The Awakening and Selected Short Stories - Page 141/161

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."