II.
JOHN BULL.
This other friend was a big, burly Englishman, forty-something years old,but looking older; a big pink cabbage-rose of a man who had for many yearsbeen Attalie's principal lodger. He, too, was alone in the world.
And yet neither was he so utterly alone as he might have been. For he wasa cotton buyer. In 1855 there was no business like the cotton business.Everything else was subservient to that. The cotton buyer's part, inparticular, was a "pretty business." The cotton _factor_ was harassinglyresponsible to a whole swarm of planter patrons, of whose feelings he hadto be all the more careful when they were in his debt. The cotton _broker_could be bullied by his buyer. But the _buyer_ was answerable only to somebig commercial house away off in Havre or Hamburg or Liverpool, that hadto leave all but a few of the largest and most vital matters to hisdiscretion. Commendations and criticisms alike had to come by mail acrossthe Atlantic.
Now, if a cotton buyer of this sort happened to be a bachelor, with notaste for society, was any one likely to care what he substituted, out ofbusiness hours, for the conventional relations of domestic life? No oneanswers. Cotton buyers of that sort were apt to have very comfortablefurnished rooms in the old French quarter. This one in Attalie's house hadthe two main rooms on the first floor above the street.
Honestly, for all our winking and tittering, we know nothing whateveragainst this person's private character except the sad fact that he was aman and a bachelor. At forty-odd, it is fair to suppose, one who knows theworld well enough to be the trusted agent of others, thousands of milesacross the ocean, has bid farewell to all mere innocence and has madechoice between virtue and vice. But we have no proof whatever thatAttalie's cotton buyer had not solemnly chosen virtue and stuck to hischoice as an Englishman can.
All we know as to this, really, is that for many years here he had roomed,and that, moved by some sentiment, we know not certainly what, he hadagain and again assured Attalie that she should never want while he hadanything, and that in his will, whenever he should make it, she would findherself his sole legatee. On neither side of the water, said he, had heany one to whom the law obliged him to leave his property nor, indeed, anylarge wealth; only a little money in bank--a very indefinite statement. In1855 the will was still unwritten.
There is little room to doubt that this state of affairs did much interestCamille Ducour--at a distance. The Englishman may have known him by sight.The kind of acquaintance he might have had with the quadroon was notlikely to vary much from an acquaintance with some unknown neighbor's caton which he mildly hoped to bestow a pitcher of water if ever he caughthim under his window.
Camille mentioned the Englishman approvingly to three other friends ofAttalie, when, with what they thought was adroitness, they turnedconversation upon her pecuniary welfare. They were Jean d'Eau, aslumberous butcher; Richard Reau, an embarrassed baker; and one ----Ecswyzee, an illiterate but prosperous candlestick-maker. These names maysound inexact, but _can you prove_ that these were not their names andoccupations? We shall proceed.
These three simple souls were bound to Attalie by the strong yet tenderbonds of debit and credit. She was not distressingly but onlyinterestingly "behind" on their well-greased books, where Camille'saccount, too, was longer on the left-hand side. When they alludedinquiringly to her bill, he mentioned the Englishman vaguely and assuredthem it was "good paper to hold," once or twice growing so extravagant asto add that his (Camille's) own was hardly better!
The tradesmen replied that they hadn't a shadow of doubt. In fact, theysaid, their mention, of the matter was mere jest, etc.
III.
Ducour's Meditations.
There were a few points in this case upon which Camille wished he couldbring to bear those purely intellectual--not magical--powers of divinationwhich he modestly told his clients were the secret of all his sagaciousadvice. He wished he could determine conclusively and exactly what was themutual relation of Attalie and her lodger. Out of the minutest corner ofone eye he had watched her for years.
A quadroon woman's lot was a hard one; any true woman would say that, evenwhile approving the laws and popular notions of necessity that made thatlot what it was. The law, popular sentiment, public policy, always lookedat Attalie's sort with their right eye shut. And according to all thedemands of the other eye Camille knew that Attalie was honest, faithful.But was that all; or did she stand above and beyond the demands of law andpopular sentiment? In a word, to whom was she honest, faithful; to theEnglishman merely, or actually to herself? If to herself actually, then incase of his early death, for Camille had got a notion of that, and had gotit from Attalie, who had got it from the Englishman,--what then? Would sheget his money, or any of it? No, not if Camille knew men--especially whitemen. For a quadroon woman to be true to herself and to her God was not thekind of thing that white men--if he knew them--rewarded. But if the casewas not of that sort, and the relation was what he _hoped_ it was, andaccording to his ideas of higher law it had a right to be, why, then, shemight reasonably hope for a good fat slice--if there should turn out,after all, to be any fat to slice.
Thence arose the other question--had the Englishman any money? And if so,was it much, or was it so little as to make it hardly worth while for theEnglishman to die early at all? You can't tell just by looking at a man orhis clothes. In fact, is it not astonishing how quietly a man--of thequiet kind--can either save great shining stacks of money, or get rid ofall he makes as fast as he makes it? Isn't it astonishing? Being a cottonbuyer did not answer the question. He might be getting very large pay orvery small; or even none. Some men had got rich without ever charginganything for their services. The cotton business those days was aperfectly lovely business--so many shady by-paths and circuitouslabyrinths. Even in the law--why, sometimes even he, Camille Ducour, didnot charge anything. But that was not often.
Only one thing was clear--there ought to be a written will. For AttalieBrouillard, f. w. c, could by no means be or become the Englishman'slegal heir. The law mumbled something about "one-tenth," but for the restanswered in the negative and with a black frown. Her only chance--but weshall come to that.
All in a tremor one day a messenger, Attalie's black slave girl, came toCamille to say that her mistress was in trouble! in distress! in deeperdistress than he could possibly imagine, and in instant need of that wisecounsel which Camille Ducour had so frequently offered to give.
"I am busy," he said, in the Creole-negro _patois_, "but--has anybody--hasanything happened to--to anybody in Madame Brouillard's house?"
"Yes," the messenger feared that "_ce Michie qui pote soulie jaune_--thatgentleman who wears yellow shoes--is ill. Madame Brouillard is hurrying toand fro and crying."
"Very loud?"
"No, silently; yet as though her heart were breaking."
"And the doctor?" asks Camille, as he and the messenger are hurrying sideby side out of Exchange alley into Bienville street.
"---- was there yesterday and the day before."
They reach the house. Attalie meets her counselor alone at the top of thestairs. "_Li bien malade_," she whispers, weeping; "he is very ill."
"---- wants to make his will?" asks Camille. All their talk is in theirbad French.
Attalie nods, answers inaudibly, and weeps afresh. Presently she managesto tell how the sick man had tried to write, and failed, and had fallenback exclaiming, "Attalie--Attalie--I want to leave it all to you--whatlittle--" and did not finish, but presently gasped out, "Bring a notary."
"And the doctor?"
"---- has not come to-day. Michie told the doctor if he came again hewould kick him downstairs. Yes, and the doctor says whenever a patient ofhis says that he stops coming."
They reach the door of the sick man's bedchamber. Attalie pushes itsoftly, looks into the darkened chamber and draws back, whispering, "Hehas dropped asleep."
Camille changes places with her and looks in. Then he moves a step acrossthe threshold, leans forward peeringly, and then turns ab
out, lifts hisill-kept forefinger, and murmurs while he fixes his little eyes on hers:
"If you make a noise, or in any way let any one know what has happened, itwill cost you all he is worth. I will leave you alone with him just tenminutes." He makes as if to pass by her towards the stair, but she seizeshim by the wrist.
"What do you mean?" she asks, with alarm.
"Hush! you speak too loud. He is dead."
The woman leaps by him, slamming him against the banisters, and disappearswithin the room. Camille hears her loud, long moan as she reaches thebedside. He takes three or four audible steps away from the door andtowards the stairs, then turns, and darting with the swift silence of acat surprises her on her knees by the bed, disheveled, unheeding, allmoans and tears, and covering with passionate kisses the dead man's--handsonly!
To impute moral sublimity to a white man and a quadroon woman at one andthe same time and in one and the same affair was something beyond thepowers of Camille's small soul. But he gave Attalie, on the instant, fullcredit, over credit it may be, and felt a momentary thrill of spiritualcontagion that he had scarcely known before in all his days. He utterednot a sound; but for all that he said within himself, drawing his breathin through his clenched teeth, and tightening his fists till theytrembled, "Oho-o!--Aha!--No wonder you postponed the writing of your willday by day, month by month, year in and year out! But you shall see, myfine Michie White man--dead as you are, you shall see--you'll see if youshan't!--she shall have the money, little or much! Unless there are heirsshe shall have every picayune of it!" Almost as quickly as it had flashedup, the faint flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolutionremained. He was going to "beat" a dead white man.