“But you are surely not the English-Americans of whom we see so much these days? I cannot think it.”
“No, Madame. I am of the French-Americans––the creoles––hence the speech you are pleased to approve. My people were the Villanennes of Louisiana.”
“Ah! a creole? The creoles come here from the West Indies also––beautiful women. My daughter has had some as school friends; only this morning she was explaining to an English caller the difference between a creole and that personality;” and the dowager waived her hand towards the much discussed picture of Kora.
The fine face of the American woman took on a trace of haughtiness, and she glanced at the speaker as though alert to some covert insult. The unconsciousness in the old face reassured her, though she could not quite banish coldness from her tones as she replied:
“I should not think such an explanation necessary in enlightened circles; the creole is so well known as the American born of the Latin races, while that,” with a gesture towards the oriental face on the canvas, “is the offspring of the African race––our slaves.”
“With occasionally a Caucasian father,” suggested the dowager wickedly. “I have never seen this new idol of the ballet––Kora; but her prettiness is the talk of the studios, though she does not deny she came from your side of the sea, and has the shadows of Africa in her hair.”
“A quadroon or octoroon, no doubt. It appears strange to find the outcasts of the States elected to that sort of notice over here––as though the old world, tired of civilization and culture, turned for distraction to the barbarians.”
“Barbarians, indeed!” laughed the Countess Biron––the Countess Helene, as she was called by her friends. She laughed a great deal, knew a great deal, and never forgot a morsel of Parisian gossip. “This barbarian has only to 17 show herself on the boulevards and all good citizens crane their necks for a glimpse of her. The empress herself attracts less attention.”
The dowager clicked the lid of her snuff box and shrugged her shoulders.