Jean’s words had begun to weave a mysterious spell over Mimi. She looked at the tree to which Jean pointed—vaguely disappointed that instead of its leaves she did not see families, faces with laughing eyes and alluring mysteriousness. Jean had never talked to her like this before—she felt a thrilling pride that he spoke to her as to one of mature years and understanding.
“You’ve many relatives, Mimi, of whom you can justly be proud—and some of whom the less said, the better. Like two great rivers from the same mother source, plunging, roaring, or gently purling they flow—parallel much of the way, touching at others, then springing apart to seek their way through diverse lands. We of the so-called coloured branch—many of our ancestry of the proud gens de coleur libre —we too have had a large share in making Louisiana what it is today.”
“Tell me about some of them, Jean,” demanded Mimi eagerly. “Tell me of the ones of whom you’re proud—tell me of those you’re not so proud of.”
The sun was high in the sky and beating down upon them with vigour before Jean had finished his story. Mimi was too absorbed to notice the heat or to note the passing of the hours. Jean, with the mellowness acquired only through an unhurried life, had great pride in his ability as a raconteur—when he fancied he detected a waning interest