CHAPTER NINE.
EUGENIE BESANCON.
No, Eugenie Besancon was not forgotten. Every now and then hersylph-like form flitted before my imagination, and I could not helpassociating it with the scenery through which we were passing, andamidst which, no doubt, she was born and nurtured--its fair _indigene_.The glimpse of the _fete champetre_, where several Creole-like girlswere conspicuous, brought her more forcibly into my thoughts; and,descending from the hurricane-deck, I entered the cabin with somecuriosity, once more to look upon this interesting lady.
For some time I dreaded disappointment. The great glass folding-door ofthe ladies' cabin was closed; and although there were several ladiesoutside in the main saloon, the Creole was not among the number. Theladies' cabin, which occupies the after-part of the boat, is a sacredprecinct, into which bachelors are admitted only when they enjoy theprivilege of having a friend inside--then only at certain hours.
I was not one of the privileged. Out of the hundred and odd passengerson board, I did not know a soul, male or female; and I had the happinessor misfortune of being equally unknown to them. Under thesecircumstances my entry into the ladies' cabin would have been deemed anintrusion; and I sat down in the main saloon, and occupied myself instudying the physiognomy and noting the movements of myfellow-passengers.
They were a mixed throng. Some were wealthy merchants, bankers, moneyor commission brokers from New Orleans, with their wives and daughters,on their annual migration to the north, to escape from the yellow fever,and indulge in the more pleasant epidemic of life at a fashionablewatering-place. There were corn and cotton-planters from theup-country, on their return home, and storekeepers from the up-rivertowns; boatmen who, in jean trousers and red flannel shirts, had pusheda "flat" two thousand miles down stream, and who were now making theback trip in shining broadcloth and snow-white linen. What "lions"would these be on getting back to their homes about the sources of SaltRiver, the Cumberland, the Licking, or the Miami! There were Creoles,too--old wine-merchants of the French quarter--and their families; themen distinguished by a superabundance of ruffles, plaited pantaloons,shining jewellery, and light-coloured cloth boots.
There was a sprinkling of jauntily-dressed clerks, privileged to leaveNew Orleans in the dull season; and there were some still morerichly-dressed gentlemen, with the finest of cloth in their coats, thewhitest of linen and raffles, the brightest of diamonds in their studs,and the most massive of finger-rings. These last were "sportsmen."They had already fathered around a table in the "smoking-saloon," andwere fingering a span new pack of cards--the implements of theirpeculiar industry.
Among these I observed the fellow who had so loudly challenged me to betupon the boat-race. He had passed me several times, regarding me with aglance that appeared anything but friendly.
Our close friend the steward was seated in the saloon. You must notsuppose that his holding the office of steward, or overseer, disentitledhim to the privileges of the first-class cabin. There is no "secondsaloon" on board an American steamer. Such a distinction is not knownso far west as the Mississippi.
The overseers of plantations are usually men of rude and brutaldispositions. The very nature of their calling makes them so. ThisFrenchman, however, seemed to be an exception. He appeared a mostrespectable old gentleman. I rather liked his looks, and began to feelquite an interest in him, though he by no means appeared to reciprocatethe feeling.
Some one complained of the mosquitoes, and suggested the opening of thefolding-doors of the ladies' cabin. This suggestion was backed up byseveral others--ladies and gentlemen. The clerk of the boat is the mancharged with such responsibilities. He was at length appealed to. Theappeal was reasonable--it was successful; and the great gates of thesteamboat Paradise were thrown open. The result was a current of airwhich swept through the long saloon from stem to stern; and in less thanfive minutes not a mosquito remained on board, except such as hadescaped the blast by taking shelter in the state-rooms. This wascertainly a great relief.
The folding-doors were permitted to remain open--an arrangement quitesatisfactory to all, but particularly to a number of the gaily-dressedyoung clerks, who could now command a full view of the interior of theharem. Several of them might be observed taking advantage of the newarrangement--not staring broadly, as that would be accounted rude andnoted against them. They only appealed to the sacred shrine byside-glances, or over books which they pretended to read, or pacing upand down approached the favoured limit, glancing in at intervals, as ifundesignedly. Some appeared to have acquaintances inside, though notupon terms of sufficient familiarity to give them the right of entry.Others were in hopes of making acquaintances, should opportunity offer.I could detect expressive looks, and occasionally a smile that seemed todenote a mutual intelligence. Many a pleasant thought is conveyedwithout words. The tongue is often a sad disenchanter. I have known itto spoil many a nice love-plot silently conceived, and almost ripe forbeing carried out.
I was amused at this speechless pantomime, and sat for some minutesregarding it. My eyes wandered at intervals towards the interior of theladies' saloon, guided thither partly by a common curiosity. I have anobservant habit. Anything new interests me, and this cabin-life on anAmerican steamboat was entirely new, and not a little _piquante_. Idesired to study it. Perhaps I was somewhat interested in another way--desirous of having one more look at the young Creole, Besancon.
My desire, then, was gratified. I saw the lady at last. She had comeout of her state-room, and was moving around the saloon, graceful andgay. She was now unbonneted, and her rich golden tresses were arranged_a la Chinoise_--a Creole fashion as well. The thick masses, coiledinto a large "club" at the back of the head, denoted the luxuriance ofher hair: and the style of coiffure, displaying her noble forehead andfinely-formed neck, became her well. Fair hair with blonde complexion,although rare among the Creoles, is sometimes met with. Dark hair witha brunette skin is the rule, to which Eugenie Besancon was a remarkableexception.
Her features expressed gaiety, approaching to volatility; yet one couldnot help feeling that there was firmness of character _en perdu_. Herfigure was beyond criticism; and the face, if not strikingly beautifulwas one that you could not look upon without emotions of pleasure.
She appeared to know some of her fellow-passengers--at least she wasconversing with them in a style of easy freedom. Women, however, rarelyexhibit embarrassment among themselves; women of French race, never.
One thing I observed--her cabin companions appeared to regard her withdeference. Perhaps they had already learnt that the handsome carriageand horses belonged to her. That was very, very likely!
I continued to gaze upon this interesting lady. Girl I cannot call her,for although young enough, she had the air of a woman--a woman ofexperience. She appeared quite at ease; seemed mistress of herself, andindeed of everything else.
"What an air of _insouciance_," thought I. "That woman is not in love!"
I cannot tell why I should have made these reflections, or why thethought pleased me; but certainly it did. Why? She was nothing to me--she was far above me. I dared scarce look upon her. I regarded her assome superior being, and with timid stolen glances, as I would regardbeauty in a church. Ho! she was nothing to me. In another hour itwould be night, and she was to land in the night; I should never see heragain! I should think of her though for an hour or two, perhaps for aday--the longer that was now foolish enough to sit gazing upon her! Iwas weaving a net for myself--a little agony that might last for sometime after she was gone.
I had formed a resolution to withdraw from the fascinating influence,and return to my meditation on the hurricane-deck. A last look at thefair Creole, and I should depart.
Just at that moment she flung herself into a chair.
It was of the kind known as a "rocking-chair," and its motions displayedthe fine proportion and outlines of her form. As she now sat she wasfacing the door, and her eye for the first time res
ted upon me. ByHeavens! she was gazing on me just as before! What meant that strangeglance? those burning eyes?
Stedfast and fixed, they remained bent upon mine--and mine trembled toanswer them!
Thus for some moments her eyes dwelt upon me, without motion or changeof direction. I was too young at that time to understand the expressionthat was in them. I could translate such an one afterwards, but notthen.
At length she rose from her seat with an air of uneasiness, as ifdispleased either with herself or me; and, turning away her head, sheopened the latticed door and passed into her state-room.
Had I done anything to give offence? No! not by word, nor look, norgesture. I had not spoken--I had not moved, and my timid glance couldnot have been construed into one of rudeness.
I was somewhat bewildered by the conduct of Mademoiselle Besancon; and,in the full belief that I should never see her again, I hurried awayfrom the saloon, and once more climbed up to the hurricane-deck.