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."

The answer that came was brief:

"My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves
you. Come with your child."

When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study,
and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone
image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.

He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp with
agonized suspense.

"Yes, go."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Yes, I want you to go."

He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and
felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus
into his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the
unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards
the door, hoping he would call her back.

"Good-by, Armand," she moaned.

He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.

Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre
gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no
word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the
live-oak branches.

It was an October