She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly
drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair
that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon
her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its
satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys--half
naked too--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock
feathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the
baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she
felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood
beside him, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she
could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood
turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her
face.
She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come,
at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress
was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and
obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes.
She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face
the picture of fright.
Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went
to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.
"Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if
he was human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she
rose and tottered towards him. "Armand," she panted once more, clutching
his arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? tell me."
He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust
the hand away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly.
"It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means
that you are not white."
A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her
with unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I am
white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you
know they are gray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my
hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed hysterically.
"As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving
her alone with their child.
When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to
Madame Valmonde.
"My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not
white. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not
true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live."