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Updated: June 23, 2025
"She shall be named Aurore, for my poor mother, who is not here to bless her, but who will bless her one day," said my father, receiving me in his arms. "She was born in music and in pink," said my aunt. "She will be happy." Not eminent, perhaps, has been the realization of this augury.
But what is that on the dark eyelash? With a sudden additional energy the daughter dashes the sewing and chair to right and left, bounds up, and in a moment has Aurore weeping in her embrace and has snatched the note from her hand. "Ah! maman! Ah! ma chère mère!" The mother forced a laugh.
On the morning fixed by Joseph Frowenfeld for calling on M. Grandissime, on the banquette of the rue Toulouse, directly in front of an old Spanish archway and opposite a blacksmith's shop, this blacksmith's shop stood between a jeweller's store and a large, balconied and dormer-windowed wine-warehouse Aurore Nancanou, closely veiled, had halted in a hesitating way and was inquiring of a gigantic negro cartman the whereabouts of the counting-room of M. Honoré Grandissime.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the latter; "vous l'avez faire mourir! Elle t'aime Elle t'aime!" That night I passed without repose. How was it with Eugenie? How with Aurore? Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were singularly blended. The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure; but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole!
Was it the singularity and beauty of the name, for novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears? No. Was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the North? Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name "Aurore?"
Aurore set herself to work to fill up, in secret, the many blanks left by her preceptresses, wishing, as she says, to conceal, as far as she could, their want of faith or of thoroughness. She sat at her books half the night, being gifted, according to her own account, with a marvellous power of sacrificing sleep to any other necessity.
In company with Aurore, I was wandering through flowery glades, and exchanging the sweet converse of mutual love. The very spot where I lay the scene around me was pictured in the dream. Strangest of all, I thought that Eugenie was with us, and that she, too, was happy; that she had consented to my marrying Aurore, and had even assisted us in bringing about this happy consummation!
"Everything?" "Everything upon the plantation." "The slaves?" "Certainly." "All all and and Aurore?" I hesitated as I put the interrogatory, Reigart had no knowledge of my attachment to Aurore. "The quadroon girl, you mean? of course, she with the others. She is but a slave like the rest. She will be sold." "But a slave! sold with the rest!" This reflection was not uttered aloud.
I had hurried forward without any preconceived plan of action. I had acted altogether on the impulse of the moment, and thought only of reaching the house, and ascertaining the state of affairs, either from Eugenie or Aurore herself. Thus impromptu I had reached the borders of the plantation. It now occurred to me to ride more slowly, in oder to gain a few moments to manage my thoughts.
In the then tumult of my feelings I could not trust myself to meet the lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to Aurore, I rushed from the apartment. When outside I saw that, if I went by the front gate I should risk an encounter. I knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the stables, and a road ran thence to the woods.
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