The Marquise smiled at that.

"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 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," 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 a.s.sembly! 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."

"Pretty? Well, that is a.s.surance as to s.e.x," remarked Madame Choudey, with a glance towards one of the others of the party.

"And if you will watch that door you will be enlightened as to the individual," said the Marquise.

Three pair of eyes turned with alertness to the door. At that moment it opened, and Kora appeared. The lace veil no longer hid her beautiful eyes--all the more lovely for that swift bath of tears. She saw the Marquise and her friends, but pa.s.sed as if she had never seen one of them before; Kora had her own code.

"Are you serious, Judithe de Caron?" gasped the Countess Helene. "Were you actually--conversing--with that--demi-mondaine?"

"My dear Marquise!" purred Madame Choudey, "when she does not even _pretend_ to be respectable!"

"It is because she does not pretend that I spoke with her. Honesty should receive some notice."

"Honesty! Good heavens!" cried Madame Ampere, who had not yet spoken, but who expressed horror by her eyes, "where then do you find your standards for such judgment?"

"Now, listen!" and the Marquise turned to the three with a quizzical smile, "if Kora lived exactly the same life morally, but was a ruler of the fashionable world, instead of the other one; if she wore a crown of state instead of the tinsel of the varieties, you would not exclaim if she addressed me."

"Oh, I must protest, Marquise," began Madame Ampere in shocked remonstrance, but the Marquise smiled and stopped her.

"Yesterday," she said slowly, "I saw you in conversation with a man who has the panels of his carriage emblazoned with the Hydrangea--also called the Hortensia."

The shocked lady looked uncomfortable.

"What then? since it was the Emperor's brother."

"Exactly; the brother of the Emperor, and both of them the sons of a mother beside whom beautiful Kora is a thing of chast.i.ty."

"The children could not help the fact that they were all half-brothers,"

laughed the Countess Helene.

"But this so-called Duke could help parading the doubtful honor of his descent; yet who fails to return his bow? And I have yet to learn that his mother was ignored by the ladies of her day. Those Hortensias on his carriage are horrible to me; they are an attempt to exalt in a queen the immorality condemned in a subject."

"Ah! You make my head swim with your theories," confessed the Countess. "How do you find time to study them all?"

"They require no study; one meets them daily in the street or court.

The difficulty is to cease thinking of them--to enjoy a careless life when justice is always calling somewhere for help."

"I refuse to be annoyed by the calls, yet am comfortable," said Madame Choudey. "The people who imagine they hear justice calling have had, too often, to follow the calls into exile."

"That is true," agreed her friend; "take care Marquise! Your theories are very interesting, but, truly, you are a revolutionist."

Their little battle of words did not prevent them parting with smiles and all pleasantry. But the Countess Biron, to whose house the Marquise was going, grimaced and looked at her with a smile of doubt when they were alone.

"Do you realize how daring you are Judithe?--to succeed socially you should not appeal to the brains of people, but to their vanities."

"Farewell, my social ambitions!" laughed the Marquise. "Dear Countess, pray do not scold! I could not help it. Why must the very respectable world see only the sins of the unfortunate, and save all their charity for the heads with coronets? Maman is not like that; she is always gentle with the people who have never been taught goodness; though she is severe on those who disgrace good training. I like her way best; and Alain? Well, he only told me to do my own thinking, to be sure I was right before I spoke, and to let no other consideration weigh at all."

"Yes! and he died in exile because he let no worldly consideration weigh," said the Countess Helene grimly.

CHAPTER IX.

At the entrance to the gallery the Marquise saw Dumaresque on the step, and with him Kenneth McVeigh. She entered the carriage, hoping the Countess would not perceive them; but the hope was in vain, she did, and she motioned them both to her to learn if Mrs. McVeigh had also unexpectedly returned.

She had not. Italy was yet attractive to her, and the Lieutenant had come alone. He was to await her arrival, whenever she chose, and then their holiday would be over. When they left Paris again it would be for America.

He smiled in the same lazy, yet deferential way, as the Countess chatted and questioned him. He confessed he did not remember why he had returned; at least he could not tell in a crowd, or with cynical Dumaresque listening to him.

"Invite him home, and he will vow it was to see you," said the artist.

"I mean to," she retorted; "but do not judge all men by yourself, Monsieur Loris, for I suspect Lieutenant McVeigh has a conscience."

"I have," he acknowledged, "too much of one to take advantage of your invitation. Some day, when you are not tired from the crowds, I shall come, if you will allow me."

"No, no; come now!" insisted the Countess, impulsively; "you will rest me; I a.s.sure you it is true! We have been with women--women all morning! So take pity on us. We want to hear all about the battle grounds and fortresses you were to inspect. The Marquise, especially, is a lover of wars."

"And of warriors?" queried Dumaresque; but the Countess paid no attention to him.

"Yes, she is really a revolutionist, Monsieur; so come and enlighten us as to the latest methods of those amiable patriots."

The Marquise had given him a gracious little bow, and had politely shown interest in their remarks to such an extent that the Countess did not notice her silence. But during the brief glance she noticed that the blue eyes had dark circles under them, but they were steady for all that. He looked tired, but he also looked more the master of himself than when they last met; she need fear no further pleading.

The Countess prevailed, and he entered the carriage. Dumaresque was also invited, but was on some committee of arrangements and could not leave.

As they were about to drive away the Marquise called him.