a Bible
woman to see that. Dresses without shape, without style--and as for _the
fit_!” And Annette could only explain the enormity of the fit by
throwing up her hands in expressive silence.
“If you get the dresses, then a new bonnet will be wanted.”
“Yes, a bonnet would be a necessity; also some of those sweet furs that
come from South America--so soft and grey are they. Oh, the ugliest
woman looks pretty in them!”
“You are extortionate, Annette.”
“Grandmother, I have not yet asked for a grand piano.”
Then madame laughed. And Annette laid her soft cheek against madame and
kissed her good-night. But though she walked delicately and almost on
tip-toes to her own room, there was an air of triumph in the poise of
her pretty head. She set the candle down by the mirror and looked
complaisantly at herself.
“I shall get what I want,” she said softly. “I always do.”
CHAPTER FIVE
_A Chain of Causes_
It had been a stirring summer in New York, and the year was now closing
with a remarkable month. For October had been signalised by two naval
victories, the British war frigate _Frolic_ having been captured by
Captain Jones, and the _Macedonian_ by Commodore Decatur, and as the
successful commanders were expected in New York during December, great
preparations were being made for their entertainment, the more so, as
Captain Hull, the hero of the _Constitution_, would also be present.
Considering these things, Annette’s request for two new gowns was a
modest one; yet so many women were just then acquiring new gowns that it
was with difficulty she succeeded in getting hers ready for Christmas
Day. Achille had helped her to select her ball dress, and it was so
lovely that she felt no fear of being on this occasion eclipsed by
Sappha’s gayer garments. That Achille had been consulted in its
selection need not imply more than a rather intimate friendship; for the
young man had become a familiar friend of a great many families. His sad
history, his unusual beauty and grace, his many social accomplishments,
and his faultless manners and dress, had given him almost by acclamation
a very prominent position in the fashionable circles of New York. The
Dutch claimed him on his mother’s side, the French on his father’s, and
New Yorkers on the ground that he had of choice elected to become a
citizen of New York. No gathering was considered complete without his
presence; the most select clubs sought his association; and among those
men who loved fine horses and skilful fencing, he was acknowledged an
incomparable judge and master.
But though he accepted this homage, he did not seek it; nor did it seem
to afford him much pleasure. Those most familiar with his habits knew
that he very much preferred the society of the Friendly Club, which met
in the parlour of Dr. Smith’s house in Pine Street. Here, with young
Washington Irving, Charles Brockden Brown, and other literary and
learned men, he passed the hours that pleased him most. Nor was this his
only social peculiarity. He formed a close friendship with the exile
Aguste Louis de Singeron, the most famous pastry cook and confectioner
in New York; also an ex-courtier and ex-warrior of Louis the Sixteenth:
a little man of the most undaunted spirit, chivalrous and courteous, at
once the most polite and the most passionate of men. Every day St. Ange
might be found sitting in De Singeron’s neat little shop on William
Street. Sometimes their conversation seemed to be sufficient for their
entertainment; sometimes a chess board lay on the narrow counter between
them. Fine ladies passed in and out, but St. Ange was never disturbed
by their advent; and if a game was in progress no smiling invitation
allured him to leave it unfinished. It will be seen then, that in spite
of his gentle air and suave manners, he had a will sufficiently strong
to insure him his own way.
His intercourse with the two Bloommaert families was, however, the most
important of all his life’s engagements. With other families he had
frequent, but casual and intermittent, meetings; he was at the close of
this year in one or other of the Bloommaert households every day. With
Madame Jonaca he had formed a most affectionate alliance; he asked her
counsel, and followed it; he told her all the pleasant news of that
society which she still loved; he took her frequently out in his sleigh
that she might see any unusual parade of the troops or militia; he
brought her all the newspapers, and delighted himself and madame--as
well as Annette--by reading aloud the numerous passages he had marked in
them, as likely to interest both women. He came in when he was cold, to
be warmed in Madame’s cosey parlour; when he was lonely he went there
for company; when he was sad for comfort.
In the Bowling Green home he had a footing quite as sure, though on a
different foundation. In this family it was the judge who favoured him
above all others. If St. Ange came into the room his face brightened, he
put aside the paper or pamphlet he was reading, and turned to the young
man for conversation. He went with him to Dr. Smith’s Club, and said it
was the only sensible club he had ever visited. If the day was mild the
two men took a brisk walk together on the Battery, and talked politics
or science, and sometimes law, if the judge was engaged with any very