“I really do not know if he has a family,” she replied. “I am interested because it seems so pitiful that a girl should never have had a chance to live commendably. It is not too late. In your own country a person of your intelligence 88 and education should be able to do much good among the children of the free colored people. You would be esteemed. You––”
“Esteemed!” Kora smiled skeptically, thinking no doubt of the half-world circle over which she was a power in her adopted city; she, who had only to show herself in the spectacle to make more money than a year’s earnings in American school teaching. She knew she could not really dance, but she did pose in a manner rather good; and then, her beauty!
“I was a fool when I came here––to Paris,” she said woefully. “I thought everybody would know I was colored, so I told. But they would not know,” and she held out her hand, looking at the white wrist, “I could have said I was a West Indian, a Brazilian, or a Spanish Creole––as many others do. But it is all too late. America was never kind to my people, or me. You mean to be kind, Madame; but you don’t know colored folks. They would be the first to resent my educational advantages; not that I know much; books were hard work for me, and Paris was the only one I could learn to read easy. As for America, I own up, I’m afraid of America.”
The Marquise thought she knew why, but only said:
“If you change your mind you can let me know. I have a property in New Orleans. Some day I may go there. I could protect you if you would help protect yourself.” She looked at the lovely octoroon with meaning, and the black velvety eyes fell under that regard.
“You can always learn where I am in Paris, and if you should change your mind––” At the door she paused and said kindly: “My poor girl, if you remain here he will break your heart.”
“They usually do when a woman loves them, Madame,” 89 replied Kora, with a sad little smile; she had learned so much in the book of Paris.
The friends of the Marquise were searching for her when she emerged from the ante-room. The Countess Biron confessed herself in despair.
“In such a mixed assembly! and all alone! How was one to know what people you might meet, or what adventures.”
“Oh, I am not adventurous, Countess,” was the smiling reply; “and let me whisper: I have been talking all of the time with one person, one very pretty person, and it has been an instructive half hour.”