BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//InvisionCommunity Events 5.0.18//EN METHOD:PUBLISH CALSCALE:GREGORIAN REFRESH-INTERVAL:PT15M X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT15M X-WR-CALNAME:RMCommunityCalendar NAME:RMCommunityCalendar BEGIN:VTIMEZONE TZID:Europe/London TZURL:https://tzurl.org/zoneinfo/Europe/London X-LIC-LOCATION:Europe/London BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:+0000 TZOFFSETTO:+0100 TZNAME:BST DTSTART:20250330T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=3;BYDAY=-1SU END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:+0100 TZOFFSETTO:+0000 TZNAME:GMT DTSTART:20251026T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=10;BYDAY=-1SU END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT SUMMARY:Le Mulâtre from Victor Séjour two versions split by an ess ay DTSTAMP:20250724T021727Z SEQUENCE:0 UID:414-7-c3fe8195a3dde498d013e477e2142422@aalbc.com ORGANIZER;CN="richardmurray":noreply@aalbc.com DESCRIPTION:\n Le Mulâtre from Victor Séjour\n\n \"Le Mulâtre\" (\"Th e Mulatto\") is a short story by Victor Séjour\, a free person of color a nd Creole of color born and raised in New Orleans\, Louisiana. It was writ ten in French\, Séjour's first language\, and published in the Paris abol itionist journal Revue des Colonies in 1837. It is the earliest extant wor k of fiction by an African-American author. It was noted as such when it w as first translated in English\, appearing in the first edition of the Nor ton Anthology of African American Literature in 1997\n\n full text\n\n htt ps://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/entry/347-le-mulâtre-from-victor-séjour/\n\n\n\ n  \n\n\n\n Le Mulâtre\n\nVictor Séjour\n\nRevue des Colonies\, mars 18 37\, pp. 376-392.\n\n\n Les premiers rayons de l’aurore blanchissaien t à peine la cime noire des montagnes\, quand je partis du Cap pour me re ndre à Saint Marc\, petite ville de St-Domingue\, aujourd’hui la répub lique d’Haïti. J’avais tant vu de belles campagnes\, de forêts haute s et profondes\, qu’en vérité je me croyais blasé de ces beautés mâ les de la création. Mais\, à l’aspect de cette dernière ville\, avec sa végétation pittoresque\, sa nature neuve et bizarre\, je fus étonn é et confondu devant la diversité sublime de l’ œuvre de Dieu. Aussi tôt mon arrivée\, je fus accosté par un vieillard nègre\, déjà sept uagénaire \; ses pas étaient fermes\, sa tête haute\, sa taille imposan te et vigoureuse \; rien ne trahissait son grand âge\, sinon la blancheur remarquable de ses cheveux crépus. Selon la coutume du pays\, il était coiffé d’un grand chapeau de paille\, et vêtu d’un large pantalon en toile grise et d’une espèce de camisole en batiste écrue \n — Bo njour maître\, me dit-il en se découvrant.\n — Ah ! vous voilà…\ , et je lui tendis la main\, qu’il pressa avec reconnaissance.\n — Maître\, dit-il\, c’est d’un noble cœur ce que vous faites là… \ ; mais ne savez-vous pas qu’un nègre est aussi vil qu’un chien… \; la société le repousse \; les hommes le détestent \; les lois le maudis sent… Ah ! c’est un être bien malheureux\, qui n’a pas même la con solation d’ être toujours vertueux… Qu’il naisse bon\, noble\, gé néreux \; que Dieu lui donne une âme loyale et grande \; malgré cela\, bien souvent il descend dans la tombe les mains teintes de sang\, et le c œur avide encore de vengeance \; car plus d’une fois il a vu détruire ses rêves de jeune homme \; car l’expérience lui a appris que ses bonn es actions n’étaient pas comptées\, et qu’il ne devait aimer ni sa f emme\, ni ses fils \; car un jour la première sera séduite par le maîtr e\, et son sang vendu au loin malgré son désespoir. Alors\, que voulez-v ous qu’il devienne ?… Se brisera-t-il le crâne contre le pavé de l a rue ?… Tuera-t-il son bourreau ?… Ou croyez-vous que le cœur humain puisse se façonner à de telles infortunes ?…\n Le vieux nègre se tut un instant comme pour attendre ma réponse.\n Insensé qui le pense \, reprit-il avec chaleur. S’il vit\, c’est pour la vengeance \; car b ientôt il se lève… et\, du jour où il secoue sa servilité \, il vaud rait mieux au maître entendre le tigre affamé hurler à ses côtés\, qu e de le rencontrer face à face… Pendant que le vieillard parlait\, son front s’illuminait\, ses yeux étincelaient\, et son cœur battait avec force. Je ne croyais pas trouver autant d’ énergie sous une aussi vieil le enveloppe. Profitant de cette espèce d’exaltation :\n — Antoine \, lui dis-je\, vous m’aviez promis l’histoire de votre ami Georges.\n — Voulez-vous m’ écouter à cette heure ?\n — Volontiers… Nous nous assîmes\, lui sur ma malle de voyage\, et moi sur ma valise. Vo ici ce qu’il me raconta :\n « Voyez-vous cet édifice qui s’ élè ve si gracieusement vers le ciel\, et qui semble se mirer dans la mer \; c et édifice qui ressemble\, par son originalité \, à un temple\, et par sa coquetterie\, à quelque palais\, c’est la maison St-M*** . Dans une des pièces de ce bâtiment\, se réunissent chaque jour les flâneurs\, l es rentiers et les grands planteurs. Les deux premiers jouent au billard\, ou fument le délicieux cigare de la Havane \; tandis que les derniers ac hètent des nègres \; c’est-à -dire des hommes libres\, arrachés par la ruse ou par la force de leur patrie\, et devenus\, par la violence\, le bien\, la propriété de leurs semblables… Ici\, on livre le mari sans la femme \; là \, la sœur sans le frère \; plus loin\, la mère sans le s enfans. Vous frémissez ? cependant ces ventes infâmes se renouvellent à toute heure. Mais bientôt on y propose une jeune sénégalaise\, si b elle qu’une même exclamation s’ échappe de toutes les bouches… \n « Qu’elle est jolie ! » Chacun la voudrait pour en faire sa maî tresse \; mais nul n’ose lutter contre le jeune Alfred\, un des plus ric hes planteurs de ce pays\, âgé alors de vingt-deux ans.\n — Combien demandez-vous de cette femme ?\n — Quinze cents piastres\, répondit le vendeur.\n — Quinze cents piastres\, répéta machinalement Alfre d.\n — Oui\, Monsieur.\n — Au juste ?\n — Au juste.\n — C’est horriblement cher.\n — Cher… répartit le vendeur ave c un signe d’ étonnement \; mais vous ne voyez donc pas comme elle est jolie\, comme sa peau est luisante\, comme sa chair est ferme. Elle a dix- huit ans au plus… Tout en parlant\, il promenait ses mains impudiques su r les formes puissantes et demi-nues de la belle Africaine.\n — Elle est garantie\, dit Alfred\, après un moment de réflexion ?\n — Auss i pure que la rosée du ciel\, répondit le vendeur \; mais\, au reste\, v ous pouvez la faire...\n — Non\, non… c’est inutile\, reprit Alfr ed en l’interrompant\, j’ai confiance en vous.\n — Je n’ai jama is vendu de mauvaises marchandises\, répartit le vendeur\, en relevant se s favoris d’un air triomphant. Quand l’acte de vente fut signé et tou tes les formalités remplis\, le vendeur s’approcha de la jeune esclave :\n — Cet homme est maintenant ton maître\, lui dit-il\, en désigna nt Alfred.\n — Je le sais\, répondit froidement la négresse.\n — En es-tu contente ?\n — Que m’importe… lui ou un autre…\ n — Mais cependant — balbutia le vendeur\, en cherchant une répons e.\n — Mais cependant quoi ? reprit l’Africaine avec humeur\, et s’il ne me convenait pas ?\n — Ma foi\, ce serait un malheur \; car tout est terminé…\n — Alors\, je garde ma pensée pour moi.\n Dix minutes après\, la nouvelle esclave d’Alfred monta dans un tomberea u qui prit le chemin des guêpes\, route assez commode qui mène à ces d élicieuses campagnes\, groupées autour de Saint-Marc comme de jeunes vie rges au pied de l’autel. Une sombre mélancolie enveloppait son âme \; elle pleurait. Le conducteur comprenait trop bien ce qui se passait en ell e\, pour essayer de la distraire \; mais quand il vit la blanche habitatio n d’Alfred se dessiner dans le lointain\, il se pencha involontairement vers la pauvre infortunée\, et d’une voix pleine de larmes\, il lui dit :\n — Sœur\, quel est ton nom ?\n — Laïsa\, répondit-elle\, sans lever la tête.\n — À ce nom\, le conducteur frissonna\, mais maîtrisant son émotion\, il reprit :\n — Ta mère ?\n — Elle e st morte…\n — Ton père ?\n — Il est mort…\n — Pauvre e nfant\, murmura-t-il…\n — De quel pays es-tu\, Laïsa ?\n — Du Sénégal…\n Les larmes lui vinrent aux yeux \; il venait de renco ntrer une compatriote.\n — Sœur\, reprit-il\, en s’essuyant les ye ux\, tu connais sans doute le vieux Chambo et sa fille…\n — Pourquo i\, répondit la jeune fille en relevant vivement la tête ?\n — Pour quoi\, continua le conducteur avec angoisse \; mais le vieux Chambo est mo n père\, et…\n — Mon Dieu\, s’ écria l’orpheline\, sans lui l aisser le temps d’achever \; tu es ?…\n — Jacques Chambo.\n — Mon frère !\n — Laïsa !…\n Ils se jetèrent dans les bra s l’un de l’autre. Ils étaient encore entrelacés\, quand le tomberea u entra dans la partie principale de l’habitation d’Alfred. Le géran t y était… Qu’est-ce que je vois\, s’ écria-t-il\, en déroulant u n fouet immense\, qu’il portait toujours pendu à sa ceinture\, Jacques qui embrasse à mes yeux la nouvelle venue… quelle impertinence !… Sur ce\, des coups de fouet tombèrent sur le malheureux\, et des flots de sa ng jaillirent de son visage.\n\n II.\n\n Alfred était peut-être bon\, humain\, loyal avec ses égaux \; mais\, à coup sûr\, c’ était un ho mme dur\, méchant\, envers ses esclaves. Je ne vous dirai pas tout ce q u’il fit pour posséder Laïsa \; car celle-ci fut presque violée. Pend ant près d’une année\, elle partagea la couche de son maître \; mai s déjà Alfred commençait à s’en lasser \; il la trouvait laide\, fro ide\, insolente. Vers ce temps\, la pauvre femme accoucha d’un fils qu ’elle nomma Georges. Alfred le méconnut\, chassa la mère de sa présen ce\, et la fit reléguer dans la plus mauvaise cabane de son habitation\, quoique convaincu\, autant qu’on peut l’ être\, qu’il était le pè re de cet enfant. \n Georges avait grandi sans jamais entendre nommer l e nom de son père \; et s’il essayait parfois de percer le mystère qui enveloppait sa naissance\, il trouvait sa mère inflexible et muette à s es questions. Une fois seulement elle lui dit : \n — Mon fils\, tu n e sauras son nom qu’ à ta vingt-cinquième année \; car alors tu seras un homme \; tu seras plus capable de garder un pareil secret. Tu ne sais donc pas qu’il m’a défendu de te parler de lui\, sous peine de te haïr… et vois-tu\, Georges… la haine de cet homme\, c’est la mort . \n — Qu’importe\, s’ écriait impétueusement Georges \; je pou rrais du moins lui reprocher sa conduite infâme… \n — Tais-toi… tais-toi\, Georges… les murs ont des oreilles\, et les broussailles save nt parler\, murmurait la pauvre mère en tremblant… \n Quelques anné es après\, cette malheureuse mourut\, laissant pour tout héritage à Geo rges\, son fils unique\, un petit sac en peau de daim\, dans lequel se tro uvait le portrait de son père \; mais à la seule promesse de ne l’ouvr ir qu’ à sa vingt-cinquième année. Puis elle l’embrassa\, et sa tê te retomba sur l’oreiller… elle était morte… Le cri de douleur qu e jeta l’orphelin attira les autres esclaves… Ils se mirent à pleure r\, à frapper leur poitrine\, à arracher leurs cheveux de désespoir. A près ces premières marques de douleur\, ils lavèrent le corps de la dé funte\, et l’exposèrent sur une espèce de table longue\, soutenue par les tréteaux. La morte est couchée sur le dos\, le visage tourné vers l’Orient\, vêtue de ses meilleurs habits\, et les mains croisées sur sa poitrine. À ses pieds se trouve une petite coupe pleine d’eau bénit e\, sur laquelle surnage une branche de jasmin \; enfin\, aux quatre coins de la couche mortuaire\, s’ élèvent des flambeaux… Chacun\, après avoir béni les restes de la défunte\, s’agenouille et prie car la plup art des races nègres\, malgré leur fétichisme\, croient profondémen t à l’existence de Dieu. Cette première cérémonie terminée\, une au tre non moins singulière commence… ce sont des cris\, des pleurs\, des chants \; puis des danses funèbres !…\n\n\nIII.\n\n Georges avait to utes les dispositions nécessaires à devenir un très honnête homme \; m ais c’ était une de ces volontés hautaines et tenaces\, une de ces org anisations orientales qui\, poussées loin du chemin de la vertu\, marchen t sans s’effrayer dans la route du crime. Il aurait donné dix ans de sa vie pour connaître le nom de son père \; mais il n’osait violer la pr omesse solennelle faite à sa mère mourante. Comme si la nature le poussa it vers Alfred \; il l’aimait\, autant que l’on puisse aimer un homme : tandis que celui-ci l’estimait\, mais de cette estime que l’ écuyer porte au plus beau et au plus vigoureux de ses coursiers. À cette époqu e\, une horde de brigands portaient la désolation dans ces lieux \; déj à plus d’un colon avait été leur victime. Une nuit\, je ne sais par q uel hasard\, Georges fut instruit de leur projet. Ils avaient juré d’as sassiner Alfred. Aussitôt l’esclave court chez son maître.\n — M aître\, maître\, s’ écria-t-il… au nom du ciel\, suivez-moi.\n A lfred fronça les sourcils.\n — Oh ! venez\, venez\, maître\, contin ua le mulâtre avec intérêt.\n — Par le ciel\, répondit Alfred \; je crois que tu me commandes.\n — Pardon\, maître… pardon… je su is si troublé… je ne sais ce que je dis… mais\, au nom du ciel\, vene z\, suivez-moi… car…\n — T’expliqueras-tu\, dit Alfred\, d’u n ton colère…\n Le mulâtre hésita.\n — Je le veux \; je l’o rdonne\, reprit Alfred\, en se levant d’un air menaçant.\n — Maît re\, on doit vous assassiner cette nuit.\n — Sainte Vierge\, tu men s…\n — Maître\, ils en veulent à votre vie.\n — Qui ?\n — Les bandits.\n — Qui te l’a dit ?\n — Maître\, c’est mon secret… dit le mulâtre d’une voix soumise.\n — Es-tu armé \, reprit Alfred\, après un moment de silence ?\n Le mulâtre repoussa quelques haillons qui le couvraient\, et laissa voir une hache et une pai re de pistolets.\n — C’est bien\, dit Alfred en s’armant précipi tamment.\n — Maître\, êtes-vous prêt ?\n — Partons…\n — Partons\, répéta le mulâtre en faisant un pas vers la porte…\n Alfred le retint par le bras.\n — Mais\, où allons-nous ?\n — Chez le plus près de vos amis\, M. Arthur.\n Ils allaient sortir\, lor sque la porte cria sur ses gonds.\n — Enfer\, murmura le mulâtre\, i l est trop tard…\n — Que dis-tu ?\n Ils sont là \, répondit Ge orges en montrant la porte…\n — Ah !…\n — Maître\, qu’ave z-vous ?\n — Rien… un malaise…\n — Ne craignez rien\, maîtr e\, avant d’arriver à vous\, ils me marcheront sur le corps\, dit l’e sclave d’un air calme et résigné .\n Cet air calme\, ce noble dévo uement étaient susceptibles de rassurer le mortel le plus lâche. Cependa nt\, à ces dernières paroles\, Alfred trembla davantage \; car une horri ble idée l’accablait : il se figurait que le généreux Georges était le complice de ses assassins. Tels sont les tyrans \; ils croient le reste des hommes incapables d’un sentiment élevé \, d’un dévouement sans bornes \; car leurs âmes sont étroites et perfides… C’est une terre inculte\, où ne croissent que la ronce et le lierre. La porte trembla vi olemment… Cette fois\, Alfred ne put maîtriser sa lâcheté \, il venai t de voir sourire le mulâtre \; était-ce de joie ou de colère ? Il ne s e fit pas cette question.\n — Misérable ! s’ écria-t-il\, en s’ élançant dans une pièce voisine \; tu voulais me faire assassiner \; mais ton attente sera trompée\, et il disparut... Georges se mordait l es lèvres de rage \; mais il ne put faire aucune réflexion\, car la port e s’ouvrit tout à coup\, et quatre hommes se dressèrent sur le seuil. Aussi prompt que l’ éclair\, le mulâtre arma ses pistolets\, et s’ac cola contre le mur\, en criant d’une voix de stentor :\n — Infâmes ! que voulez-vous ?\n — Nous voulons te parler en face\, répondit l’un d’eux\, en tirant Georges à bout portant.\n — Bien tiré \ , murmura convulsivement celui-ci.\n La balle lui avait fracassé le br as gauche. Il lâcha son coup. Le brigand tourna trois fois sur lui-même et tomba raide mort. Un second le suivit de près. Alors\, comme un lion f urieux harcelé par des chasseurs\, Georges\, la hache au poing et le poig nard entre les dents\, se précipite sur ses adversaires… Une lutte affr euse s’engage… Les combattants se pressent… se heurtent… s’ent relacent… La hache brille… le sang coule… le poignard\, fidèle à l a main qui le pousse\, laboure la poitrine de l’ennemi… Mais pas un cri… pas un mot… pas un souffle ne s’ échappe de ces trois bouche s d’hommes qui se ruent entre des cadavres comme au sein d’une enivran te orgie… À les voir ainsi\, pâles et sanglants\, muets et désespér és\, on se figure trois fantômes qui se heurtent et s’entre-déchirent au fond d’un tombeau… Cependant Georges est couvert de blessures \; i l se soutient à peine… Oh ! c’en est fait de l’intrépide mulâtre \; la hache tranchante se lève sur sa tête… Tout à coup deux détonat ions se font entendre\, et les deux brigands tombent en blasphémant Dieu. Au même moment\, Alfred rentre\, suivi d’un jeune nègre. Il fait tran sporter le blessé dans sa cabane\, et ordonne de lui amener son médecin. Pendant ce temps\, apprenez comment Georges fut sauvé par le même homme qui l’accusait de trahison. À peine éloigné\, Alfred entend le bru it d’une arme à feu\, et le cliquetis du fer \; rougissant de sa lâch eté \, il réveille son valet de chambre\, et vole au secours de son lib érateur. — J’avais oublié de vous dire que Georges avait une femme\ , nommée Zélie\, qu’il aimait de toute la puissance de son âme \; c’ était une mulâtresse de dix-huit à vingt ans\, à la taille cambr ée\, aux cheveux noirs\, au regard plein d’amour et de volupté . Georg es resta douze jours entre la vie et la mort. Alfred l’allait voir souve nt \; poussé par je ne sais quelle fatalité \, il s’ éprit de Zélie \; mais\, malheureusement pour lui\, ce n’ était pas une de ces femmes qui vendent leur amour\, ou qui en font hommage à leur maître. Elle repo ussa avec une humble dignité les propositions d’Alfred \; car elle n’ oubliait pas que c’ était le maître qui parlait à l’esclave. — Au lieu d’en être touché de cette vertu si rare parmi les femmes\, sur tout parmi celles qui\, comme Zélie\, sont esclaves\, et qui voient chaqu e jour leurs impudiques compagnes se prostituer aux colons\, et alimenter leur libertinage \; au lieu d’en être\; touché\, dis-je\, Alfred s ’irrita… Quoi ! lui\, le despote\, le bey\, le sultan des Antilles\, s e voir méprisé par une esclave… quelle ironie !… Aussi a-t-il fait l e serment de la posséder… Quelques jours avant la convalescence de Geor ges\, Alfred fit demander Zélie dans sa chambre. Alors\, n’écoutant qu e ses désirs criminels\, il l’enlace de ses bras\, et dépose sur sa jo ue un brûlant baiser \; la jeune esclave prie\, supplie\, résiste \; mai s en vain… Déjà il l’entraîne vers la couche adultère \; déjà… Alors\, la vertueuse esclave\, pleine d’une noble indignation\, le repo usse par un dernier effort\, mais si brusque\, mais si puissant\, qu’Alf red perdit l’ équilibre et se fracassa la tête en tombant. À cette vu e\, Zélie s’arracha les cheveux de désespoir\, et pleura de rage\, car elle avait compris\, la malheureuse\, que la mort l’attendait pour avoi r fait couler le sang d’un être aussi vil. Quand elle eut bien pleuré \, elle se rendit près de son mari. — Celui-ci rêvait sans doute d’e lle \; car il avait le sourire sur les lèvres.\n — Georges… Ge orges… s’ écria-t-elle avec angoisse.\n Le mulâtre ouvrit les yeu x \; le premier besoin qu’il sentit fut de sourire à sa bien aimée. Z élie lui conta ce qui vient de se passer. Il ne voulut rien y croire \; m ais bientôt il fut convaincu de son malheur \; car des hommes entrèrent dans sa cabane et garrottèrent sa femme qui pleurait… Georges fit un ef fort pour se lever \; mais trop faible encore\, il retomba sur la couche\, les yeux hagards\, les mains crispées\, la bouche haletante.\n\n\nIV.\n\ n Dix jours après deux petits créoles blancs jouaient au milieu de la rue.\n — Charles\, disait l’un d’eux : on dit que cette mulâtre sse qui voulait tuer son maître sera pendue demain ?\n — À huit heu res\, répondit l’autre.\n — Iras-tu ?\n — Sans doute.\n — Ce sera gentil de la voir pirouetter entre ciel et terre reprit le pre mier\, et ils s’ éloignèrent en riant.\n Cela vous étonne d’ente ndre deux enfants de dix ans s’entretenir si gaiement de la mort d’aut rui \; c’est une conséquence peut-être fatale de leur éducation. Dès leur bas-âge on leur répète que nous sommes nés pour les servir\, c ré és pour leurs caprices\, et qu’ils ne doivent nous considérer ni p lus ni moins qu’un chien… Or que leur importent notre agonie\, et nos souffrances ? ne voient-ils pas souvent mourir leurs meilleurs chevaux ? I ls ne les pleurent pas\, car ils sont riches\, demain ils en achèteront d’autres… Pendant que ces deux enfants parlaient\, Georges était aux genoux de son maître.\n — Maître\, grâce… grâce… s’ écria -t-il en pleurant… ayez pitié d’elle… maître\, sauvez-la… Oh ! o ui sauvez-la\, car vous le pouvez… oh ! parlez… vous n’avez qu’un mot à dire… un seul… et elle vivra. Alfred ne répondit pas.\n — Oh ! par pitié… maître… par pitié dites-moi que vous lui pard onnez… oh ! parlez… répondez-moi\, maître… n’est-ce pas que vous lui pardonnez… et le malheureux se tordait de douleur…\n Alfred\, toujours impassible\, détourna la tête…\n — Oh ! reprit Georges e n suppliant\, répondez-moi… un seul mot… mais répondez donc \; vous ne voyez pas que votre silence me torture le cœur… me tue…\n — J e ne puis rien y faire\, répondit enfin Alfred d’un ton glacé .\n L e mulâtre essuya ses pleurs\, et se releva de toute sa hauteur.\n — Maître\, continua-t-il d’une voix creuse\, vous souvenez-vous de ce qu e vous me disiez\, quand je me tordais sur mon lit d’agonie.\n — Non…\n — Eh bien ! moi je m’en souviens… le maître dit à l’ esclave : tu m’as sauvé la vie\, que veux-tu pour récompense ? veux-tu ta liberté… ? maître\, répondit l’esclave\, je ne puis être libre \, quand mon fils et ma femme sont esclaves. Alors le maître reprit : si jamais tu me pries\, je jure que tes vœux seront exaucés \; et l’escla ve ne pria point\, car il était heureux d’avoir sauvé la vie à son maître… mais aujourd’hui qu’il sait que dans dix-huit heures sa fe mme ne vivra plus\, il court se jeter à vos pieds\, et vous crier : maît re\, au nom de Dieu\, sauvez ma femme. Et le mulâtre\, les mains jointes\ , le regard suppliant\, se remit à genoux et pleura des flots de larmes …\n Alfred détourna la tête…\n — Maître… maître… par pitié répondez-moi… oh ! dites que vous voulez qu’elle vive… au n om de Dieu… de votre mère… grâce… miséricorde… et le mulâtre b aisait la poussière de ses pieds.\n Alfred garda le silence.\n — Mais parlez au moins à ce pauvre homme qui vous supplie\, reprit-il en sa nglotant.\n Alfred ne répondit rien.\n — Mon Dieu… mon Dieu ! q ue je suis malheureux… et il se roulait sur le plancher\, et s’arracha it les cheveux de désespoir.\n Enfin Alfred se décida à parler :\n — Je vous ai déjà dit que ce n’ était plus à moi à pardonne r.\n — Maître\, murmura Georges toujours en pleurant\, elle sera pro bablement condamnée \; car vous et moi\, seuls\, savons qu’elle est inn ocente.\n À cette dernière parole du mulâtre\, le rouge monta à la figure d’Alfred et la colère à son cœur…\n Georges comprit qu’il n’ était plus temps de prier\, car il avait soulevé le voile q ui cachait le crime de son maître \; or\, il se leva d’un air résolu. \n — Sortez… va-t-en\, lui cria Alfred.\n Au lieu de sortir le mulâtre se croisa les bras sur la poitrine\, et d’un regard farouche\, il toisa son maître du pied à la tête.\n — Va-t-en… va-t-en\, te dis-je\, reprit Alfred dont la colère croissait.\n — Je ne sortirai pas\, répondit Georges :\n — Tu me braves\, misérable. Il fit un m ouvement pour le frapper\, mais sa main resta collée à sa cuisse\, tant il y avait de fierté et de haine dans le regard de Georges.\n — Quoi ! vous pourrez la laisser tuer\, égorger\, assassiner\, dit le mulâtre\ , quand vous la savez innocente… quand vous avez voulu lâchement la sé duire.\n — Insolent\, que dis-tu ?\n — Je dis que ce serait une infamie de la laisser mourir…\n — Georges… Georges…\n — Je dis que tu es un scélérat\, hurla Georges en laissant cours à sa colè re\, et en saisissant Alfred par le bras… ah ! elle mourra… elle mourr a parce qu’elle ne s’est pas prostituée à toi… à toi parce que tu es blanc… à toi parce que tu es son maître… infâme suborneur…\ n — Georges\, prends garde\, répondit Alfred en essayant de prendre un ton assuré . Prends garde qu’au lieu d’une victime demain le bourr eau en trouve deux.\n — Tu parles de victime et de bourreau\, miséra ble\, hurla Georges… cela veut donc dire qu’elle mourra… elle… ma Zélie… mais tu ne sais pas que ta vie est attachée à la sienne.\ n — Georges !\n — Mais tu ne sais pas que ta tête ne tiendra su r tes épaules qu’autant qu’elle vivra.\n — Georges… Georges !\n — Mais tu ne sais pas que je te tuerai… que je boirai ton sang si jamais on arrache un cheveux de sa tête.\n Et pendant tout ce temps le mulâtre secouait Alfred de toute la force de son bras.\n — Lâch ez-moi\, criait Alfred.\n — Ah ! elle mourra… elle mourra\, hurla l e mulâtre en délire.\n — Georges\, lâchez-moi !\n — Tais-to i… tais-toi\, misérable… ah ! elle mourra… eh bien\, que le bourrea u touche aux jours de ma femme… continua-t-il avec un sourire affreux.\n Alfred était si troublé \, qu’il ne vit point sortir Georges. Celu i-ci se rendit aussitôt à sa cabane\, où \, dans un léger berceau en l iane dormait un jeune enfant de deux ans\, il le prit et disparut. Pour bi en comprendre ce qui va suivre\, sachez que de l’habitation d’Alfred on n’avait qu’une petite rivière à traverser pour se trouver au mil ieu de ces forêts épaisses\, qui semblent étreindre le nouveau-monde.\n Depuis six bonnes heures Georges marchait sans relâche \; enfin il s’arrêta à quelques pas d’une cabane\, bâtie au plus épais de la forêt \; vous comprendrez cette espèce de joie qui brille dans ses yeux quand vous saurez que cette cabane toute petite\, tout isolée\, qu’elle est\, est le camp des nègres marrons\, c’est-à -dire des esclaves qui fuient la tyrannie de leurs maîtres. En ce moment toute la cabane était en rumeur\, on venait d’entendre la forêt tressaillir\, et le chef ava it juré que ce bruit n’ était causé par aucun animal\, or il arma son fusil et sortit… Tout à coup les broussailles se courbent devant lui\, et il se trouve face à face avec un étranger. \n — Par ma liberté \, s’ écria-t-il\, en ajustant l’inconnu\, tu connaissais trop bien notre niche.\n — Afrique et liberté \, répondit Georges sans s’ émouvoir\, mais en repoussant de côté le canon du fusil… je suis des vôtres.\n — Ton nom.\n — Georges\, esclave d’Alfred.\n Il s se tendirent la main\, et s’embrassèrent.\n Le lendemain la foule se pressait autour d’une potence\, à laquelle était suspendu le corp s d’une jeune mulâtresse… Lorsqu’elle fut bien morte\, le bourreau descendit son cadavre dans un cercueil en sapin et dix minutes après on j eta corps et cercueil dans une fosse creusée à l’entrée de la forêt. \n Ainsi cette femme pour avoir été trop vertueuse est morte du suppl ice des infâmes \; croyez-vous que ce seul fait ne suffit pas à rendre l’homme le plus doux\, méchant et sanguinaire ?\n\n\nV.\n\n Trois ans s’ étaient écoulés depuis la mort de la vertueuse Zélie. Alfred dans les premiers temps fut très tourmenté \; le jour\, il croyait voi r à toute heure une main vengeresse s’abaisser sur son front\, il tremb lait la nuit\, car elle lui apportait des songes affreux et terribles \; m ais bientôt chassant de son âme\, et le souvenir pénible de la martyre\ , et la terrible menace de Georges\, il se maria\, devint père… Oh ! qu’il fut heureux\, quand on vint lui dire que ses vœux étaient exauc és\, lui qui chaque soir baisait humblement le pavé du temple\, en prian t la Sainte Vierge de douleur de lui accorder un fils.\n Georges eut au ssi sa part de bonheur de la venue au monde de cet enfant \; car s’il av ait espéré trois ans sans savoir frapper le bourreau de sa femme \; s’ il avait passé tant de nuits sans sommeil\, la fureur dans le cœur\, et la main sur son poignard\, c’est qu’il attendait qu’Alfred eût\, co mme lui\, une femme et un fils \; c’est qu’il ne voulait le tuer qu’ au moment où des liens chers et précieux le retiendraient en ce monde… Georges avait toujours entretenu des relations intimes avec un des esclav es d’Alfred\, il l’allait même voir toutes les semaines \; or cet esc lave n’eut rien de plus pressé que de lui annoncer l’existence du nou veau-né… Aussitôt il vole vers la demeure de son ennemi\, rencontre su r son chemin une négresse qui portait une tasse de bouillon à madame Alf red \; il l’arrête\, lui dit quelques paroles insignifiantes\, et s’ éloigne… Après bien des difficultés\, il parvient à se glisser comm e une couleuvre dans la chambre à coucher d’Alfred… là \, caché de rrière la ruelle du lit\, il attendit son maître… Alfred rentra un ins tant après en chantant \; il ouvrit son secrétaire\, y prit un superbe écrin en diamant qu’il avait promis à sa femme\, si celle-ci lui donna it un fils \; mais pénétré de joie et de bonheur\, il s’assit la têt e entre les deux mains\, comme un homme qui ne peut croire à un bonheur i nattendu \; mais quand il releva la tête\, il vit devant lui une espèc e d’ombre immobile\, les bras croisés sur la poitrine\, et deux yeux ar dents qui avaient toute la férocité du tigre qui s’apprête à déchir er sa proie. Alfred fit un mouvement pour se lever\, mais une main puissan te le retint sur la chaise.\n — Que me voulez-vous\, accentua Alfre d d’une voix tremblante.\n — Te complimenter de la naissance de ton fils\, répondit une voix qui semblait sortir de la tombe.\n Alfred fr issonna du pied à la tête\, ses cheveux se hérissèrent\, et une sueur froide inonda ses membres.\n — Je ne vous connais pas\, murmura faibl ement Alfred…\n — Je m’appelle Georges.\n — Vous…\n — Tu me croyais mort n’est-ce pas\, dit le mulâtre avec un rire convulsi f.\n — Au secours…au secours\, cria Alfred…\n — Qui te secou rra\, reprit le mulâtre… n’as-tu pas renvoyé tes domestiques\, ferm é toutes tes portes\, pour être plus seul avec ta femme… tu vois donc que tes cris sont inutiles… ainsi recommande ton âme à Dieu.\n Alfr ed s’ était peu à peu relevé de sa chaise\, mais à cette dernière p arole\, il y retomba pâle et tremblant.\n — Oh ! pitié \, Georges … ne me tuez pas aujourd’hui.\n Georges haussa les épaules. — M aître\, n’est-ce pas que c’est horrible de mourir quand on est heureu x \; de se coucher dans la tombe au moment où l’on voit ses rêves les plus chers se réaliser… oh ! n’est-ce pas que c’est affreux\, dit le mulâtre avec un rire infernal…\n — Grâce\, Georges…\n — Cependant\, reprit-il\, telle est ta destinée… tu mourras aujourd’h ui\, à cette heure\, dans une minute\, sans dire à ta femme un dernier a dieu…\n — Pitié…pitié…\n — Sans embrasser une seconde fo is ton fils qui vient de naître…\n — Oh ! grâce… grâce.\n — Je crois ma vengeance digne de la tienne… j’aurais vendu mon âm e à Satan\, s’il m’avait promis cet instant.\n — Oh ! grâce… miséricorde\, dit Alfred en se jetant aux genoux du mulâtre.\n Georg es haussa les épaules\, et leva sa hache.\n — Oh !… une heure enco re de vie !\n — Pour embrasser ta femme n’est-ce pas ?\n — Une minute…\n — Pour revoir ton fils\, n’est-ce pas ?\n — Oh ! par pitié…\n — Il vaudrait mieux prier le tigre affamé de lâcher sa proie.\n — Au nom de Dieu\, Georges.\n — Je n’y crois plus .\n — Au nom de votre père…\n À ce mot la colère de Georges tomba. — Mon père…mon père\, dit le mulâtre la larme à l’ œil\ , vous le connaissez… oh ! dites-moi son nom… comment s’appelle-t- il… oh ! dites\, dites-moi son nom… je vous bénirai… je vous pardon nerai.\n Et le mulâtre était prêt à se mettre à genoux devant son maître. Mais tout à coup des cris aigus se font entendre…\n — Ju ste ciel… c’est la voix de ma femme\, s’ écria Alfred en s’ él ançant du côté d’où partaient les cris…\n Comme rappelé à lu i-même\, le mulâtre se souvint qu’il était venu chez son maître\, no n pour savoir le nom de son père\, mais pour lui demander compte du sang de sa femme. Retenant aussitôt Alfred\, il lui dit avec un ricanement hor rible :\n — Arrête\, maître\, ce n’est rien.\n — Jésus-Ma ria\, tu n’entends pas qu’elle demande du secours.\n — Ce n’est rien\, te dis-je.\n — Lâchez-moi… lâchez-moi… c’est la voix de ma femme.\n — Non… c’est le râle d’une mourante.\n — Misérable\, tu mens.\n — Je l’ai empoisonnée.\n — Oh !…\ n — Entends-tu ces plaintes… ce sont les siennes.\n — Enfe r…\n — Entends-tu ces cris… ce sont les siens…\n — Malé diction…\n Et pendant tout ce temps\, Alfred s’efforçait d’ éch apper des mains du mulâtre \; mais celui-ci l’ étreignait de plus en p lus \; car lui aussi sa tête s’exaltait\, son cœur bondissait \; il se faisait à son terrible rôle.\n — Alfred… au secours… de l’eau… je m’ étouffe… cria une femme en s’ élançant au milie u de la chambre. Elle était pâle et défaite\, ses yeux sortaient de sa tête\, ses cheveux étaient en désordre.\n — Alfred\, Alfred… au nom du ciel\, secourez-moi… un peu d’eau… un peu d’eau… mon sa ng me brûle… mon cœur se crispe\, oh ! de l’eau\, de l’eau…\n Alfred faisait des efforts inouïs pour la secourir \; mais Georges le re tenait de son poignet de fer\, et ricanant comme un damné \, il lui criai t : non pas\, maître…non pas…je veux que cette femme meure… là… à tes yeux… devant toi… comprends-tu\, maître\, devant toi\, te dis ant de l’eau\, de l’air\, sans que tu puisses la secourir.\n — O malheur… malheur à toi\, hurlait Alfred en se débattant comme un forc ené .\n — Tu auras beau maudire\, blasphémer\, répondit le mulâtr e\, il faut que cela soit ainsi.\n — Alfred\, murmura de nouveau la m ourante\, adieu… adieu… je meurs…\n — Regarde\, reprit le mulâ tre toujours en ricanant… regarde… elle râle… eh bien ! une seule g outte de cette eau la ramènerait à la vie. Il lui montrait un petit flac on.\n — Toute ma fortune pour cette goutte d’eau… cria Alfred.\ n — Es-tu fou\, maître…\n — Ah ! cette eau… cette eau… ne vois-tu pas qu’elle se meurt… Donnez… donnez donc…\n — Tie ns… et le mulâtre brisa le flacon contre le mur.\n — Soyez maudit\ , hurla Alfred\, en saisissant Georges par le cou… oh ! ma vie entière\ , mon âme pour un poignard…\n Georges se débarrassa des mains d’A lfred.\n — Maintenant qu’elle est morte\, à ton tour\, maître\, d it-il en levant sa hache. Frappe\, bourreau… frappe… après l’avoir empoisonnée\, tu peux bien tuer ton pè… La hache s’abaissa\, et la tête d’Alfred roula sur le plancher\, mais la tête en roulant murmura distinctement la dernière syllabe re… Georges croyait avoir mal entend u\, mais le mot père. comme le glas funèbre\, tintait à son oreille \; or pour s’en assurer\, il ouvrit le sac fatal…ah ! s’écria-t-il\, j e suis maudit… une détonation se fit entendre \; le lendemain on trouva près du cadavre d’Alfred celui du malheureux Georges.\n\nRetour à la bibliothèque Tintamarre\n\n\n\n  \n\n\n\n  \n\n\n\n ESSAY ON THE BOOK\n \n\n\n  \n\n\n\n Seeds of Rebellion in Plantation Fiction: Victor Séjour 's \"The Mulatto\"\nEd Piacentino\nHigh Point University\nArticle\nPublish ed August 28\, 2007\n\nOverview\nThis essay examines Victor Séjour's \"Th e Mulatto\" (1837)\, a short story acknowledged as the first fictional wor k by an African American. Through its representation of physical and psych ological effects\, Séjour's story\, a narrative of slavery in Saint-Domin gue\, also inaugurated the literary delineation of slavery's submission-re bellion binary. The enslaved raconteur in \"The Mulatto\" voices protest a nd appeals to social consciousness and sympathy\, anticipating the embedde d narrators in works of later writers throughout the Plantation Americas.\ n\nIntroduction\nA little-known story first translated into English in 199 5 by Philip Barnard for The Norton Anthology of African American Literatur e\, \"Le Mulâtre\" (\"The Mulatto\") by Victor Séjour (1817–1874)\, a New Orleans free man of color\, was initially published in the March 1837 issue of Cyrille Bisette's Parisian abolitionist journal La Revue des Colo nies. La Revue was a monthly periodical of \"Colonial Politics\, Administr ation\, Justice\, Education and Customs\" owned and sponsored by a \"socie ty of men of color.\" A recent immigrant to Paris\, Séjour was in an amen able environment among kindred spirits who shared his sentiments about sla very.\n\nLa Revue's cover\, according to Charles E. O'Neill\, Séjour's bi ographer\, features a \"black slave in chains\, with palms and waterfall i n the background\; kneeling on one knee\, hands clasped in petition [and] ask[ing] 'Am I not a man and your brother?'\" This illustration accentuate s the journal's anti-slavery intent: to expose the \"dissatisfaction with the slow\, evasive parliamentary handling of poverty and oppression in the colonies\" (O'Neill 14). In this iconic image\, the slave expresses his h umanity although secured by chains and kneeling in supplication.1 The slav e proffers a plea for personhood and liberation that evokes the plight of the enslaved throughout the Plantation Americas\, a zone\, as George Handl ey notes\, \"of perplexing but compelling commonality among Caribbean nati ons\, the Caribbean coasts of Central and South America and Brazil\, and t he US South....\" (Handley 25).\n\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n \"Am I not a man and yo ur brother?\" Illustration on the cover of La Revue des Colonies 3 (1837): 376–392. The story was originally published in this volume by Victor S éjour as \"Le Mulâtre.\"\n\n\n\n As a native of New Orleans and resident of the French Quarter\, Séjour spoke French\, attended private school\, and was free but not white. When Séjour resided in New Orleans\, free per sons of color (gens de couleur) were numerous and did not enjoy political rights equal to those of whites (O'Neill 1). At nineteen\, Séjour became an expatriate by choice\, moving to Paris to continue his education and fi nd work\, and eventually joining forces with Cyrille Bisette\, publisher o f La Revue\, and other members of the Parisian literary elite who helped h im to start a formal writing career. In Paris\, Séjour\, a colonial mulat to\, found a more open-minded milieu with less racial prejudice where he c ould exercise liberties not allowed in antebellum New Orleans. In 1837\, a black man living in the United States could not have published as stark a nd haunting an antislavery revenge narrative as \"The Mulatto.\" With this publication\, the first African-American fictional narrative and the firs t of Séjour's works to appear in print\, he launched a popular and succes sful literary career\, with twenty of his plays produced on the Paris stag e between the 1840s and 1860s.\n\n\"The Mulatto\" is not set in the contin ental United States\, but its location\, Saint-Domingue (present-day Haiti ) in the West Indies\, is an important site of slavery and revolution in t he African diaspora where plantation slaves experienced barbarous conditio ns eliciting comparison to Louisiana sugar plantations.2 Designating Louis iana as an \"appendage of the French and Spanish West Indies\,\" Thomas Ma rc Fiehrer perceives significant links between the two\, including \"shar[ ing] the socio-economic expreience of the larger circum-Caribbean culture\ , (3–4)\, and Louisiana's becoming a major sugar producer as Saint-Domin gue had formerly been. Louisiana\, like Cuba\, also experienced the \"same cycle of expansion and intensification of slavery after 1800 which had oc curred in Saint-Domingue between 1750 and 1794\,\" and many planters\, ref ugees\, and free persons of color (many of who had migrated to Cuba first) found Louisiana a \"politically desirable point of relocation . . . \, af ford[ing] . . . an ecosystem comparable to that of the [Caribbean] islands \" (4). With the expansion of sugar-plantation slavery came familiar atroc ities (10).\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n Title pages to Harriet Jacobs's Incidents in the Life of Slave Girl\, William Wells Brown's Clotel or\; The President's Daughter\, and Hannah Crafts's The Bondwoman's Narrative. Images are in p ublic domain.\n\n\n\n Although little known in its era\, \"The Mulatto\" p resents the binary of submission and rebellion that became a motif in US b ased slave narratives and novelized autobiographies treating racialized se xual harassment and/or exploitation of mulattas such as Harriet Jacobs's I ncidents in the Life of Slave Girl\, antislavery novels such as William We lls Brown's Clotel or\; The President's Daughter and Hannah Crafts's The B ondwoman's Narrative\, and even late nineteenth-century southern local col or stories with embedded former slave storytellers\, such as Charles Wadde ll Chesnutt's Uncle Julius. In exposing the brutality of the slave system\ , such as the impact of miscegenation on persons of mixed race\; the sexua l violation of enslaved persons\; and the physical and psychological bruta lities of slavery — particularly the devastating effects on family life of whites as well as on blacks — \"The Mulatto\" deploys strategies for antislavery protest writing that will appear in antebellum slave narrative s and anti-slavery novels and in postbellum fiction about slavery.\n\nLibe rated Narrative Voice\n\"The Mulatto\" features a frame narrator\, a white man who functions as a sympathetic and tolerant sounding board to whom An toine\, an old man still presumably a slave and the story's embedded narra tor\, freely recounts a harrowing narrative of his friend Georges\, a mula tto slave whose master is also his biological father.3 It is Georges's mas ter-father\, Alfred\, against whom Georges directs retributive justice\, k illing him for allowing Georges's wife to be put to death for spurning Alf red's sexual advances. After poisoning Alfred's wife\, Georges beheads his master with an ax and then takes his own life upon discovering that he ha s murdered his own father. Séjour's tragic narrative reveals that the sla ve\, like his master\, has succumbed to evil as his depravity stems from t he corrupting effects of slavery.\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n \"The Mulatto\" family tree and frame narrative structure. Illustration courtesy of the author.  \n\n\n\n Séjour's character\, Antoine\, a proud\, imposing\, elderly slav e raconteur\, creates a narrative that exposes the psychological tensions and physical violence brought about by the violation of the humanity of bl ack slaves and which affects slave owners as well as their bondpersons. An toine comfortably and confidently addresses a nameless white listener\, an individual about whom he feels no rigid class or race barriers. Moreover\ , this man\, who serves as the frame narrator\, gives us Antoine's story o f Georges apparently as it was told to him\, an uncensored\, melodramatic tale of the tragedy spawned by slavery\, with his primary focus being on t he victims of its inhumanities. Antoine's story of Georges\, which evokes sympathy for the innocent black slave characters suffering under white opp ression\, exemplifies racial melodrama\, anticipating the form that Linda Williams examines in Playing the Race Card: Melodramas in Black and White\ , From Uncle Tom to O. J. Simpson. Williams\, who views melodrama as typif ying \"popular American narrative . . . when it seeks to engage with moral questions\,\" notes that the \"moral legibility\" of actions within racia l melodramas depends upon the representation of victimized innocents who a cquire virtue through suffering\, a script intended to evoke the social co nsciences and emotions of readers (12\, 17).\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n Title page t o William Gilmore Simms's The Yemassee: A Romance of Carolina\, New York\, 1844. Published by Harper &\; Brothers. Image is in public domain.\n\n \n\n In Antoine's embedded narrative\, the master Alfred is depicted as a vain\, hideous and merciless villain and the slaves whom he exploits physi cally and emotionally—Laïsa\, Georges's mother\; Georges\, his unacknow ledged son\; and Zelia\, Georges's wife—all become lost innocents\, unne cessary victims of the white man. As Antoine begins to talk\, prefacing th e story\, it becomes clear that he can vent his discontent/ and outrage bl atantly and speak honestly to the authorial narrator\, even to the extent of adopting a cynically editorializing voice and using ideological discour se. In his encounter with this white man\, Antoine's effectiveness as a fu nctional mouthpiece and as a credible and reliable character is not dimini shed by such annoyances as dialect and and humiliatingly submissive behavi or in his encounter with this white man\, especially for today's readers w ho are knowledgeable of black portraiture in nineteenth-century American w hite-authored texts such as John Pendleton Kennedy's Swallow Barn (1832)\, William Gilmore Simms's The Yemassee (1835)\, and Joel Chandler Harris's Uncle Remus tales. Antoine preserves his dignity\, consequently escaping r eduction to a stereotype. After shaking hands with the white man\, who tre ats him with dignity\, Antoine receives a reaffirmation\, an invitation to voice his stark\, bitter recollections of the dehumanizing effects of sla very. Antoine's monologue begins with an undiluted tirade precipitated by his thoughts of the story he is about to tell of the ill-fated Georges and his master-father:\n\n\"But you know\, do you not\, that a negro's as vil e as a dog\; society rejects him\; men detest him\; the laws curse him. . . . Yes\, he's a most unhappy being\, who hasn't even the consolation of a lways being virtuous. . . . He may be born good\, noble\, and generous\; G od may grant him a great and loyal soul\; but despite all that\, he often goes to his grave with bloodstained hands\, and a heart hungering after ye t more vengeance. For how many times has seen the dreams of his youth dest royed? How many times has experience taught him that his good deeds count for nothing\, and that he should love neither his wife nor his son\; for o ne day the former will be seduced by the master\, and his own flesh and bl ood will be sold and transported away despite his despair. What\, then\, c an you expect him to become? Shall he smash his skull against the paving s tones? Shall he kill his torturer? Or do you believe the human heart can f ind a way to bear such misfortune?\"\n\"You'd have to be mad to believe th at\,\" he continued\, heatedly. \"If he continues to live it can only be f or vengeance\; for soon he shall rise. . . and\, from the day he shakes of f his servility\, the master would do better to have a starving tiger ragi ng beside him than to meet that man face to face.\" (354)\nAntoine's sober ing revelation foreshadows the story of Georges\, his mother\, his wife\, his master Alfred\, and his master's wife\, establishing a credible basis for the traumas both of slaves who have experienced the victimization and abuses of bondage\, and of white masters depraved by unchecked power.\n\nR estricted Space\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n American slave narratives\, largely publi shed after Séjour's story\, appealed to readers by emphasizing enslaved h umanity. These illustrations\, from Narrative of the Life and Adventures o f Henry Bibb\, an American Slave\, Written by Himself (1847)\, construct a portrait of slave emotion expressed within and constrained by a system of power and family separation similar to the system depicted by Séjour ear lier in \"The Mulatto\" (described above).\n\n\n\n Through Antoine\, Séjo ur interjects commentary that accentuates that his narrative's hortatory i ntent. In this way\, Séjour controls how he wants his dour tale to affect his readers. Georges is the product of a rape. His father is his white ma ster Alfred\, and his mother Laïsa is a young Senegalese woman whom Alfre d purchases at a slave auction for his personal sexual gratification. Anto ine emphasizes Laïsa's humanity\, a humanity often violated or repressed because of her own helplessness in the institution of slavery. As his prop erty\, Alfred exploits Laïsa sexually. She retains no control over her bo dy or her life's course. For example\, just after she has been purchased\, a tearful and frightened Laïsa unexpectedly encounters her brother Jacqu es Chambo from whom she had been separated and excitedly embraces him. The reunion of brother and sister\, both orphans\, and the sentiments connect ed with it are short lived when a cruel overseer lashes Jacques\, forceful ly separating him from Laïsa. Slaves evinced their humanity when they exh ibited genuine emotions before their white oppressors\, but white slavehol ders who regarded their slaves as commodities\, viewed such displays of fe eling as subversive—a form of rebellion. These emotional outbursts had t o be suppressed in order to force slaves to recognize their white-imposed\ , non-human status. Dysfunctional family relationships are representative of the place of fathers and mothers in slave societies. Both black slave w omen and men such as Séjour's Laïsa and Jacques become constructs of the white slave-holding patriarchy\, which\, in enslaving them\, Hortense J. Spillers notes\, \"sever[s] . . . the captive body from its motive will\, its active desire\" (67). In further addressing the effects on the slave's identity\, Spiller points out:\n\n1) the captive body becomes the source of an irresistible\, destructive sensuality\; 2) at the same time—\; in stunning contradiction —the captive body reduces to a thing\, becoming b eing for the captor\; 3) in this absence from a subject position\, the cap tured sexualities provide a physical and biological expression of \"othern ess\" \; 4) as a category of \"otherness\,\" the captive body translates i nto a potential for pornotroping and embodies sheer physical powerlessness that slides into a more general \"powerlessness\,\" resonating through va rious centers of human and social meaning. (67)\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n Blank Fam ily Record: Before the War and Since the War\, ca. 1880. Chromolithograph by Krebs Lithographing Company\, Cincinnati\, Ohio. Courtesy of the Librar y of Congress Prints and Photographs Division\, loc.gov/pictures/item/9172 1220.\n\n\n\n This lack of human acknowledgement is also seen in Georges\, Laïsa's son\, a mulatto who does not know who his father is and who cons equently feels a sense of emptiness. While Georges likes his master \"as m uch as one can like a man\,\" and his master \"esteem[s] him\, but with th at esteem that the horseman bears for the most handsome and vigorous of hi s chargers\" (357)\, their dynamic is a consequence of the black-white bin ary dictated by the systemic structure of slavery. As a result\, Georges e xperiences intense remorse\, the result of being denied the identity of hi s own father\, an identity his dying mother Laïsa refuses to disclose to him. After Laïsa's death\, Georges\, like his mother and her brother Jacq ues\, is\, in a figurative sense\, an orphan.\n\nAlthough Georges is serio usly wounded saving his master's life from would-be murderers\, Alfred tri es to seduce Georges's wife\, Zelia\, during his convalescence. She resist s Alfred's overtures\, refusing to compromise her virtue for her master. A s Antoine explains\, Alfred\, \"instead of being moved by this display of a virtue that is so rare among women\, above all among those who\, like Ze lia\, are slaves\, and who\, every day\, see their shameless companions pr ostitute themselves to the colonists\, thereby only feeding more licentiou sness\" (359)\, allows his lustful desires to govern his actions. Zelia re peatedly resists him—a testament of the strength of Zelia's humanity and of her love for her husband— and causes Alfred\, in his last desperate effort to seduce her\, to lose his balance\, striking his head as he falls . Tragically for Zelia\, colonial laws dictated that the slave must be bla med and executed for her master's injury.4\n\nZelia's action\, deemed rebe llious within the dictates of the system of slavery\, proves for the slave doubly devastating\, resulting in her death as well as the destruction of her family. Georges pleads persistently and passionately to Alfred to spa re his wife. When that fails\, Georges angrily condemns his master as a \" scoundrel\,\" even threatening his life if Zelia is executed. Alfred\, how ever\, remains adamant. He shows no mercy. Alfred's recalcitrance precipit ates his own murder and the murder of his wife at the hand of the vengeful Georges three years later. Only in the interval\, after securing his two- year-old son and running away from his master\, to a free space\, \"those thick forests that seem to hold the new world in their arms\" and living a mong the Maroons\, slaves\, who\, like Georges\, \"have fled the tyranny o f their masters\" (361)\, does Georges savor a semblance of what freedom m eans.\n\nIn Séjour's bleak story\, there are no winners\, for Georges als o kills himself\, since he apparently cannot live with the guilt and remor se. In avenging Zelia's death\, Georges has also killed his own father\, c ompleting the destruction of his family. The story's concluding scene is s trikingly symbolic. Georges severs his father's head with an ax just as Al fred tries to tell him that he is his father (364). The word \"father\" is severed\, broken in two\, a reminder that in a slave society normal pater nal connections could not exist with slave children. Georges's action resu lts in two children\, one mulatto (his son) and the other white (Alfred an d his wife's son)\, being orphaned. For both the slave boy and the free wh ite boy of \"The Mulatto\,\" family is destroyed. Yet Alfred's child\, by token of his race and class\, will likely reap the benefits from his disso lved family. As Hortense Spillers comments\, \"the vertical transfer of bl oodline\, of a patronymic\, of titles and entitlements\, of real estate an d the prerogatives of 'cold cash\,' from fathers to sons and in the suppos edly free exchange of affectional ties between a male and female of his ch oice—becomes the mythically revered privilege of a free and freed commun ity\" (74)\, of which the white child is beneficiary. Yet for the slave th is takes on a different\, constricted meaning: Georges and Zelia's orphan son will\, as long as he remains in bondage\, enjoy no privileges. Séjour conflates magistricide and patricide\, so that in killing his master and father\, Georges has killed part of himself. In terms of the rebellion-sub mission binary\, Georges's act of ultimate rebellion is equated to his ult imate self-submission as an enslaved man. In other words\, Georges's submi ssion is the result of the oppressive and destructive effect of his enslav ement on his mind and his spirit. For Georges\, submission and rebellion a s possibilities for manhood are inextricably linked\, if irreconcilable.\n \nWhile this situation\, perpetuated by the systemic structure of slavery\ , is dismal for Georges\, there exists a third alternative in Antoine\, th e narrator. Having lived for seventy-plus years\, Antoine has succumbed to neither magistricide nor suicide as a response to slavery\; instead\, he tells stories about slavery. These stories provide an outlet for voicing c ommentary as a counterpoint to the tragic outcome of Georges's master-slav e story. The narrator's stories also alert his white listener\, and Séjou r's readers\, to the destructive consequences of slavery.\n\nClotel's Rebe llion\n\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n William Wells Brown\, ca. 1852. Illustration by u nknown artist. Originally published in William Wells Brown's Three Years i n Europe (Charles Gilpin\, 1852). Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Image is in public domain.\n\n\n\n The submission-rebellion binary that Séjour emp loyed in \"The Mulatto\" illuminates one consequence of the racial double standard as exercised in the sexual violation of enslaved persons and its corrosive effect on family life. This binary also appears\, with some modi fications\, in subsequent African-American slave narratives and anti-slave ry novels of the antebellum period. Examples abound in literature of mixed -race women as victims of racialized sexual exploitation\, typically stemm ing from the systemic structure of slavery. One example is found in Willia m Wells Brown's novel Clotel\; or\, the President's Daughter (1853).\n\nIn Clotel\, the authorial narrator bitterly protests the separation of membe rs of a slave family. Clotel\, who is a quadroon and can pass for white\, is separated from her family\, her mother Currer and her sister Althesa\, and is sold at auction to a white man desiring her for his mistress. The n otion of family unity and cohesiveness is violated as each of these three female slaves is sent to different places under different sets of circumst ances. As in Laïsa's case\, the auctioneer promotes Clotel as a highly de sirable object\, emphasizing her beauty\, purity\, and nobility of charact er as her principal selling points\, traits making her marketable as a sex ual commodity.\n\nAs a slave\, Clotel\, like Laïsa and Georges's wife\, Z elia\, has no rights\, no choice regarding how she is treated\, where she will live\, or what will happen to her. Although her white master Horatio Green seems fond of Clotel\, making her his mistress\, and moving her to a n apparently idyllic space in Virginia\, and although the couple has a dau ghter during their relationship\, Green\, who marries a wealthy white woma n from a prominent family\, succumbs to his wife's jealousy and his father -in-law's demands that he sell Clotel. In placing his social and political aspirations above the love he may feel for Clotel\, Green acts expedientl y\, allowing his father-in-law to sell his slave mistress. Her sale forces her from her former refuge and separates her from her beloved daughter. C lotel's tenuous security continues to be threatened\, as she is sold two a dditional times. Her second new master attempts to seduce her with \"glitt ering presents\" and the likelihood of ensuing rape should she resist. Lik e Zelia in \"The Mulatto\,\" Clotel rebels against the space in which her humanity remains in jeopardy. Facing sexual exploitation\, Clotel flees. I n Chapter XIX\, Clotel's rebellion becomes a successful\, albeit momentary \, escape in which\, although ably impersonating a white invalid gentleman \, she gives in to her maternal instincts. She forgoes her autonomy by ret urning to Virginia\, intending to reunite with her daughter. Clotel has re turned to a space where she is regarded as property\, without control over how she will be used. While Clotel's escape—her rebellion against her m aster— has been skillfully executed\, she feels that she cannot live a l ife of freedom in a place removed from her dear daughter. Her rebellion\, if she continued to pursue her freedom\, then\, would become the equivalen t of her family's destruction.\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n \"The Death of Clotel.\" I llustration by unknown artist. Originally published in William Wells Brown 's Clotel\; or\, the President's Daughter (Partridge &\; Oakey\, 1853). Image is in public domain.\n\n\n\n Zelia succumbs to the systemic structu re of slavery that makes rebellion against the master the equivalent of se lf-immolation. In contrast\, Clotel temporarily escapes this fate by rejec ting her freedom and returning to Virginia in hopes of a mother and child reunion. Clotel risks re-enslavement\, a return to oppressive conditions i n place where\, if recaptured\, she will be forced back into bondage. Yet Clotel's actions do not bring about reunion. Recaptured and incarcerated i n the District of Columbia — the seat of national government symbolizing the liberties that slaves are denied — Clotel confronts her imminent sa le in the New Orleans market. There\, she will likely be sexually exploite d and never see her daughter again. Her rebellion suppressed\, Clotel esca pes once more\, but when faced with recapture\, chooses to jump to her dea th off a Potomac bridge.\n\nLocal Color\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n Top\, Joel Chandl er Harris\, ca. 1895. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Image is in public do main. Middle\, Charles Chesnutt\, 1898. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Ima ge is in public domain. Bottom\, Cover of Charles W. Chesnutt's The Conjur e Woman\, containing his collected Uncle Julius stories\, \"The Goophered Grapevine\,\" \"Po' Sandy\,\" \"The Conjurer's Revenge\,\" and \"Mars Jeem s's Nightmare\,\" 1899. Image is in public domain.\n\n\n\n Another variati on in fictional depictions of the effects of oppression on slaves emerged during the postbellum period\, the heyday of the local color story. Often\ , local color set in the Mid and Deep South employed a frame and an embedd ed narrative\, the latter recounted by an elderly African-American male an d former slave. In this raconteur\, we find a more restrictive binary patt ern than Séjour used in \"The Mulatto.\" Local color stories generally fo llow two patterns. Derived from stories slaves told\, they can be allegori cal beast fables\, treating power struggles and survival under an oppressi ve system comparable to slavery. These stories are predicated on an inequi table double standard\, with the power structure under the control of pred acious animals. Examples are the Uncle Remus stories of Joel Chandler Harr is. A second type presents a more direct rendering of slavery's brutalitie s and exploitation\, such as Charles Chesnutt's conjure stories as told by the loquacious Uncle Julius.\n\nChesnutt's \"The Goophered Grapevine\" (1 887) features a multi-dimensional and affable storyteller in Uncle Julius\ , who still resides in the same place where he had been a slave. Uncle Jul ius speaks in quaint and comical dialect\, creating an impression quite di fferent from Séjour's straightforward\, serious\, and outspoken Antoine. In the conciliatory\, non-controversial conventions of local color\, Chesn utt portrays Uncle Julius as polyvocal\, assuming competing poses and agen das. Julius is an entertainingly imaginative raconteur whose story involve s the supernatural\, folkloric\, amusing\, and outlandish descriptions. He is a cunning con artist and economic opportunist\, a simple primitive\, a nd a subdued social critic—contradictory postures reflecting amiability and rebelliousness. Like Séjour's Antoine\, Julius\, in telling his story of imagined spaces\, works within the binaries of rebellion and submissio n\, white and black\, domination and abjection. Through him\, Chesnutt dil utes and mellows the underlying serious social implications of Julius's em bedded tale\, establishing a comfort zone distancing the story's enslaved characters from implied readers. While Julius's story of Henry\, the victi mized slave\, does focus on a dehumanizing aspect of slavery (Henry is eco nomically exploited by his greedy master who commodifies him in his restri cted space as a slave)\, the manner in which Julius tells the story is div ertingly entertaining. Julius's narrative focuses principally on Henry's p redicament rather than on the slave's interior self. It neither engages th e sensibility nor arouses the moral consciousness of the frame narrator\, a man from Ohio seeking to purchase the former plantation to whom Julius r elates his story\, or that of the implied reader.\n\nChesnutt used the reb ellion-submission binary in several other conjure tales. In \"Po' Sandy\,\ " Julius's story gains him temporary use of the old schoolhouse\, a space for religious services. In \"The Conjurer's Revenge\,\" Julius gains power within his present space\, shrewdly employing a tale to circumvent his wh ite employer's buying a mule\, and to set up a scam where he purchases a d efective horse instead. In \"Mars Jeems's Nightmare\,\" Julius again makes a small gain\, winning his white female listener's sympathy so that she g ives his unreliable grandson a second chance to continue to work for her f amily. The outcomes of these tales exemplify Chesnutt's manipulation of fr ame plots\, creating opportunities within imagined spaces. Julius\, althou gh gaining some material advantage\, remains oppressed. Moreover\, the sub texts of his embedded narratives prove ineffectual in inciting understandi ng and empathy.\n\nConclusion\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n Victor Séjour\, the earlie st known author of fiction by an African-American\, ca. 1850. Illustration by Étienne Carjat. Originally published in weekly journal Le Diogène. I mage is in public domain.\n\n\n\n With its early publication date and its tragic portrait of slavery's atrocities and effects in the plantation spac e of the French West Indies\, Victor Séjour's \"The Mulatto\,\" is an imp ortant literary text. Séjour depicts African bondage in Saint-Domingue\, a subject that would become a major concern in nineteenth- and twentieth-c entury writing. At nineteen\, Séjour's parents sent him to Paris to furth er his education\, pursue broader opportunities\, and cultivate his talent s. Assimilated into French society and the Parisian literary culture and l iving without the race-based constraints of his native New Orleans\, Séjo ur passed the rest of his life in France\, distinguishing himself as a dra matist. In \"The Mulatto\,\" his only short story\, Séjour tapped into th e subject of African bondage\, possibly inspired by his father\, Juan Fran cois Louis Séjour Marcou's Haitian experience and that of other free men of color and former slaves from the French West Indies.\n\nIn \"The Mulatt o\,\" Séjour wrote of submission and rebellion in Saint-Domingue. He wrot e in the language of his newly-adopted country\, employed an embedded blac k slave narrator to recount the grim story-within-the-story\, and publishe d his fictional account in a Parisian anti-slavery journal sponsored by fr ee men of color like himself.\n\n\"The Mulatto\" anticipated renditions of grisly and melodramatic scripts featured in abolitionist narratives (auto biographical\, fictional\, or some combination of the two)\, but Séjour's story was all but unknown in the US before Philip Barnard's English trans lation appeared in 1995 in the Norton Anthology of American Literature. Th e new publication of \"The Mulatto\" places it amid African Diasporic\, po st-colonial\, US southern\, and New World Studies. These fields of scholar ship have encouraged the discovery and reappraisal of writers with origins in various locales\, but who\, like Séjour\, adopted new nationalities a nd loyalties even as they were forgotten in their native countries. This a nalysis of \"The Mulatto\" suggests the connections among African bondage texts that cross cultures and societies\, texts that expose the effects of slavery\, of submission and rebellion\, as they narrate this history. \n\ n\n\n \n\n\n\n Map of Saint Domingue (present day Haiti and the Dominican Republic)\, 1772. Map by Jean Lattre. Courtesy of the David Rumsey Histori cal Map Collection. Image is in public domain.\n\n\n\n About the Author:\n Ed Piacentino\, a professor of English at High Point University in North C arolina\, has published widely on the literature and culture of the Americ an South. His numerous essays and reviews appear in such journals as the S outhern Literary Journal\, Southern Quarterly\, Mississippi Quarterly\, Am erican Literature\, Southern Studies\, Studies in American Humor\, America n Quarterly\, and Studies in Short Fiction. Professor Piacentino has autho red or edited three books—T. S. Stribling: Pioneer Realist in Modern Sou thern Literature (1988)\; The Humor of the Old South\, which he co-edited with M. Thomas Inge\; and The Enduring Legacy of Old Southwest Humor (2006 ). He also serves as associate editor of Studies in American Humor. His cu rrent projects include an edition of the dialect letters of C. M. Haile\, antebellum journalist and humorist and an anthology of antebellum southern humor\, which he is co-editing with M. Thomas Inge.\n\nNote: The date of Philip Barnard's translation referenced in the conclusion of this essay wa s corrected from 1997 to 1995 and three resources were added to this essay 's \"Recommended Resources\" on November 26\, 2013. Media updated and two resources added to this essay's \"Recommended Resources\" on December 13\, 2016.\n\n\n\n  \n\n\n\n THE BOOK VARIANT\n\n\n\n \"The Mulatto\" by Vict or Séjour\n\n Courtesy of Philip Barnard\, translated 1995.\n\n\n\n Secti on I\nThe first rays of dawn were just beginning to light the black mounta intops when I left the Cape for Saint-Marc\, a small town in St. Domingue\ , now known as Haiti. I had seen so many exquisite landscapes and thick\, tall forests that\, truth to tell\, I had begun to believe myself indiffer ent to these virile beauties of creation. But at the sight of this town\, with its picturesque vegetation\, its bizarre and novel nature\, I was stu nned\; I stood dumb-struck before the sublime diversity of God's works. Th e moment I arrived\, I was accosted by an old negro\, at least seventy yea rs of age\; his step was firm\, his head held high\, his form imposing and vigorous\; save the remarkable whiteness of his curly hair\, nothing betr ayed his age. As is common in that country\, he wore a large straw hat and was dressed in trousers of coarse gray linen\, with a kind of jacket made from plain batiste.\n\n\"Good day\, Master\,\" he said\, tipping his hat when he saw me.\n\n\"Ah! There you are . . .\,\" and I offered him my hand \, which he shook in return.\n\n\"Master\,\" he said\, \"that's quite nobl e-hearted of you . . . . But you know\, do you not\, that a negro's as vil e as a dog\; society rejects him\; men detest him\; the laws curse him. . . . Yes\, he's a most unhappy being\, who hasn't even the consolation of a lways being virtuous. . . . He may be born good\, noble\, and generous\; G od may grant him a great and loyal soul\; but despite all that\, he often goes to his grave with bloodstained hands\, and a heart hungering after ye t more vengeance. For how many times has he seen the dreams of his youth d estroyed? How many times has experience taught him that his good deeds cou nt for nothing\, and that he should love neither his wife nor his son\; fo r one day the former will be seduced by the master\, and his own flesh and blood will be sold and transported away despite his despair. What\, then\ , can you expect him to become? Shall he smash his skull against the pavin g stones? Shall he kill his torturer? Or do you believe the human heart ca n find a way to bear such misfortune?\"\n\nThe old negro fell silent a mom ent\, as if awaiting my response.\n\n\"You'd have to be mad to believe tha t\,\" he continued\, heatedly. \"If he continues to live\, it can only be for vengeance\; for soon he shall rise . . . and\, from the day he shakes off his servility\, the master would do better to have a starving tiger ra ging beside him than to meet that man face to face.\" While the old man sp oke\, his face lit up\, his eyes sparkled\, and his heart pounded forceful ly. I would not have believed one could discover that much life and power beneath such an aged exterior. Taking advantage of this moment of exciteme nt\, I said to him: \"Antoine\, you promised you'd tell me the story of yo ur friend Georges.\"\n\n\"Do you want to hear it now?\"\n\n\"Certainly . . .\" We sat down\, he on my trunk\, myself on my valise. Here is what he t old me:\n\n\"Do you see this edifice that rises so graciously toward the s ky and whose reflection seems to rise from the sea\; this edifice that in its peculiarity resembles a temple and in its pretense a palace? This is t he house of Saint-M*** . Each day\, in one of this building's rooms\, one finds an assemblage of hangers-on\, men of independent means\, and the gre at plantation owners. The first two groups play billiards or smoke the del icious cigars of Havana\, while the third purchases negroes\; that is\, fr ee men who have been torn from their country by ruse or by force\, and who have become\, by violence\, the goods\, the property of their fellow men. . . . Over here we have the husband without the wife\; there\, the sister without the brother\; farther on\, the mother without the children. This makes you shudder? Yet this loathsome commerce goes on continuously. Soon\ , in any case\, the offering is a young Senegalese woman\, so beautiful th at from every mouth leaps the exclamation: 'How pretty!' Everyone there wa nts her for his mistress\, but not one of them dares dispute the prize wit h the young Alfred\, now twenty-one years old and one of the richest plant ers in the country.\n\n\"'How much do you want for this woman?'\n\n\"'Fift een hundred piasters\,' replied the auctioneer.\n\n\"'Fifteen hundred pias ters\,' Alfred rejoined dryly.\n\n\"'Yes indeed\, Sir.'\n\n\"'That's your price?'\n\n\"'That's my price.'\n\n\"'That's awfully expensive.'\n\n\"'Exp ensive?' replied the auctioneer\, with an air of surprise. 'But surely you see how pretty she is\; how clear her skin is\, how firm her flesh is. Sh e's eighteen years old at the most. . . .' Even as he spoke\, he ran his s hameless hands all over the ample and half-naked form of the beautiful Afr ican.\n\n\"'Is she guaranteed?' asked Alfred\, after a moment of reflectio n.\n\n\"'As pure as the morning dew\,' the auctioneer responded. But\, for that matter\, you yourself can. . . .'\n\n\"'No no\, there's no need\,' s aid Alfred\, interrupting him. 'I trust you.'\n\n\"'I've never sold a sing le piece of bad merchandise\,' replied the vendor\, twirling his whiskers with a triumphant air. When the bill of sale had been signed and all forma lities resolved\, the auctioneer approached the young slave.\n\nThis man i s now your master\,' he said\, pointing toward Alfred.\n\n\"'I know it\,' the negress answered coldly.\n\n\"'Are you content?'\n\n\"'What does it ma tter to me…him or some other . . .'\n\n\"'But surely.. ..' stammered the auctioneer\, searching for some answer. \" 'But surely what?' said the Af rican\, with some humor. 'And if he doesn't suit me?'\n\n\"'My word\, that would be unfortunate\, for everything is finished. . . .'\n\n\"'Well then \, I'll keep my thoughts to myself.'\n\n\"Ten minutes later\, Alfred's new slave stepped into a carriage that set off along the chemin des quepes\, a well-made road that leads out into those delicious fields that surround Saint-Marc like young virgins at the foot of the altar. A somber melanchol y enveloped her soul\, and she began to weep. The driver understood only t oo well what was going on inside her\, and thus made no attempt to distrac t her. But when he saw Alfred's white house appear in the distance\, he in voluntarily leaned down toward the unfortunate girl and\, with a voice ful l of tears\, said to her: 'Sister\, what's your name?'\n\n\"'Laïsa\, ' sh e answered\, without raising her head.\n\n\"At the sound of this name\, th e driver shivered. Then\, gaining control of his emotions\, he asked: 'You r mother?'\n\n\"'She's dead. . . .'\n\n\"'Your father?'\n\n\"'He's dead. . . .'\n\n\"'Poor child\,' he murmured. 'What country are you from\, Laïsa ?'\n\n\"'From Senegal. . . .'\n\n\"Tears rose in his eyes\; she was a fell ow countrywoman.\n\n\"'Sister\,' he said\, wiping his eyes\, 'perhaps you know old Chambo and his daughter. . . .'\n\n\"'Why?' answered the girl\, r aising her head quickly.\n\n\"'Why?' continued the driver\, in obvious dis comfort\, 'well\, old Chambo is my father\, and . . . '\n\n\"'My God\,' cr ied out the orphan\, cutting off the driver before he could finish. 'You a re?'\n\n\"'Jacques Chambo.'\n\n\"'You're my brother!'\n\n \"Laïsa!'\n\n\" They threw themselves into each other's arms. They were still embracing wh en the carriage passed through the main entrance to Alfred's property. The overseer was waiting. . . . 'What's this I see\,' he shouted\, uncoiling an immense whip that he always carried on his belt\; 'Jacques kissing the new arrival before my very eyes. . What impertinence!' With this\, lashes began to fall on the unhappy man\, and spurts of blood leaped from his fac e. \"\n\nSection II\n\"Alfred may have been a decent man\, humane and loya l with his equals\; but you can be certain he was a hard\, cruel man towar d his slaves. I won't tell you everything he did in order to possess Laïs a\; for in the end she was virtually raped. For almost a year\, she shared her master's bed. But Alfred was already beginning to tire of her\; he fo und her ugly\, cold\, and insolent. About this time the poor woman gave bi rth to a boy and gave him the name Georges. Alfred refused to recognize hi m\, drove the mother from his presence\, and relegated her to the most mis erable hut on his lands\, despite the fact that he knew very well\, as wel l as one can\, that he was the child's father.\n\n\"'Georges grew up witho ut ever hearing the name of his father\; and when\, at times\, he attempte d to penetrate the mystery surrounding his birth\, his mother remained inf lexible\, never yielding to his entreaties. On one occasion only\, she sai d to him: 'My son\, you shall learn your name only when you reach twenty-f ive\, for then you will be a man\; you will be better able to guard its se cret. You don't realize that he has forbidden me to speak to you about him and threatens you if I do. . . . And Georges\, don't you see\, this man's hatred would be your death.'\n\n\"'What does that matter\,' Georges shout ed impetuously. 'At least I could reproach him for his unspeakable conduct .'\n\n\"'Hush. . . . Hush\, Georges. The walls have ears and someone will talk\,' moaned the poor mother as she trembled.\"\n\nA few years later thi s unhappy woman died\, leaving to Georges\, her only son\, as his entire i nheritance\, a small leather pouch containing a portrait of the boy's fath er. But she exacted a promise that the pouch not be opened until his twent y-fifth year\; then she kissed him\, and her head fell back onto the pillo w. . . . She was dead. The painful cries that escaped the orphan drew the other slaves around him. . . . They all set to crying\, they beat their ch ests\, they tore their hair in agony. Following these gestures of sufferin g\, they bathed the dead woman's body and laid it out on a kind of long ta ble\, raised on wooden supports. The dead woman is placed on her back\, he r face turned to the East\, dressed in her finest clothing\, with her hand s folded on her chest. At her feet is a bowl filled with holy water\, in w hich a sprig of jasmine is floating\; arid\, finally\, at the four corners of this funereal bed\, the flames of torches rise up. . . . Each of them\ , having blessed the remains of the deceased\, kneels and prays\; for most of the negro races\, despite their fetishism\, have profound faith in the existence of God. When this first ceremony is finished\, another one\, no less singular\, commences. . . . There are shouts\, tears\, songs\, and t hen funeral dances!\"\n\nSection III\n\"Georges had all the talents necess ary for becoming a well-regarded gentleman\; yet he was possessed of a hau ghty\, tenacious\, willful nature\; he had one of those oriental sorts of dispositions\, the kind that\, once pushed far enough from the path of vir tue\, will stride boldly down the path of crime. He would have given ten y ears of his life to know the name of his father\, but he dared not violate the solemn oath he had made to his dying mother. It was as if nature push ed him toward Alfred\; he liked him\, as much as one can like a man\; and Alfred esteemed him\, but with that esteem that the horseman bears for the most handsome and vigorous of his chargers. In those days\, a band of thi eves was spreading desolation through the region\; already several of the settlers had fallen victim to them. One night\, by what chance I know not\ , Georges learned of their plans. They had sworn to murder Alfred. The sla ve ran immediately to his master's side.\n\n\"'Master\, master\,' he shout ed. . . . 'In heaven's name\, follow me.' \"Alfred raised his eyebrows.\n\ "'Please! come\, come\, master\,' the mulatto insisted passionately. \" 'G ood God\,' Alfred replied\, 'I believe you're commanding me.'\n\n\"'Forgiv e me\, master . . . forgive me . . . I'm beside myself . . . I don't know what I'm saying . . . but in heaven's name\, come\, follow me\, because. . . .'\n\n\"'Explain yourself\,' said Alfred\, in an angry tone. . . .\n\n\ "The mulatto hesitated.\n\n\"'At once\; I order you\,' continued Alfred\, as he rose menacingly. \"'Master\, you're to be murdered tonight.'\n\n\"'B y the Virgin\, you're lying. . . .'\n\n\"'Master\, they mean to take your life.'\n\n\"'Who?'\n\n\"'The bandits.'\n\n\"'Who told you this?'\n\n\"'Mas ter\, that's my secret. . . .' said the mulatto in a submissive voice.\n\n \"'Do you have weapons?' rejoined Alfred\, after a moment of silence.\n\n\ "The mulatto pulled back a few of the rags that covered him\, revealing an axe and a pair of pistols.\n\n\"'Good\,' said Alfred\, hastily arming him self.\n\n\"'Master\, are you ready?'\n\n\"'Let's go. . . .'\n\n\"'Let's go \,' repeated the mulatto as he stepped toward the door. \"Alfred held him back by the arm.\n\n\"'But where to?'\n\n\"'To your closest friend\, Monsi eur Arthur.'\n\n\"As they were about to leave the room\, there was a feroc ious pounding at the door.\n\n\"'The devil\,' exclaimed the mulatto\, 'it' s too late. . . .'\n\n\"'What say you?'\n\n\"'They're here\,' replied Geor ges\, pointing at the door. . . .\n\n\"'Master\, what's wrong?'\n\n\"'Noth ing . .. a sudden pain. . . .'\n\n\"'Don't worry\, master\, they'll have t o walk over my body before they get to you\,' said the slave with a calm a nd resigned air.\n\n\"This calm\, this noble devotion\, were calculated to reassure the most cowardly of men. Yet at these last words\, Alfred tremb led even more\, overwhelmed by a horrible thought. He reckoned that George s\, despite his generosity\, was an accomplice of the murderers. Such is t he tyrant: he believes all other men incapable of elevated sentiments or s elfless dedication\, for they must be small-minded\, perfidious souls . . . . Their souls are but uncultivated ground\, where nothing grows but thor ns and weeds. The door shook violently. At this point\, Alfred could no lo nger control his fears\; he had just seen the mulatto smiling\, whether fr om joy or anger he knew not.\n\n\"'Scoundrel!' he shouted\, dashing into t he next room\; 'you're trying to have me murdered\, but your plot will fai l'—upon which he disappeared. Georges bit his lips in rage\, but had no time to think\, for the door flew open and four men stood in the threshold . Like a flash of lightning\, the mulatto drew his pistols and pressed his back to the wall\, crying out in a deep voice:\n\n\"'Wretches! What do yo u want?'\n\n\"'We want to have a talk with you\,' rejoined one of them\, f iring a bullet at Georges from point-blank range.\n\n\"'A fine shot\,' mut tered Georges\, shaking.\n\n\"The bullet had broken his left arm. Georges let off a shot. The brigand whirled three times about and fell stone dead. A second followed instantly. At this point\, like a furious lion tormente d by hunters\, Georges\, with his axe in his fist and his dagger in his te eth\, threw himself upon his adversaries. . . . A hideous struggle ensues. . . . The combatants grapple . . . collide again. . . . they seem bound t ogether. . . . The axe blade glistens. . . . The dagger\, faithful to the hand that guides it\, works its way into the enemy's breast. . . . But nev er a shout\, not a word . . . not a whisper escapes the mouths of these th ree men\, wallowing among the cadavers as if at the heart of some intoxica ting orgy. . . . To see them thus\, pale and blood-spattered\, silent and full of desperation\, one must imagine three phantoms throwing themselves against each other\, tearing themselves to pieces\, in the depths of a gra ve. . . . Meanwhile\, Georges is covered with wounds\; he can barely hold himself up. . . . Oh! the intrepid mulatto has reached his end\; the sever ing axe is lifted above his head... . Suddenly two explosions are heard\, and the two brigands slump to the floor\, blaspheming God as they drop. At the same moment\, Alfred returns\, followed by a young negro. He has the wounded man carried to his hut\, and instructs his doctor to attend to him . Now\, how is it that Georges was saved by the same man who had just accu sed him of treachery? As he ran off\, Alfred heard the sound of a gun\, an d the clash of steel\; blushing at his own cowardice\, he awoke his valet de chambre and flew to the aid of his liberator. Ah\, I've forgotten to te ll you that Georges had a wife\, by the name Zelia\, whom he loved with ev ery fiber of his being\; she was a mulatto about eighteen or twenty years old\, standing very straight and tall\, with black hair and a gaze full of tenderness and love. Georges lay for twelve days somewhere between life a nd death. Alfred visited him often\; and\, driven on by some fateful chanc e\, he became enamored of Zelia. But\, unfortunately for him\, she was not one of these women who sell their favors or use them to pay tribute to th eir master. She repelled Alfred's propositions with humble dignity\; for s he never forgot that this was a master speaking to a slave. Instead of bei ng moved by this display of a virtue that is so rare among women\, above a ll among those who\, like Zelia\, are slaves\, and who\, every day\, see t heir shameless companions prostitute themselves to the colonists\, thereby only feeding more licentiousness\; instead of being moved\, as I said\, A lfred flew into a rage. . What!—him\, the despot\, the Bey\, the Sultan of the Antilles\, being spurned by a slave . . . how ironic! Thus he swore he would possess her. . . . A few days before Georges was recovered\, Alf red summoned Zelia to his chamber. Then\, attending to nothing but his cri minal desires\, he threw his arms around her and planted a burning kiss on her face. The young slave begged\, pleaded\, resisted\; but all in vain. . . . Already he draws her toward the adulterous bed\; already. . . . Then \, the young slave\, filled with a noble indignation\, repulses him with o ne final effort\, but one so sudden\, so powerful\, that Alfred lost his b alance and struck his head as he fell. . . . At this sight\, Zelia began t o tear her hair in despair\, crying tears of rage\; for she understood per fectly\, the unhappy girl\, that death was her fate for having drawn the b lood of a being so vile. After crying for some time\, she left to be at he r husband's side. He must have been dreaming about her\, for there was a s mile on his lips.\n\n\"'Georges . . . Georges. . . .' she cried out in ago ny.\n\n\"The mulatto opened his eyes\; and his first impulse was to smile at the sight of his beloved. Zelia recounted for him everything that had h appened. He didn't want to believe it\, but soon he was convinced of his m isfortune\; for some men entered his hut and tied up his wife while she st ood sobbing. . . . Georges made an effort to rise up\; but\, still weakene d\, he fell back onto his bed\, his eyes haggard\, his hands clenched\, hi s mouth gasping for air.\"\n\nSection IV\n\"Ten days later\, two white cre ole children were playing in the street.\n\n\"'Charles\, 'one said to the other: 'is it true that the mulatto woman who wanted to kill her master is to be hung tomorrow?'\n\n\"'At eight o'clock\,' answered the other.\n\n\" 'Will you go?'\n\n\"'Oh yes\, certainly.'\n\n\"'Won't that be fine\, to se e her pirouetting between the earth and the sky\,' rejoined the first\, la ughing as they walked off.\n\n\"Does it surprise you to hear two children\ , at ten years of age\, conversing so gayly on the death of another? This is\, perhaps\, an inevitable consequence of their education. From their ea rliest days\, they have heard it ceaselessly repeated\, that we were born to serve them\, that we were created to attend to their whims\, and that t hey need have no more or less consideration for us than for a dog. . . . I ndeed\, what is our agony and suffering to them? Have they not\, just as o ften\, seen their best horses die? They don't weep for them\, for they're rich\, and tomorrow they'll buy others.. . . While these two children were speaking\, Georges was at the feet of his master.\n\n\"'Master\, have mer cy . . . mercy. . . .' he cried out\,. weeping. . . . 'Have pity on her . . Master\, pardon her. . . . Oh! yes\, pardon her\, it is in your power . . . oh! speak ... you have only to say the word . . . just one word . . . and she will live.'\n\n\"Alfred made no answer.\n\n\"'Oh! for pity's sake . . . master . . . for pity's sake\, tell me you pardon her . . . oh! spea k . . . answer me\, master . . . won't you pardon her. . . .' The unhappy man was bent double with pain. . . .\n\n\"Alfred remained impassive\, turn ing his head aside. . .\n\n\"'Oh!' continued Georges\, begging\, 'please a nswer . . . just one word . . . please say something\; you see how your si lence is tearing my heart in two . . . it's killing me . . .\n\n\"'There's nothing I can do\,' Alfred finally answered\, in an icy tone.\n\n\"The mu latto dried his tears\, and raised himself to his full height.\n\n\"'Maste r\,' he continued in a hollow voice\, 'do you remember what you said to me \, as I lay twisting in agony on my bed?'\n\n\"'No. . . .'\n\n\"'Well! I c an remember . . . the master said to the slave: you saved my life\; what c an I grant you in return? Do you want your freedom? 'Master\,' answered th e slave\, 'I can never be free\, while my son and my wife are slaves.' To which the master replied: 'If ever you ask me\, I swear that your wishes s hall be granted'\; and the slave did not ask\, for he was content/ that he had saved his master's life . . . but today\, today when he knows that\, in eighteen hours\, his wife will no longer be among the living\, he flies to throw himself at your feet\, and to call out to you: master\, in God's name\, save my wife.' And the mulatto\, his hands clasped\, with a suppli cating gaze\, fell to his knees and began to cry\, his tears falling like rain. . . .\n\n\"Alfred turned his head away. . . .\n\n\" 'Master . . . ma ster . . . for pity\, give me an answer. . . . Oh! say that you want her t o live . . . in God's name . . . in your mother's name . . . mercy . . . h ave mercy upon us. . . .' and the mulatto kissed the dust at his feet.\n\n \"Alfred stood silent.\n\n\"'But speak\, at least\, to this poor man who b egs you\,' he said\, sobbing. \"Alfred said nothing.\n\n\"'My God . . . my God! how miserable I am . . .' and he rolled on the floor\, pulling at hi s hair in torment.\n\n\"Finally\, Alfred decided to speak: 'I have already told you that it is no longer up to me to pardon her.'\n\n\"'Master\,' mu rmured Georges\, still crying\, 'she will probably be condemned\; for only you and I know that she is innocent.'\n\n\"At these words from the mulatt o\, the blood rose to Alfred's face\, and fury to his heart. . . .\n\n\"Ge orges understood that it was no longer time to beg\, for he had raised the veil that covered his master's crime\; thus he stood up resolutely.\n\n\" 'Leave . . . get out\,' Alfred shouted at him.\n\n\"Instead of leaving\, t he mulatto crossed his arms on his chest and\, with a fierce look\, eyed h is master scornfully from head to foot.\n\n\"'Get out! get out\, I say\,' continued Alfred\, more and more angrily.\n\n\"'I'm not leaving\,' answere d Georges.\n\n\"'This is defiance\, you wretch.' He made a motion to strik e him\, but his hand remained at his side\, so full of pride and hatred wa s George's gaze.\n\n\"'What! you can leave her to be killed\, to have her throat cut\, to be murdered\,' said the mulatto\, 'when you know her to be innocent . . . when\, like a coward\, you wanted to seduce her?'\n\n\"'In solent! What are you saying?'\n\n\"'I'm saying that it would be an infamou s deed to let her die. . . .\n\n\"'Georges . . . Georges. . .\n\n\"'I am s aying that you're a scoundrel\,' screamed Georges\, giving full rein to hi s anger\, and seizing Alfred by the arm . . . 'ah! she'll die . . . she wi ll die because she didn't prostitute herself to you . . . because you're w hite ... because you're her master . . . you lying coward.'\n\n\"'Careful\ , Georges\,' replied Alfred\, trying to take a tone of assurance. `Be care ful that instead of one victim tomorrow\, the executioner does not find tw o.'\n\n\"'You talk of victim and executioner\, wretch\,' shouted Georges. . . . 'So that means she dies . . . her . . . my Zelia ... but you should know that her life is linked to your own.'\n\n\"'Georges!'\n\n\"'You shoul d know that your head will remain on your shoulders only so long as she li ves.'\n\n\"'Georges. . . Georges!'\n\n\"'You should know that I will kill you\, that I'll drink your blood\, if even a hair on her head is harmed.'\ n\n\"During all this time\, the mulatto was shaking Alfred with all his st rength.\n\n\"'Let me go\,' cried Alfred.\n\n\"'Ah! she's dying . . . she's dying' . . . the mulatto screamed deliriously. \" 'Georges\, let me go!'\ n\n\"'Shut your mouth . . . shut it\, you scoundrel . . . ah! she's dying . . . well then\, should the executioner put an end to my wife . . .' he c ontinued with a hideous smile.\n\n\"Alfred was so agitated he didn't even know that Georges had left. He went directly to his hut\, where his child of two years was sleeping in a light cradle made from lianas\; taking up t he child\, he slipped away. In order to understand what follows\, you must know that there was only a small river to cross from Alfred's home before one arrives in the midst of those thick forests that seem to hold the new world in their arms.\n\n\"For six long hours\, Georges walked without a r est\; at last he stopped\, a few steps from a hut built in the deepest hea rt of the forest\; you'll understand the joy that shone in his eyes when y ou realize that this tiny hut\, isolated as it is\, is the camp of the Mar oons\; that is\, of slaves who have fled the tyranny of their masters. At this moment the hut was filled with murmurs\; for a rustling had been hear d in the forest\, and the leader\, swearing that the noise was not that of any animal\, had taken his rifle and gone out. . . . Suddenly the underbr ush parted before him and he found himself face to face with a stranger.\n \n\"'By my freedom\,' he cried\, looking over the newcomer\, 'you found ou r recess all too easily.'\n\n\"'Africa and freedom\,' Georges replied calm ly\, as he pushed aside the barrel of the rifle. . . . I'm one of you.'\n\ n\"'Your name.'\n\n\"'Georges\, slave of Alfred.'\n\n\"They shook hands an d embraced.\n\n\"The next day the crowd clamored round a scaffold\, from w hich hung the body of a young mulatto woman. . . . When she had expired\, the executioner let her corpse down into a pine coffin and\, ten minutes l ater\, body and coffin were thrown into a ditch that was opened at the edg e of the forest.\n\n\"Thus this woman\, for having been too virtuous\, die d the kind of death meted out to the vilest criminal. Would this alone not suffice to render the gentlest of men dangerous and bloodthirsty?\"\n\nSe ction V\n\"Three years had passed since the death of the virtuous Zelia. F or a time\, Alfred was in extreme torment\; by day\, he seemed to see a ve ngeful hand descending toward his head\; he trembled at night because the darkness brought him hideous\, frightful dreams. Soon\, however\, he banis hed from his thoughts both the painful memory of the martyr and the terrib le threat Georges had made\; he married and became a father. . . . Oh! how gratified he felt\, when he was told that his prayers were answered\, he who had humbly kissed the church floor each evening\, beseeching the Virgi n of Sorrows to grant him a son.\n\n\"For Georges also\, there was happine ss in this child's arrival. For if he had hoped for three years without at tempting to strike back at his wife's executioner\; if he had lain sleeple ss so many nights\, with fury in his heart and a hand on his dagger\, it w as because he was waiting for Alfred to find himself\, like Georges\, with a wife and a son. It was because he wished to kill him only when dear and precious bonds linked him to this world. . . . Georges had always maintai ned close ties with one of Alfred's slaves\; indeed\, he visited him each week\; and that slave had never given Georges any news more important than that of the newborn's arrival. . . . He immediately set out for the house of his enemy. On his way he met a negress who was bringing a cup of broth to Madame Alfred\; he stopped her\, exchanged a few insignificant words\, and went on. . . . After many difficulties\, he managed to slip his way\, like a snake\, into Alfred's rooms\; once there\, hidden in the space bet ween the bed and the wall\, he awaited his master. . . . A moment later\, Alfred entered the room\, humming a tune\; he opened his secretary and too k out a superb jewel box\, set with diamonds\, that he had promised his wi fe\, should she give him a son\; but\, filled with joy and happiness\, he sat down and put his head between his hands\, like a man who can't believe his unexpected good fortune. Then\, on raising his head\, he saw before h im a kind of motionless shadow\, with arms crossed on its breast and two b urning eyes that possessed all the ferocity of a tiger preparing to tear i ts prey to pieces. Alfred made a motion to stand\, but a powerful arm held him down in his chair.\n\n\"'What do you want with me\,' Alfred whispered \, in a trembling voice. \"'To compliment you on the birth of your child\, ' answered a voice that seemed to emerge from the tomb.\n\n\"Alfred shook from head to toe\, his hair stood on end\, and a cold sweat poured over hi s limbs.\n\n\"'I don't know you\,' Alfred muttered weakly. . . .\n\n\"'Geo rges is the name.'\n\n\"'You. . .\n\n\"'You thought I was dead\, I suppose \,' said the mulatto with a convulsive laugh.\n\n\"'Help . . . help\,' cri ed Alfred.\n\n\"'Who will help you\,' rejoined the mulatto . . . haven't y ou dismissed your servants\, haven't you closed your doors\, to be alone w ith your wife . . . so you see\, your cries are useless . . . you should c ommend your soul to God.'\n\n\"Alfred had begun to rise from his chair\, b ut at these last words he fell back\, pale and trembling.\n\n\"'Oh! have p ity\, Georges ... don't kill me\, not today.'\n\n\"Georges shrugged his sh oulders. 'Master\, isn't it horrible to die when you're happy\; to lie dow n in the grave at the moment you see your fondest dreams coming true . . . oh! it's horrible\, isn't it\,' said the mulatto with an infernal laugh. . . .\n\n\"'Mercy\, Georges. . .\n\n\"'And yet\,' he continued\, 'such is your destiny . . . you shall die today\, this hour\, this minute\, without giving your wife your last farewell. . . \" 'Have pity . . . pity. . .'\n \n\"'Without kissing your newborn son a second time. . .\n\n\"'Oh! mercy . . . mercy.'\n\n\"'I think my vengeance is worthy of your own . . . I woul d have sold my soul to the Devil\, had he promised me this moment.'\n\n\"' Oh! mercy . . . please take pity on me\,' said Alfred\, throwing himself a t the feet of the mulatto.\n\n\"Georges shrugged his shoulders and raised his axe.\n\n\"'Oh! one more hour of life!'\n\n\"'To embrace your wife\, is that it?'\n\n\"'One minute. . . .'\n\n\"'To see your son again\, right?'\ n\n\"'Oh! have pity. . . .'\n\n\"'You might as well plead with the starvin g tiger to let go his prey.'\n\n\"'In God's name\, Georges.'\n\n\"'I don't believe in that any longer.'\n\n\"'In the name of your father. . . .'\n\n \"At this\, Georges's fury subsided.\n\n\"'My father . . . my father\,' re peated the mulatto\, tears in his eyes. `Do you know him . . . oh! tell me his name. . . . What's his name . . . oh! tell me\, tell me his name . . . I'll pardon you . . . I'll bless you.'\n\n\"And the mulatto nearly fell on his knees before his master. But suddenly\, sharp cries were heard. . . \n\n\"'Good heavens ... that's my wife's voice\,' cried Alfred\, dashing t oward the sounds. . . .\n\n\"As if he were coming back to his senses\, the mulatto remembered that he had come to the house of his master\, not to l earn the name of his father\, but to settle accounts with him for his wife 's blood. Holding Alfred back\, he told him with a hideous grin: 'Hold on\ , master\; it's nothing.'\n\n\"'Jesus and Mary ... don't you hear her call ing for help.'\n\n\"'It's nothing\, I tell you.'\n\n\"'Let me go . . . let me go . . . it's my wife's voice.'\n\n\"'No\, it's the gasps of a dying w oman.'\n\n\"'Wretch\, you're lying. . . .'\n\n\"'I poisoned her. . . .'\n\ n\"'Oh!'\n\n\"'Do you hear those cries . . . they're hers.'\n\n\"'The Devi l. . . .'\n\n\"'Do you hear those screams . . . they're hers.'\n\n\"'A cur se. . . .'\n\n\"During all this time\, Alfred had been trying to shake fre e of the mulatto's grip\; but he held him fast\, tighter and tighter. As h e did\, his head rose higher\, his heart beat fiercely\, he steadied himse lf for his awful task.\n\n\"'Alfred . . . help . . . water . . . I'm suffo cating\,' shouted a woman\, as she threw herself into the middle of the ro om. She was pale and disheveled\, her eyes were starting out of her head\, her hair was in wild disarray.\n\n\"'Alfred\, Alfred . . . for heaven's s ake\, help me . . . some water . . . I need water . . . my blood is boilin g . . . my heart is twitching . . . oh! water\, water. . .'\n\n\"Alfred st ruggled mightily to help her\, but Georges held him fast with an iron hand . Laughing like one of the damned\, he cried out: 'No\, master . . . I'm a fraid not . . . I want your wife to die ... right there. . . before your e yes . . . right in front of you . . . do you understand\, master\; right i n front of you\, asking you for water\, for air\, while you can do nothing to help her.'\n\n\"'Damnation . . . may you be damned\,' howled Alfred\, as he struggled like a madman.\n\n\"'You can curse and blaspheme all you w ant\,' answered the mulatto . . . 'this is the way it's going to be. . .'\ n\n\"'Alfred\,' the dying woman moaned again\, 'good-bye . . . good-bye . I'm dying. . .\n\n\"'Look well\,' responded the mulatto\, still laughing. . . . 'Look . . . she's gasping . . . goodness! a single drop of this wate r would restore her to life.' He showed him a small vial.\n\n\"'My entire fortune for that drop of water. . . .' cried Alfred.\n\n\"'Have you gone m ad\, master. . .'\n\n\"'Ah! that water . . . that water . . . don't you se e she's dying . . . give it to me . . . please give it to me. . .'\n\n\"'H ere . . .' and the mulatto flung the vial against the wall.\n\n\"'Accursed \,' screamed Alfred\, seizing Georges by the neck. 'Oh! my entire life\, m y soul\, for a dagger. . .'\n\n\"Georges released Alfred's hands.\n\n\"'No w that she's dead\, it's your turn\, master\,' he said as he lifted his ax e.\n\n\"'Strike\, executioner . . . strike . . . after poisoning her\, you might as well kill your own fa—.' The ax fell\, and Alfred's head rolle d across the floor\, but\, as it rolled\, the head distinctly pronounced t he final syllable\, '-ther . . . ' Georges at first believed he had mishea rd\, but the word father\, like a funeral knell\, rang in his ears. To be certain\, he opened the fateful pouch. . . . 'Ah!' he cried out\, 'I'm cur sed. . . .' An explosion was heard\; and the next day\, near the corpse of Alfred\, was discovered the corpse of the unhappy Georges. . . .\"\n\n183 7\n\n\n\n  \n\n\n\n BIBLIOGRAPHY- recommended resources\n\n\n\n Text\nBon ner\, Thomas. \"Victor Séjour (Juan Victor Séjour Marcou et Ferrand).\" In Afro-American Writers Before the Harlem Renaissance\, edited by Trudier Harris and Thadious M. Davis\, 237–241. Detroit: Gale\, 1986. (Dictiona ry of Literary Biography\, vol. 50)\n\nBrickhouse\, Anna. Transamerican Li terary Relations and the Nineteenth-Century Public Sphere. 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