"When months had passed by, Zoraide, who had grown unlike herself- sober and preoccupied- said again to her mistress:-

"'Nenaine, you would not let me have Mezor for my husband; but I have disobeyed you, I have sinned. Kill me if you wish, nenaine; forgive me if you will; but when I heard le beau Mezor say to me, "Zoraide, mo l'aime toi," I could have died, but I could not have helped loving him.'

"This time Madame Delariviere was so actually pained, so wounded at hearing Zoraide's confession, that there was no place left in her heart for anger. She could utter only confused reproaches. But she was a woman of action rather than of words, and she acted promptly. Her first step was to induce Doctor Langle to sell Mezor. Doctor Langle, who was a widower, had long wanted to marry Madame Delariviere, and he would willingly have walked on all fours at noon through the Place d'Armes if she wanted him to. Naturally he lost no time in disposing of le beau Mezor, who was sold away into Georgia, or the Carolinas, or one of those distant countries far away, where he would no longer hear his Creole tongue spoken, nor dance Calinda, nor hold la belle Zoraide in his arms.

"The poor thing was heartbroken when Mezor was sent away from her, but she took comfort and hope in the thought of her baby that she would soon be able to clasp to her breast.

"La belle Zoraide's sorrows had now begun in earnest. Not only sorrows but sufferings, and with the anguish of maternity came the shadow of death. But there is no agony that a mother will not forget when she holds her first-born to her heart, and presses her lips upon the baby flesh that is her own, yet far more precious than her own.

"So, instinctively, when Zoraide came out of the awful shadow she gazed questioningly about her, and felt with her trembling hands upon either side of her. 'Ou li, mo piti a moin? where is my little one?' she asked imploringly. Madame who was there and the nurse who was there both told her in turn, 'To piti a toi, li mouri' ('Your little one is dead'), which was a wicked falsehood that must have caused the angels in heaven to weep. For the baby was living and well and strong. It had at once been removed from its mother's side, to be sent away to Madame's plantation, far up the coast. Zoraide could only moan in reply, 'Li mouri, li mouri,' and she turned her face to the wall.

"Madame had hoped, in thus depriving Zoraide of her child, to have her young waiting-maid again at her side free, happy, and beautiful as of old. But there was a more powerful will than Madame's at work- the will of the good God, who had already designed that Zoraide should grieve with a sorrow that was never more to be lifted in this world. La belle Zoraide was no more. In her stead was a sad-eyed woman who mourned night and day for her baby. 'Li mouri, li mouri,' she would sigh over and over again to those about her, and to herself when others grew weary of her complaint.

"Yet, in spite of all, M'sieur Ambroise was still in the notion to marry her. A sad wife or a merry one was all the same to him so long as that wife was Zoraide. And she seemed to consent, or rather submit, to the approaching marriage as though nothing mattered any longer in this world.

"One day, a black servant entered a little noisily the room in which Zoraide sat sewing. With a look of strange and vacuous happiness upon her face, Zoraide arose hastily. 'Hush, hush,' she whispered, lifting a warning finger, 'my little one is asleep; you must not awaken her.'

"Upon the bed was a senseless bundle of rags shaped like an infant in swaddling clothes. Over this dummy the woman had drawn the mosquito bar, and she was sitting contentedly beside it. In short, from that day Zoraide was demented. Night nor day did she lose sight of the doll that lay in her bed or in her arms.

"And now was Madame stung with sorrow and remorse at seeing this terrible affliction that had befallen her dear Zoraide. Consulting with Doctor Langle, they decided to bring back to the mother the real baby of flesh and blood that was now toddling about, and kicking its heels in the dust yonder upon the plantation.

"It was Madame herself who led the pretty, tiny little "griffe" girl to her mother. Zoraide was sitting upon a stone bench in the courtyard, listening to the soft splashing of the fountain, and watching the fitful shadows of the palm leaves upon the broad, white flagging.

"'Here,' said Madame, approaching, 'here, my poor dear Zoraide, is your own little child. Keep her; she is yours. No one will ever take her from you again.'

"Zoraide looked with sullen suspicion upon her mistress and the child before her. Reaching out a hand she thrust the little one mistrustfully away from her. With the other hand she clasped the rag bundle fiercely to her breast; for she suspected a plot to deprive her of it.

"Nor could she ever be induced to let her own child approach her; and finally the little one was sent back to the plantation, where she was never to know the love of mother or father.

"And now this is the end of Zoraide's story. She was never known again as la belle Zoraide, but ever after as Zoraide la folle, whom no one ever wanted to marry- not even M'sieur Ambroise. She lived to be an old woman, whom some people pitied and others laughed at- always clasping her bundle of rags- her 'piti.'

"Are you asleep, Ma'zelle Titite?"

"No, I am not asleep; I was thinking. Ah, the poor little one, Man Loulou, the poor little one! better had she died!"

But this is the way Madame Delisle and Manna Loulou really talked to each other:

"Vou pre droumi, Ma'zelle Titite?"

"Non, pa pre droumi; mo yapre zongler. Ah, la pauv' piti, Man Loulou. La pauv' piti! Mieux li mouri!"