It would be a
long time.

I had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried.
His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect
confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not
shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining
the money, for it was _money_ I expected him to bring. He had hinted as
much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in
time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the last
lot--Lot 65!

Notwithstanding my confidence in D'Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was
very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my
gaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter.

Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and
monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his
ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent
strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing.
Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I
could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that
_her_ turn would soon come--too soon. With the fancy my heart beat
quicker and wilder. Surely D'Hauteville will not disappoint me!

A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and
fashionably dressed,--the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse.
They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them.
Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one
of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The
name was _Marigny_. I had an unpleasant recollection associated with
this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me--a Marigny
who had proposed to _purchase Aurore_. Of course I remembered the name.

"Marigny!" I listened.

"So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one.

"_Qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly
dressed. "_Oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as he
drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. "I do
intend--_ma foi_!--yes."

"How high will you go?"

"Oh--ah! _une petite somme, mon cher ami_."

"A _little sum_ will not do, Marigny," said the first speaker. "I know
half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them."

"Who?" inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indiffere