A Romance of the Republic | Page 5

fountain in the garden, and the air was redolent of
jasmine and orange-blossoms. On the pier-table was a little sleeping
Cupid, from whose torch rose the fragrant incense of a nearly
extinguished pastille. The pervasive spirit of beauty in the room,
manifested in forms, colors, tones, and motions, affected the soul as
perfume did the senses. The visitors felt they had stayed too long, and
yet they lingered. Alfred examined the reclining Cupid, and praised the
gracefulness of its outline.

"Cupid could never sleep here, nor would the flame of his torch ever go
out," said Mr. Fitzgerald; "but it is time we were going out."
The young gentlemen exchanged parting salutations with their host and
his daughters, and moved toward the door. But Mr. Fitzgerald paused
on the threshold to say, "Please play us out with Mozart's 'Good
Night.'"
"As organists play worshippers out of the church," added Mr. King.
Rosabella bowed compliance, and, as they crossed the outer threshold,
they heard the most musical of voices singing Mozart's beautiful little
melody, "Buona Notte, amato bene." The young men lingered near the
piazza till the last sounds floated away, and then they walked forth in
the moonlight,--Fitzgerald repeating the air in a subdued whistle.
His first exclamation was, "Isn't that girl a Rose Royal?"
"She is, indeed," replied Mr. King; "and the younger sister is also
extremely fascinating."
"Yes, I thought you seemed to think so," rejoined his companion.
"Which do you prefer?"
Shy of revealing his thoughts to a stranger, Mr. King replied that each
of the sisters was so perfect in her way, the other would be wronged by
preference.
"Yes, they are both rare gems of beauty," rejoined Fitzgerald. "If I were
the Grand Bashaw, I would have them both in my harem."
The levity of the remark jarred on the feelings of his companion, who
answered, in a grave, and somewhat cold tone, "I saw nothing in the
manners of the young ladies to suggest such a disposition of them."
"Excuse me," said Fitzgerald, laughing. "I forgot you were from the
land of Puritans. I meant no indignity to the young ladies, I assure you.
But when one amuses himself with imagining the impossible, it is not

worth while to be scrupulous about details. I am not the Grand Bashaw;
and when I pronounced them fit for his harem, I merely meant a
compliment to their superlative beauty. That Floracita is a mischievous
little sprite. Did you ever see anything more roguish than her
expression while she was singing 'Petit blanc, mon bon frère'?"
"That mercurial little song excited my curiosity," replied Alfred. "Pray
what is its origin?"
"I think it likely it came from the French West Indies," said Fitzgerald.
"It seems to be the love-song of a young negress, addressed to a white
lover. Floracita may have learned it from her mother, who was half
French, half Spanish. You doubtless observed the foreign sprinkling in
their talk. They told me they never spoke English with their mother.
Those who have seen her describe her as a wonderful creature, who
danced like Taglioni and sang like Malibran, and was more beautiful
than her daughter Rosabella. But the last part of the story is incredible.
If she were half as handsome, no wonder Mr. Royal idolized her, as
they say he did."
"Did he marry her in the French Islands?" inquired Alfred.
"They were not married," answered Fitzgerald. "Of course not, for she
was a quadroon. But here are my lodgings, and I must bid you good
night."
These careless parting words produced great disturbance in the spirit of
Alfred King. He had heard of those quadroon connections, as one hears
of foreign customs, without any realizing sense of their consequences.
That his father's friend should be a partner in such an alliance, and that
these two graceful and accomplished girls should by that circumstance
be excluded from the society they would so greatly ornament, surprised
and bewildered him. He recalled that tinge in Rosa's complexion, not
golden, but like a faint, luminous reflection of gold, and that slight
waviness in the glossy hair, which seemed to him so becoming. He
could not make these peculiarities seem less beautiful to his
imagination, now that he knew them as signs of her connection with a
proscribed race. And that bewitching little Floracita, emerging into

womanhood, with the auroral light of childhood still floating round her,
she seemed like a beautiful Italian child, whose proper place was
among fountains and statues and pictured forms of art. The skill of no
Parisian coiffeur could produce a result so pleasing as the profusion of
raven hair, that would roll itself into ringlets. Octoroons! He repeated
the word to himself, but it did not disenchant him. It was merely
something foreign and new