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diff --git a/160-0.txt b/160-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c2a235 --- /dev/null +++ b/160-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7732 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening and Selected Short Stories, by Kate Chopin + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Awakening and Selected Short Stories + +Author: Kate Chopin + +Release Date: August, 1994 [eBook #160] +[Most recently updated: February 28, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES *** + + + + +The Awakening +and Selected Short Stories + +by Kate Chopin + + +Contents + + THE AWAKENING + I + II + III + IV + V + VI + VII + VIII + IX + X + XI + XII + XIII + XIV + XV + XVI + XVII + XVIII + XIX + XX + XXI + XXII + XXIII + XXIV + XXV + XXVI + XXVII + XXVIII + XXIX + XXX + XXXI + XXXII + XXXIII + XXXIV + XXXV + XXXVI + XXXVII + XXXVIII + XXXIX + + BEYOND THE BAYOU + + MA’AME PÉLAGIE + I + II + III + IV + + DÉSIRÉE’S BABY + + A RESPECTABLE WOMAN + + THE KISS + + A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS + + THE LOCKET + I + II + + A REFLECTION + + + + +THE AWAKENING + + +I + +A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept +repeating over and over: + +“_Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_ That’s all right!” + +He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody +understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side +of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with +maddening persistence. + +Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of +comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. + +He walked down the gallery and across the narrow “bridges” which +connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated +before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mocking-bird were +the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the +noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their +society when they ceased to be entertaining. + +He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one +from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a +wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task +of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. +The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already +acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the +editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before +quitting New Orleans the day before. + +Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium +height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was +brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and +closely trimmed. + +Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked +about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main +building was called “the house,” to distinguish it from the cottages. +The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, +the Farival twins, were playing a duet from “Zampa” upon the piano. +Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a +yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an +equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. +She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. +Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before +one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, +telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over +to the _Chênière Caminada_ in Beaudelet’s lugger to hear mass. Some +young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. +Pontellier’s two children were there—sturdy little fellows of four and +five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative +air. + +Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the +paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade +that was advancing at snail’s pace from the beach. He could see it +plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the +stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily +into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach +slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, +and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated +themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the +porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. + +“What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!” exclaimed Mr. +Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the +morning seemed long to him. + +“You are burnt beyond recognition,” he added, looking at his wife as +one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered +some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed +them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking +at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband +before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, +understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them +into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping +her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings +sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile. + +“What is it?” asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to +the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the +water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half +so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He +yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind +to go over to Klein’s hotel and play a game of billiards. + +“Come go along, Lebrun,” he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted +quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. +Pontellier. + +“Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,” instructed +her husband as he prepared to leave. + +“Here, take the umbrella,” she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He +accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps +and walked away. + +“Coming back to dinner?” his wife called after him. He halted a moment +and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a +ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the +early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company +which he found over at Klein’s and the size of “the game.” He did not +say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. + +Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting +out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and +peanuts. + +II + +Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish +brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them +swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward +maze of contemplation or thought. + +Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and +almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather +handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a +certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of +features. Her manner was engaging. + +Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not +afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. +Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his +after-dinner smoke. + +This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was +not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more +pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of +care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the +light and languor of the summer day. + +Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch +and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light +puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things +around them; their amusing adventure out in the water—it had again +assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people +who had gone to the _Chênière;_ about the children playing croquet +under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the +overture to “The Poet and the Peasant.” + +Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not +know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the +same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke +of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited +him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got +there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile +house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French +and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. + +He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother +at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, “the +house” had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its +dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive +visitors from the “_Quartier Français_,” it enabled Madame Lebrun to +maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her +birthright. + +Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s Mississippi plantation and +her girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. She was an +American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have +been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away +in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was +interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, +what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead. + +When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for +the early dinner. + +“I see Léonce isn’t coming back,” she said, with a glance in the +direction whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was +not, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein’s. + +When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man +descended the steps and strolled over toward the croquet players, +where, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the +little Pontellier children, who were very fond of him. + +III + +It was eleven o’clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from +Klein’s hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very +talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep +when he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her +anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the +day. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes +and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau +indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else +happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and +answered him with little half utterances. + +He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object +of his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned +him, and valued so little his conversation. + +Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. +Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining +room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they +were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from +satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of +them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs. + +Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had +a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and +sat near the open door to smoke it. + +Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed +perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. +Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. +He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. + +He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of +the children. If it was not a mother’s place to look after children, +whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage +business. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for +his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm +befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. + +Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon +came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the +pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he +questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in +half a minute he was fast asleep. + +Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a +little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her _peignoir_. Blowing out +the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare +feet into a pair of satin _mules_ at the foot of the bed and went out +on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock +gently to and fro. + +It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint +light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound +abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and +the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft +hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. + +The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes that the damp sleeve +of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the +back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to +the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, +steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying +there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She +could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the +foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never +before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband’s +kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and +self-understood. + +An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some +unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a +vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her +soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She +did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, +which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She +was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry +over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. + +The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which +might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. + +The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the +rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was +returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again +at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, +which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was +eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet +Street. + +Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought +away from Klein’s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as +most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. + +“It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!” she +exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one. + +“Oh! we’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,” he laughed, +as he prepared to kiss her good-by. + +The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that +numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great +favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand +to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys +shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. + +A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It +was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious +and toothsome bits—the finest of fruits, _patés_, a rare bottle or two, +delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. + +Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a +box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The +_patés_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were +passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating +fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the +best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she +knew of none better. + +IV + +It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to +his own satisfaction or any one else’s wherein his wife failed in her +duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than +perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret +and ample atonement. + +If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he +was not apt to rush crying to his mother’s arms for comfort; he would +more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the +sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they +pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled +fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other +mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, +only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; +since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and +brushed. + +In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women +seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, +fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or +imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who +idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a +holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as +ministering angels. + +Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment +of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he +was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adèle +Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that +have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the +fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her +charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold +hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that +were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red +one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit +in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem +to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One +would not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful +arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it +was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her +gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little +night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. + +Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took +her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was +sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New +Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged +in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers. + +She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut +out—a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby’s body so +effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, +like an Eskimo’s. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous +drafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found +their way through key-holes. + +Mrs. Pontellier’s mind was quite at rest concerning the present +material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of +anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer +meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, +so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of +the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle’s directions she had cut a +pattern of the impervious garment. + +Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. +Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning +listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she +held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle. + +That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled +upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it +could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven +years. About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three +babies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always +talking about her “condition.” Her “condition” was in no way apparent, +and no one would have known a thing about it but for her persistence in +making it the subject of conversation. + +Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who +had subsisted upon nougat during the entire—but seeing the color mount +into Mrs. Pontellier’s face he checked himself and changed the subject. + +Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at +home in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so +intimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun’s. +They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom +existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which +distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly +was their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at +first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in +reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to +be inborn and unmistakable. + +Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard +Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story +of one of her _accouchements_, withholding no intimate detail. She was +growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting +color back from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had +interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some +amused group of married women. + +A book had gone the rounds of the _pension_. When it came her turn to +read it, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read +the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done +so,—to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was +openly criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave +over being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease. + +V + +They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer +afternoon—Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a +story or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands; +Robert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, +glances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy +and _camaraderie_. + +He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought +anything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to +Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was +eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted +himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it +was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some +interesting married woman. + +For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle +Duvigne’s presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed as +an inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle +for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to +vouchsafe. + +Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she +might look upon a faultless Madonna. + +“Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?” murmured +Robert. “She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It +was ‘Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the +baby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and +read Daudet to me while I sew.’” + +“_Par exemple!_ I never had to ask. You were always there under my +feet, like a troublesome cat.” + +“You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared +on the scene, then it _was_ like a dog. ‘_Passez! Adieu! Allez +vous-en!_’” + +“Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,” she interjoined, with +excessive naïveté. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of +the left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the +Creole husband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one +which has become dwarfed by disuse. + +Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his +one time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights, +of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily +plunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running, +contemptuous comment: + +“_Blagueur—farceur—gros bête, va!_” + +He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. +She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was +impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion +was earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love +to Madame Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously. +Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward +herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying. + +Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she +sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the +dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other +employment afforded her. + +She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that +lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there +like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching +her splendid color. + +Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. +Pontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with +a certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close +acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed +her work with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory +expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame +Ratignolle. + +“_Mais ce n’est pas mal! Elle s’y connait, elle a de la force, oui._” + +During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against +Mrs. Pontellier’s arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he +repeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be +thoughtlessness on his part; yet that was no reason she should submit +to it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but +firmly. He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no +resemblance to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find +that it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of work, +and in many respects satisfying. + +Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch +critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, and +crumpled the paper between her hands. + +The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at +the respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. +Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She +sought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they +were greatly in earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents +of the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to +give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain +hope that they might be filled; and then away they went. + +The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that +came up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea. +Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the +oaks. Their voices were high and penetrating. + +Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and +thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She +complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and +a fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle’s face with cologne, while Robert +plied the fan with unnecessary vigor. + +The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering +if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for +the rose tint had never faded from her friend’s face. + +She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries +with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to +possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her +white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand +endearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, as +everybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a +pin! + +“Are you going bathing?” asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so +much a question as a reminder. + +“Oh, no,” she answered, with a tone of indecision. “I’m tired; I think +not.” Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose +sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. + +“Oh, come!” he insisted. “You mustn’t miss your bath. Come on. The +water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.” + +He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside +the door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked +away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the +breeze was soft and warm. + +VI + +Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach +with Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the +second place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory +impulses which impelled her. + +A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light +which, showing the way, forbids it. + +At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to +dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome +her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears. + +In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the +universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an +individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a +ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of +twenty-eight—perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased +to vouchsafe to any woman. + +But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily +vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever +emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult! + +The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, +clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in +abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. + +The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is +sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. + +VII + +Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic +hitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own +small life all within herself. At a very early period she had +apprehended instinctively the dual life—that outward existence which +conforms, the inward life which questions. + +That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of +reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been—there must +have been—influences, both subtle and apparent, working in their +several ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the +influence of Adèle Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of the +Creole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility +to beauty. Then the candor of the woman’s whole existence, which every +one might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own +habitual reserve—this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what +metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, +which we might as well call love. + +The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm, +under the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame +Ratignolle to leave the children behind, though she could not induce +her to relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adèle begged +to be allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some +unaccountable way they had escaped from Robert. + +The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did +of a long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that +bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There +were acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away +still, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of +orange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened +from afar in the sun. + +The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the +more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier’s +physique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long, +clean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into +splendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped +fashion-plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in +passing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more +feeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of +its modeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which +made Edna Pontellier different from the crowd. + +She wore a cool muslin that morning—white, with a waving vertical line +of brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big +straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat +rested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was +heavy, and clung close to her head. + +Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze +veil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that +protected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness +of ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which +she wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of +line could not have done. + +There were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid +construction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water. +Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun’s +possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential +paraphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the owners +might desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just +strolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the +water. The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another +under the same roof. + +Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit. +Unlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged, +bringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two +huge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the +front of the building. + +The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by +side, with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended. +Madame Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather +delicate handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always +carried suspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon. +Edna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took +the fan from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her +companion. It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but +exchange remarks about the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a +breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. +It fluttered the skirts of the two women and kept them for a while +engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and +hat-pins. A few persons were sporting some distance away in the water. +The beach was very still of human sound at that hour. The lady in black +was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighboring +bath-house. Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts’ yearnings +beneath the children’s tent, which they had found unoccupied. + +Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest +upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the +blue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the +horizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and +others to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance. + +“Of whom—of what are you thinking?” asked Adèle of her companion, whose +countenance she had been watching with a little amused attention, +arrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized and +fixed every feature into a statuesque repose. + +“Nothing,” returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: “How +stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to +such a question. Let me see,” she went on, throwing back her head and +narrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. +“Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but +perhaps I can retrace my thoughts.” + +“Oh! never mind!” laughed Madame Ratignolle. “I am not quite so +exacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think, +especially to think about thinking.” + +“But for the fun of it,” persisted Edna. “First of all, the sight of +the water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the +blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look +at. The hot wind beating in my face made me think—without any +connection that I can trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow +that seemed as big as the ocean to the very little girl walking through +the grass, which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as +if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out +in the water. Oh, I see the connection now!” + +“Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?” + +“I don’t remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big +field. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch +of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without +coming to the end of it. I don’t remember whether I was frightened or +pleased. I must have been entertained. + +“Likely as not it was Sunday,” she laughed; “and I was running away +from prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom +by my father that chills me yet to think of.” + +“And have you been running away from prayers ever since, _ma chère?_” +asked Madame Ratignolle, amused. + +“No! oh, no!” Edna hastened to say. “I was a little unthinking child in +those days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On +the contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold +upon me; after I was twelve and until—until—why, I suppose until now, +though I never thought much about it—just driven along by habit. But do +you know,” she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle +and leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to +that of her companion, “sometimes I feel this summer as if I were +walking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and +unguided.” + +Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was +near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly +and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand, +murmuring in an undertone, “_Pauvre chérie_.” + +The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent +herself readily to the Creole’s gentle caress. She was not accustomed +to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or +in others. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal +through force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was +matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and +housewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having +died when they were quite young. Margaret was not effusive; she was +practical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether +accidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type—the +self-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own +character had much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most +intimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional +intellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired +and strove to imitate; and with her she talked and glowed over the +English classics, and sometimes held religious and political +controversies. + +Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly +disturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her +part. At a very early age—perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean +of waving grass—she remembered that she had been passionately enamored +of a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in +Kentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor +remove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon’s, +with a lock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry +officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence. + +At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman +who visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went +to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the +young lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of +afternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her +teens; and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing, +nothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But +he, too, went the way of dreams. + +She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed +to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a +great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The +persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The +hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion. + +The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one may +possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or +comment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the +presence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as +she handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the +likeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold +glass passionately. + +Her marriage to Léonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this +respect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees +of Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met +him. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his +suit with an earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired. +He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there +was a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she +was mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her +sister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no +further for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for +her husband. + +The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, +was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who +worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity +in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon +the realm of romance and dreams. + +But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry +officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found +herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, +realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion +or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby +threatening its dissolution. + +She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would +sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes +forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with +their grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding +their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an +occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though +she did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a +responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not +fitted her. + +Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that +summer day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part +of it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle’s +shoulder. She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her +own voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like +wine, or like a first breath of freedom. + +There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by +a troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers +were with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle’s little girl in his +arms. There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, +looking disagreeable and resigned. + +The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax +their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the +bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they +stood there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still +exchanging their vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent +protest, and walked slowly away somewhere else. + +The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went +over to join them. + +Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she +complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She +leaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked. + +VIII + +“Do me a favor, Robert,” spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as +soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked +up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the +umbrella which he had lifted. + +“Granted; as many as you like,” he returned, glancing down into her +eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation. + +“I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.” + +“_Tiens!_” he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. “_Voilà que +Madame Ratignolle est jalouse!_” + +“Nonsense! I’m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier +alone.” + +“Why?” he asked; himself growing serious at his companion’s +solicitation. + +“She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the +unfortunate blunder of taking you seriously.” + +His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began +to beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. “Why shouldn’t she +take me seriously?” he demanded sharply. “Am I a comedian, a clown, a +jack-in-the-box? Why shouldn’t she? You Creoles! I have no patience +with you! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing +programme? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she +has discernment enough to find in me something besides the _blagueur_. +If I thought there was any doubt—” + +“Oh, enough, Robert!” she broke into his heated outburst. “You are not +thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little +reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there +playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were +ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be +the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to +associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you.” + +Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the +gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. + +“Oh! well! That isn’t it,” slamming his hat down vehemently upon his +head. “You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to +a fellow.” + +“Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? +_Ma foi!_” + +“It isn’t pleasant to have a woman tell you—” he went on, unheedingly, +but breaking off suddenly: “Now if I were like Arobin—you remember +Alcée Arobin and that story of the consul’s wife at Biloxi?” And he +related the story of Alcée Arobin and the consul’s wife; and another +about the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should +never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till +Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men +seriously was apparently forgotten. + +Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take +the hour’s rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, +Robert begged her pardon for the impatience—he called it rudeness—with +which he had received her well-meant caution. + +“You made one mistake, Adèle,” he said, with a light smile; “there is +no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You +should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice +might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some +reflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired,” he added, solicitously. +“Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix +you a toddy with a drop of Angostura.” + +She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and +acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart +from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself +brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sèvres cup, with a +flaky cracker or two on the saucer. + +She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open +door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon +garçon_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward +“the house.” + +The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were +leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There +was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have +been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. +The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more +jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the +children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They +would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man +ascended to his mother’s room. It was situated at the top of the house, +made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer +windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man’s eye +might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and +practical. + +Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black +girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the +machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be +avoided of imperiling her health. + +Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the +dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically +to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned +the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; +it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his +mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. + +“Where is Mrs. Pontellier?” + +“Down at the beach with the children.” + +“I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don’t forget to take it down when +you go; it’s there on the bookshelf over the small table.” Clatter, +clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. + +“Where is Victor going with the rockaway?” + +“The rockaway? Victor?” + +“Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away +somewhere.” + +“Call him.” Clatter, clatter! + +Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard +back at the wharf. + +“He won’t look up.” + +Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called “Victor!” She waved a +handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the +vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. + +Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor +was the younger son and brother—a _tête montée_, with a temper which +invited violence and a will which no ax could break. + +“Whenever you say the word I’m ready to thrash any amount of reason +into him that he’s able to hold.” + +“If your father had only lived!” Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, +bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the +universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly +of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been +removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. + +“What do you hear from Montel?” Montel was a middle-aged gentleman +whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to +fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun’s taking off had left in the Lebrun +household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! + +“I have a letter somewhere,” looking in the machine drawer and finding +the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. “He says to tell you he +will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month,”—clatter, +clatter!—“and if you still have the intention of joining him”—bang! +clatter, clatter, bang! + +“Why didn’t you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted—” Clatter, +clatter, clatter! + +“Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will +be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for +luncheon till the last minute.” Clatter, clatter! “Where are you +going?” + +“Where did you say the Goncourt was?” + +IX + +Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it +could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The +lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole +room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these +fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches +stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped +the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious +will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. + +It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held +between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An +unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay +over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their +families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables +had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged +about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say +and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now +an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences +and give a more general tone to the conversation. + +Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual +bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor +looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier +had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do +so, and making their authority felt. + +Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments +furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about +the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. + +At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon +to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the +Virgin’s colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed +Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from “Zampa,” and at the +earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture +to “The Poet and the Peasant.” + +“_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_” shrieked the parrot outside the door. He +was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit +that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first +time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew +indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird +removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; +and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot +fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the +whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and +hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. + +Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one +present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the +city. + +A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The +mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her +daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have +had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had +been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk +tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially +crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses +were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they +shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were +bewildering. + +But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame +Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the +others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing +an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was +keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she +and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and +making it attractive. + +Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to +separate during the brief period when one or the other should be +whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced +together, but they did not think of it. + +The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with +shrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted +to sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of +human indulgence. + +The ice-cream was passed around with cake—gold and silver cake arranged +on platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the +afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervision +of Victor. It was pronounced a great success—excellent if it had only +contained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been +frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of +portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about +recommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess. + +After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with +Robert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and +swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the +gallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded +a view of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the +Gulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up, +and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, +restless water. + +“Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?” asked Robert, coming +out on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear +Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat +her. + +“I’ll ask her,” he said. “I’ll tell her that you want to hear her. She +likes you. She will come.” He turned and hurried away to one of the far +cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging +a chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the +crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was +endeavoring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no +longer young, who had quarreled with almost every one, owing to a +temper which was self-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the +rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great +difficulty. + +She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an +awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman, +with a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had +absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with +a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair. + +“Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,” she +requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not +touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the +window. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon +every one as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and +a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle +embarrassed at being thus signaled out for the imperious little woman’s +favor. She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz +would please herself in her selections. + +Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains, +well rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes +liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or +practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled +“Solitude.” It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the +piece was something else, but she called it “Solitude.” When she heard +it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing +beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was +one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging +its flight away from him. + +Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire +gown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue +between tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play, +and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat. + +The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano +sent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier’s spinal column. It was not the +first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the +first time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered +to take an impress of the abiding truth. + +She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and +blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures +of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions +themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the +waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, +and the tears blinded her. + +Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, +she went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed +along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder. + +“Well, how did you like my music?” she asked. The young woman was +unable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. +Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She +patted her again upon the shoulder as she said: + +“You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!” and she +went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. + +But she was mistaken about “those others.” Her playing had aroused a +fever of enthusiasm. “What passion!” “What an artist!” “I have always +said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!” “That last +prelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!” + +It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. +But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic +hour and under that mystic moon. + +X + +At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice. +There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did +not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered +behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and +hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious +or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. + +The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon +the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert’s voice behind them, +and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join +them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from +her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the +next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him +the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as +one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about +the sun when it was shining. + +The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and +laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein’s +hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. +There were strange, rare odors abroad—a tangle of the sea smell and of +weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a +field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon +the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no +shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the +mystery and the softness of sleep. + +Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The +sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into +one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy +crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents. + +Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received +instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the +children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he +was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of +his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the +water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and +reassure her. + +But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching +child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first +time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for +joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted +her body to the surface of the water. + +A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant +import had been given her to control the working of her body and her +soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She +wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. + +Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and +admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings +had accomplished this desired end. + +“How easy it is!” she thought. “It is nothing,” she said aloud; “why +did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have +lost splashing about like a baby!” She would not join the groups in +their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, +she swam out alone. + +She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and +solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the +moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to +be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. + +Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had +left there. She had not gone any great distance—that is, what would +have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her +unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect +of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to +overcome. + +A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time +appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her +staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. + +She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of +terror, except to say to her husband, “I thought I should have perished +out there alone.” + +“You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,” he told her. + +Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes +and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She +started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. +She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to +their renewed cries which sought to detain her. + +“Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious,” +said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that +Edna’s abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. + +“I know she is,” assented Mr. Pontellier; “sometimes, not often.” + +Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before +she was overtaken by Robert. + +“Did you think I was afraid?” she asked him, without a shade of +annoyance. + +“No; I knew you weren’t afraid.” + +“Then why did you come? Why didn’t you stay out there with the others?” + +“I never thought of it.” + +“Thought of what?” + +“Of anything. What difference does it make?” + +“I’m very tired,” she uttered, complainingly. + +“I know you are.” + +“You don’t know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so +exhausted in my life. But it isn’t unpleasant. A thousand emotions have +swept through me to-night. I don’t comprehend half of them. Don’t mind +what I’m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be +stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz’s playing moved me to-night. I +wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is +like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, +half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night.” + +“There are,” whispered Robert, “Didn’t you know this was the +twenty-eighth of August?” + +“The twenty-eighth of August?” + +“Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if +the moon is shining—the moon must be shining—a spirit that has haunted +these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating +vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, +worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the +semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he +has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. +Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. +Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk +in the shadow of her divine presence.” + +“Don’t banter me,” she said, wounded at what appeared to be his +flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate +note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not +tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said +nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was +exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, +letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, +but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as +though her thoughts were elsewhere—somewhere in advance of her body, +and she was striving to overtake them. + +Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before +her door out to the trunk of a tree. + +“Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?” he asked. + +“I’ll stay out here. Good-night.” + +“Shall I get you a pillow?” + +“There’s one here,” she said, feeling about, for they were in the +shadow. + +“It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.” + +“No matter.” And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath +her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of +relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not +much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with +no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose +which seemed to invade her whole body. + +“Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?” asked Robert, +seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold +of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. + +“If you wish. Don’t swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl +which I left on the window-sill over at the house?” + +“Are you chilly?” + +“No; but I shall be presently.” + +“Presently?” he laughed. “Do you know what time it is? How long are you +going to stay out here?” + +“I don’t know. Will you get the shawl?” + +“Of course I will,” he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking +along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips +of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. + +When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. +She did not put it around her. + +“Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?” + +“I said you might if you wished to.” + +He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in +silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could +have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more +pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. + +When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said +good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again +she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he +walked away. + +XI + +“What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in +bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had +walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did +not reply. + +“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her. + +“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as +they looked into his. + +“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted the steps +and went into their room. + +“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone +by. + +“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the door. + +“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is +this? Why don’t you come in?” + +“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.” + +“The mosquitoes will devour you.” + +“There are no mosquitoes.” + +She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience +and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She +would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of +submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as +we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life +which has been portioned out to us. + +“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time +fondly, with a note of entreaty. + +“No; I am going to stay out here.” + +“This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can’t permit you to stay +out there all night. You must come in the house instantly.” + +With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the +hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and +resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and +resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that +before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she +remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she +should have yielded, feeling as she then did. + +“Léonce, go to bed,” she said, “I mean to stay out here. I don’t wish +to go in, and I don’t intend to. Don’t speak to me like that again; I +shall not answer you.” + +Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra +garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and +select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and +went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not +wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the +rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he +went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again +declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier +once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable +interval of time smoked some more cigars. + +Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a +delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities +pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake +her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her +helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. + +The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the +world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from +silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and +the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. + +Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She +tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into +the house. + +“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her +husband. + +“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of +smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.” + +XII + +She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, +disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving +only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something +unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. +The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, +she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either +external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse +moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, +and freed her soul of responsibility. + +Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A +few, who intended to go over to the _Chênière_ for mass, were moving +about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were +already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday +prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was +following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and +was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He +put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the +hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her. + +The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun’s sewing-machine was +sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. +Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert. + +“Tell him I am going to the _Chênière_. The boat is ready; tell him to +hurry.” + +He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had +never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did +not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding +his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything +extraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet +glow when he met her. + +They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no +time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window +and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and +ate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good. + +She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often +noticed that she lacked forethought. + +“Wasn’t it enough to think of going to the _Chênière_ and waking you +up?” she laughed. “Do I have to think of everything?—as Léonce says +when he’s in a bad humor. I don’t blame him; he’d never be in a bad +humor if it weren’t for me.” + +They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see +the curious procession moving toward the wharf—the lovers, shoulder to +shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old +Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted +Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm, +bringing up the rear. + +Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one +present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a +round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, +and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were +broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her +feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes. + +Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much +room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who +considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not +quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with +Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to +Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making +“eyes” at Robert and making “mouths” at Beaudelet. + +The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The +lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur +Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and +of what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject. + +Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly +brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. + +“Why does she look at me like that?” inquired the girl of Robert. + +“Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?” + +“No. Is she your sweetheart?” + +“She’s a married lady, and has two children.” + +“Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano’s wife, who had four +children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his +boat.” + +“Shut up!” + +“Does she understand?” + +“Oh, hush!” + +“Are those two married over there—leaning on each other?” + +“Of course not,” laughed Robert. + +“Of course not,” echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of +the head. + +The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to +Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. +Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise +through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and +overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at +something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man +under his breath. + +Sailing across the bay to the _Chênière Caminada_, Edna felt as if she +were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, +whose chains had been loosening—had snapped the night before when the +mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she +chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer +noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They +were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and +muttered to herself sullenly. + +“Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?” said Robert in a low voice. + +“What shall we do there?” + +“Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling +gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.” + +She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be +alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean’s roar and +watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old +fort. + +“And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,” he went +on. + +“What shall we do there?” + +“Anything—cast bait for fish.” + +“No; we’ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.” + +“We’ll go wherever you like,” he said. “I’ll have Tonie come over and +help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any +one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?” + +“Oh, no.” + +“Then I’ll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. +Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands +the treasures are hidden—direct you to the very spot, perhaps.” + +“And in a day we should be rich!” she laughed. “I’d give it all to you, +the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you +would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn’t a thing to be hoarded or +utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for +the fun of seeing the golden specks fly.” + +“We’d share it, and scatter it together,” he said. His face flushed. + +They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our +Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun’s +glare. + +Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita +walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill +humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. + +XIII + +A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the +service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed +before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain +her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere +of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert’s +feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, +stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he +sank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in +black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon +the pages of her velvet prayer-book. + +“I felt giddy and almost overcome,” Edna said, lifting her hands +instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her +forehead. “I couldn’t have stayed through the service.” They were +outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude. + +“It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone +staying. Come over to Madame Antoine’s; you can rest there.” He took +her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into +her face. + +How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the +reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray, +weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It +must always have been God’s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna +thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, +to ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from +the cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening +on one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to +them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated +face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her. + +Madame Antoine’s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed +them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door +to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily +across the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her +understand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to +rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of +her comfortably. + +The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed, +snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which +looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was +a disabled boat lying keel upward. + +Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she +supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and +wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame +Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She +was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace. + +Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, +removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and +arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her +shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the +high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, +quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the +sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a +little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She +looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them +one after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw +for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. +She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell +asleep. + +She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the +things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine’s heavy, scraping tread +as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were +clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the +grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking +under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and +heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on—Tonie’s slow, Acadian +drawl, Robert’s quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French +imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of +the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. + +When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and +soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine’s step +was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had +gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over +her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. +Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of +the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon +was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the +shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading +from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become +of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as +she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. + +Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had +placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the +powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the +little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her +eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. + +When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. +She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread +upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for +one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. +Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white +teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. +Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the +low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she +was awake and up. + +An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined +her under the orange tree. + +“How many years have I slept?” she inquired. “The whole island seems +changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and +me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? +and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?” + +He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. + +“You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard +your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed +reading a book. The only evil I couldn’t prevent was to keep a broiled +fowl from drying up.” + +“If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,” said Edna, moving +with him into the house. “But really, what has become of Monsieur +Farival and the others?” + +“Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it +best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn’t have let them. What was I +here for?” + +“I wonder if Léonce will be uneasy!” she speculated, as she seated +herself at table. + +“Of course not; he knows you are with me,” Robert replied, as he busied +himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left +standing on the hearth. + +“Where are Madame Antoine and her son?” asked Edna. + +“Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take +you back in Tonie’s boat whenever you are ready to go.” + +He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle +afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and +sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the +mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was +childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish +with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. + +“Shall we go right away?” she asked, after draining her glass and +brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. + +“The sun isn’t as low as it will be in two hours,” he answered. + +“The sun will be gone in two hours.” + +“Well, let it go; who cares!” + +They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine +came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her +absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not +willingly face any woman except his mother. + +It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the +sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper +and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque +monsters across the grass. + +Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground—that is, he lay upon the +ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. + +Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench +beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound +herself up to the storytelling pitch. + +And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the +_Chênière Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she +had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of +the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to +lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the +click of muffled gold. + +When she and Robert stepped into Tonie’s boat, with the red lateen +sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the +reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. + +XIV + +The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle +said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been +unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken +charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in +bed and asleep for two hours. + +The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him +up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other +chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill +humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, +began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, +soothing him to sleep. + +It was not more than nine o’clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the +children. + +Léonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had +wanted to start at once for the _Chênière_. But Monsieur Farival had +assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, +that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had +thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein’s, +looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to +securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame +Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away +late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She +carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to +remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested +above all things to be left alone. + +When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and +Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child +comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged +from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night. + +“Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert—since +early this morning?” she said at parting. + +“All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night.” + +He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did +not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. + +Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband’s return. She had no desire +to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the +Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices +reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her +mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover +wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer +of her life. She could only realize that she herself—her present +self—was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing +with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in +herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet +suspect. + +She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to +her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong +day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted +that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he +was not absolutely required to leave her. + +As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert +had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with “Ah! _si tu savais_,” +and every verse ended with “_si tu savais_.” + +Robert’s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, +the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. + +XV + +When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her +habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. +Several persons were talking at once, and Victor’s voice was +predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late +from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her +head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. +She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame +Ratignolle. + +As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had +been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her +simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down +and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her +all the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. +She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say +he was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought +nothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in +the afternoon, when she went down to the beach. + +She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who +presided. Edna’s face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she +never thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of +a smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. +“When is he going?” she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert +were not there to answer for himself. + +“To-night!” “This very evening!” “Did you ever!” “What possesses him!” +were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French +and English. + +“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “How can a person start off from Grand +Isle to Mexico at a moment’s notice, as if he were going over to +Klein’s or to the wharf or down to the beach?” + +“I said all along I was going to Mexico; I’ve been saying so for +years!” cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of +a man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects. + +Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle. + +“Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going +to-night,” she called out. “Really, this table is getting to be more +and more like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. +Sometimes—I hope God will forgive me—but positively, sometimes I wish +Victor would lose the power of speech.” + +Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, +of which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might +afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself. + +Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in +mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would +be more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim +for making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a +trifle hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names. + +“There’s nothing much to explain, mother,” he said; though he +explained, nevertheless—looking chiefly at Edna—that he could only meet +the gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and +such a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet +was going out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave +him an opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time. + +“But when did you make up your mind to all this?” demanded Monsieur +Farival. + +“This afternoon,” returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance. + +“At what time this afternoon?” persisted the old gentleman, with +nagging determination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a +court of justice. + +“At four o’clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,” Robert replied, in +a high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some +gentleman on the stage. + +She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking +the flaky bits of a _court bouillon_ with her fork. + +The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to +speak in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were +interesting to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once +received a pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico, +with very special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been +able to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican +border. Father Fochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but +he had not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert +would interest himself, and discover, if possible, whether she was +entitled to the indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican +prayer-beads. + +Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in +dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous +people, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no +injustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally +but one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she +would have trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was +arrested for stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been +hanged or not. + +Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote +about a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in +Dauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival, +who went into convulsions over the droll story. + +Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at +that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or +the Mexicans. + +“At what time do you leave?” she asked Robert. + +“At ten,” he told her. “Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon.” + +“Are you all ready to go?” + +“Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in +the city.” + +He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna, +having finished her black coffee, left the table. + +She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy +after leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be +a hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began +to set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the +quadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed. +She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of +chairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She +changed her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She +rearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then +she went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed. + +They were very playful and inclined to talk—to do anything but lie +quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and +told her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a +story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their +wakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating about the +conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the +following night. + +The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to +have Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr. +Robert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, +that she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the +house later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to +remove her _peignoir_. But changing her mind once more she resumed the +_peignoir_, and went outside and sat down before her door. She was +overheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while. +Madame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter. + +“All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,” replied +Edna, “and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert +starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it +were a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all +morning when he was with me.” + +“Yes,” agreed Madame Ratignolle. “I think it was showing us all—you +especially—very little consideration. It wouldn’t have surprised me in +any of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must +say I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not +coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn’t look friendly.” + +“No,” said Edna, a little sullenly. “I can’t go to the trouble of +dressing again; I don’t feel like it.” + +“You needn’t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your +waist. Just look at me!” + +“No,” persisted Edna; “but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended +if we both stayed away.” + +Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth +rather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation +which was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans. + +Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag. + +“Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked. + +“Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?” + +He lit a match and looked at his watch. “In twenty minutes,” he said. +The sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a +while. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the +porch. + +“Get a chair,” said Edna. + +“This will do,” he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took +it off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of +the heat. + +“Take the fan,” said Edna, offering it to him. + +“Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some +time, and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.” + +“That’s one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never +known one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone?” + +“Forever, perhaps. I don’t know. It depends upon a good many things.” + +“Well, in case it shouldn’t be forever, how long will it be?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don’t like +it. I don’t understand your motive for silence and mystery, never +saying a word to me about it this morning.” He remained silent, not +offering to defend himself. He only said, after a moment: + +“Don’t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of +patience with me before.” + +“I don’t want to part in any ill humor,” she said. “But can’t you +understand? I’ve grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all +the time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don’t even +offer an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of +how pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter.” + +“So was I,” he blurted. “Perhaps that’s the—” He stood up suddenly and +held out his hand. “Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You +won’t—I hope you won’t completely forget me.” She clung to his hand, +striving to detain him. + +“Write to me when you get there, won’t you, Robert?” she entreated. + +“I will, thank you. Good-by.” + +How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something +more emphatic than “I will, thank you; good-by,” to such a request. + +He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, +for he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out +there with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked +away in the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet’s voice; Robert had +apparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion. + +Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to +hide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the +emotion which was troubling—tearing—her. Her eyes were brimming with +tears. + +For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she +had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and +later as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the +poignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of +instability. The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she +was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted +to penetrate. The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture +her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost +that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her +impassioned, newly awakened being demanded. + +XVI + +“Do you miss your friend greatly?” asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning +as she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on +her way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she +had acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle +drew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to +a diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that +she knew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the +shoulder and spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which +was ever in Edna’s mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly +possessed her. + +Robert’s going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the +meaning out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way +changed, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which +seems to be no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere—in +others whom she induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings +to Madame Lebrun’s room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. +She sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed +around the room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, +and discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined +with the keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment +concerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its +pages. + +There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in +her lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone +in the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the +age of five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made +Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long +trousers; while another interested her, taken when he left for college, +looking thin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great +intentions. But there was no recent picture, none which suggested the +Robert who had gone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness +behind him. + +“Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for +them himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,” explained +Madame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New +Orleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to +look for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on +the mantelpiece. + +The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and +attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark, +the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before +opening it. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would +leave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good +shape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be +affectionately remembered to all. There was no special message to Edna +except a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish +the book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in +his room, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang +of jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her. + +Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her +husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert’s departure, +expressed regret that he had gone. + +“How do you get on without him, Edna?” he asked. + +“It’s very dull without him,” she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen +Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where +had they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone “in” +and had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about? +Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought +were promising. How did he look? How did he seem—grave, or gay, or how? +Quite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which +Mr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek +fortune and adventure in a strange, queer country. + +Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children +persisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She +went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not +being more attentive. + +It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be +making of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to +speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way +resembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or +ever expected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to +harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had +never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her +own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them +and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame +Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or +for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women +did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same +language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain. + +“I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give +my life for my children; but I wouldn’t give myself. I can’t make it +more clear; it’s only something which I am beginning to comprehend, +which is revealing itself to me.” + +“I don’t know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by +the unessential,” said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; “but a woman who +would give her life for her children could do no more than that—your +Bible tells you so. I’m sure I couldn’t do more than that.” + +“Oh, yes you could!” laughed Edna. + +She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz’s question the morning that +lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked +if she did not greatly miss her young friend. + +“Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss +Robert. Are you going down to bathe?” + +“Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I +haven’t been in the surf all summer,” replied the woman, disagreeably. + +“I beg your pardon,” offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she +should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz’s avoidance of the water +had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it +was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets +wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water +sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle +offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her +pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually +ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much +nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, +as Madame Lebrun’s table was utterly impossible; and no one save so +impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food +to people and requiring them to pay for it. + +“She must feel very lonely without her son,” said Edna, desiring to +change the subject. “Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite +hard to let him go.” + +Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. + +“Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale +upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has +spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the +ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the +money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for +himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. +I liked to see him and to hear him about the place—the only Lebrun who +is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like +to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It’s a +wonder Robert hasn’t beaten him to death long ago.” + +“I thought he had great patience with his brother,” offered Edna, glad +to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. + +“Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,” said Mademoiselle. +“It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some +sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or +walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket—I don’t +remember what;—and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave +him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order +for a good while. It’s about time he was getting another.” + +“Was her name Mariequita?” asked Edna. + +“Mariequita—yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she’s a +sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!” + +Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have +listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, +almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she +donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the +shade of the children’s tent. The water was growing cooler as the +season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that +thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, +half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her. + +But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and +raved much over Edna’s appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about +music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote +her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she +found in her pocket. + +“When do you leave?” asked Edna. + +“Next Monday; and you?” + +“The following week,” answered Edna, adding, “It has been a pleasant +summer, hasn’t it, Mademoiselle?” + +“Well,” agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, “rather pleasant, if +it hadn’t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins.” + +XVII + +The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in +New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front +veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The +house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, +were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers +and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. +Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. +The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful +draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected +with judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the +silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were the +envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr. +Pontellier. + +Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its +various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He +greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and +derived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a +rare lace curtain—no matter what—after he had bought it and placed it +among his household gods. + +On Tuesday afternoons—Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier’s reception +day—there was a constant stream of callers—women who came in carriages +or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance +permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a +diminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A +maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or +chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome +reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon +receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their +wives. + +This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously +followed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during +the week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play. + +Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten +o’clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the +evening—dinner being served at half-past seven. + +He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few +weeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The +boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet +could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the +quadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not +wear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress. +Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he +served the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting. + +“Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?” he asked. He tasted +his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar, +mustard—everything within reach. + +“There were a good many,” replied Edna, who was eating her soup with +evident satisfaction. “I found their cards when I got home; I was out.” + +“Out!” exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation +in his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her +through his glasses. “Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? +What did you have to do?” + +“Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.” + +“Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,” said her husband, +somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup. + +“No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.” + +“Why, my dear, I should think you’d understand by this time that people +don’t do such things; we’ve got to observe _les convenances_ if we ever +expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you +had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable +explanation for your absence. + +“This soup is really impossible; it’s strange that woman hasn’t learned +yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better +one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?” + +“Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don’t remember who was here.” + +The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver +tray, which was covered with ladies’ visiting cards. He handed it to +Mrs. Pontellier. + +“Give it to Mr. Pontellier,” she said. + +Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup. + +Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife’s callers, reading some of +them aloud, with comments as he read. + +“‘The Misses Delasidas.’ I worked a big deal in futures for their +father this morning; nice girls; it’s time they were getting married. +‘Mrs. Belthrop.’ I tell you what it is, Edna; you can’t afford to snub +Mrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His +business is worth a good, round sum to me. You’d better write her a +note. ‘Mrs. James Highcamp.’ Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. +Highcamp, the better. ‘Madame Laforcé.’ Came all the way from +Carrolton, too, poor old soul. ‘Miss Wiggs,’ ‘Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.’” +He pushed the cards aside. + +“Mercy!” exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. “Why are you taking the +thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?” + +“I’m not making any fuss over it. But it’s just such seeming trifles +that we’ve got to take seriously; such things count.” + +The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she +did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to +his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were +served. + +“It seems to me,” he said, “we spend money enough in this house to +procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his +self-respect.” + +“You used to think the cook was a treasure,” returned Edna, +indifferently. + +“Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They +need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ. +Suppose I didn’t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run +things their own way; they’d soon make a nice mess of me and my +business.” + +“Where are you going?” asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from +table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the +highly-seasoned soup. + +“I’m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.” He went into the +hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house. + +She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her +very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely +deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone +into the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she +went to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening, +finally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a +feeling that, after all, she had accomplished no good that was worth +the name. + +But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced +deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward +fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her +room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was +indisposed. + +It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim +light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open +window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the +mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid +the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and +foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such +sweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not +soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the +stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid +even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and +fro down its whole length without stopping, without resting. She +carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, +rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking +off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying +there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her +small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little +glittering circlet. + +In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung +it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The +crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear. + +A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to +discover what was the matter. + +“A vase fell upon the hearth,” said Edna. “Never mind; leave it till +morning.” + +“Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma’am,” insisted the +young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered +upon the carpet. “And here’s your ring, ma’am, under the chair.” + +Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her +finger. + +XVIII + +The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, +asked Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some +new fixtures for the library. + +“I hardly think we need new fixtures, Léonce. Don’t let us get anything +new; you are too extravagant. I don’t believe you ever think of saving +or putting by.” + +“The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save +it,” he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with +him and select new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she +was not looking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually +pale and very quiet. + +She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently +picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She +inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her +white morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small +“express wagon,” which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The +quadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a +fictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was +crying his wares in the street. + +Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon +her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the +children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, +were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become +antagonistic. + +She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook +concerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had +saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly +fitted. Mr. Pontellier’s arguments were usually convincing with those +whom he employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna +would sit down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to +a dinner deserving of the name. + +Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She +could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her +eyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor. +Finally she gathered together a few of the sketches—those which she +considered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when, +a little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and +distinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her +face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her +heavy, yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a +small, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden +in her hair. + +As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was +still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, +realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like +an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt +upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or +peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which +dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the +mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled +her with an incomprehensible longing. + +Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle’s. Their intimacy, begun at +Grand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some +frequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no +great distance from Edna’s home, on the corner of a side street, where +Monsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a +steady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before +him, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an +enviable reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived +in commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side +within the _porte cochère_. There was something which Edna thought very +French, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large +and pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the +Ratignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a _soirée +musicale_, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend +who played upon the cello. One brought his flute and another his +violin, while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon +the piano with various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles’ +_soirées musicales_ were widely known, and it was considered a +privilege to be invited to them. + +Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had +returned that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her +occupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into +her presence. + +“’Cité can do it as well as I; it is really her business,” she +explained to Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she +summoned a young black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be +very careful in checking off the list which she handed her. She told +her to notice particularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur +Ratignolle’s, which was missing last week, had been returned; and to be +sure to set to one side such pieces as required mending and darning. + +Then placing an arm around Edna’s waist, she led her to the front of +the house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of +great roses that stood upon the hearth in jars. + +Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a +negligé which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich, +melting curves of her white throat. + +“Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,” said Edna +with a smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches +and started to unfold them. “I believe I ought to work again. I feel as +if I wanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you +think it worth while to take it up again and study some more? I might +study for a while with Laidpore.” + +She knew that Madame Ratignolle’s opinion in such a matter would be +next to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but +determined; but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that +would help her to put heart into her venture. + +“Your talent is immense, dear!” + +“Nonsense!” protested Edna, well pleased. + +“Immense, I tell you,” persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the +sketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm’s length, +narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. “Surely, this +Bavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never +have I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to +reach out a hand and take one.” + +Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her +friend’s praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She +retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame +Ratignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly +exhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a +little later for his midday dinner. + +Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the +earth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his +goodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife +spoke English with an accent which was only discernible through its +un-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna’s +husband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles +understood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings +into one has been accomplished on this sphere it was surely in their +union. + +As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, “Better a dinner +of herbs,” though it did not take her long to discover that it was no +dinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every +way satisfying. + +Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her +looking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked +a good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and +neighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that +gave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife +was keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the +better to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth. + +Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little +glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no +regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, +and she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was +moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,—a pity for that +colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the +region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited +her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life’s delirium. +Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by “life’s delirium.” It had +crossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression. + +XIX + +Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, +to have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon +the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such +futile expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she +liked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not +return the visits of those who had called upon her. She made no +ineffectual efforts to conduct her household _en bonne ménagère_, going +and coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending +herself to any passing caprice. + +Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a +certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected +line of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her +absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. +Pontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to +take another step backward. + +“It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a +household, and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days +which would be better employed contriving for the comfort of her +family.” + +“I feel like painting,” answered Edna. “Perhaps I shan’t always feel +like it.” + +“Then in God’s name paint! but don’t let the family go to the devil. +There’s Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn’t +let everything else go to chaos. And she’s more of a musician than you +are a painter.” + +“She isn’t a musician, and I’m not a painter. It isn’t on account of +painting that I let things go.” + +“On account of what, then?” + +“Oh! I don’t know. Let me alone; you bother me.” + +It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier’s mind to wonder if his wife were +not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she +was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming +herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume +like a garment with which to appear before the world. + +Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his +office. Edna went up to her atelier—a bright room in the top of the +house. She was working with great energy and interest, without +accomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her even in the +smallest degree. For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the +service of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at +first, but the occupation soon lost its attractiveness when they +discovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their +entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna’s palette, +patient as a savage, while the house-maid took charge of the children, +and the drawing-room went undusted. But the house-maid, too, served her +term as model when Edna perceived that the young woman’s back and +shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened +from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While Edna worked she +sometimes sang low the little air, “_Ah! si tu savais!_” + +It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the +water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the +bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A +subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold +upon the brushes and making her eyes burn. + +There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was +happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one +with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some +perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and +unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, +fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone +and unmolested. + +There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,—when it did +not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when +life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like +worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not +work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her +blood. + +XX + +It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She +had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by +their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see +her—above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early +in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist. +Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz’s card, and +looking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman +lived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell +into her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the +number indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a +respectable family of mulattoes who had _chambres garnies_ to let. They +had been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a +Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing of any of their +neighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction, +they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions +with Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery store, +feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the +proprietor. + +He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know +her, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know her +at all, or anything concerning her—the most disagreeable and unpopular +woman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had +left the neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know +where she had gone. + +Edna’s desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since +these unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering +who could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly +occurred to her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do +so. She knew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the +most distant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing +concerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing +herself upon the subject as the corner grocer. + +Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the +middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on +Chartres Street. + +Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before +the door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old +_régime_, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side +was a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the +street was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and +stood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted. + +It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her +hands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna +could hear them in altercation, the woman—plainly an anomaly—claiming +the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to +answer the bell. + +Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made +no attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a +dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his +mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black +woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier +desired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty +when she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her +interrupted task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered a +rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity +and incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was, +the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went +mumbling into the house. + +Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side +porch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She +seated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to +rock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew +up his chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman’s +offensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not +there to take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the +morning before, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter +at the island; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got +things ready for the summer visitors. + +But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, +and every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the +city. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn’t +want his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was +scintillant with recollections. Of course, he couldn’t think of telling +Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending +such things. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him +through the shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty! +Certainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs. +Pontellier did not know him if she supposed he was one to let an +opportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the youngster amused +her. She must have betrayed in her look some degree of interest or +entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have +found herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored story +but for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun. + +That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the +summer. Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier +go inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been +there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet +children? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November? + +Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother’s +chair, where he commanded a view of Edna’s face. He had taken her +parasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and +twirled it above him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun +complained that it was _so_ dull coming back to the city; that she saw +_so_ few people now; that even Victor, when he came up from the island +for a day or two, had _so_ much to occupy him and engage his time; then +it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and winked +mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, +and tried to look severe and disapproving. + +There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they +told her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for +the letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He +remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when +put to the test. + +One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of +Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his +advancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over +the one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were +vastly better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the +people and their habits, the conditions of life which he found there. +He sent his love to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and +hoped she would affectionately remember him to all his friends. That +was about the substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had +been a message for her, she would have received it. The despondent +frame of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake her, +and she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz. + +Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the +address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the +remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some +other day. The afternoon was already well advanced. + +Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and +held it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her +to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly +confidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too +late that she should have been dignified and reserved. + +“How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!” said Madame Lebrun to her son. + +“Ravishing!” he admitted. “The city atmosphere has improved her. Some +way she doesn’t seem like the same woman.” + +XXI + +Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose +apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, +peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front +room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always +open it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the +room a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light +and air that there was came through them. From her windows could be +seen the crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys +of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. +In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a +gasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to +descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, +keeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a +hundred years of use. + +When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s front room door and entered, +she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in +mending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed +all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the +face and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, +standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace +and the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head. + +“So you remembered me at last,” said Mademoiselle. “I had said to +myself, ‘Ah, bah! she will never come.’” + +“Did you want me to come?” asked Edna with a smile. + +“I had not thought much about it,” answered Mademoiselle. The two had +seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. +“I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back +there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup +with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! +always contented!” She took Edna’s hand between her strong wiry +fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of +double theme upon the back and palm. + +“Yes,” she went on; “I sometimes thought: ‘She will never come. She +promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She +will not come.’ For I really don’t believe you like me, Mrs. +Pontellier.” + +“I don’t know whether I like you or not,” replied Edna, gazing down at +the little woman with a quizzical look. + +The candor of Mrs. Pontellier’s admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle +Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the +region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised +cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very +acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun’s and +was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she +brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once +again on the lumpy sofa. + +“I have had a letter from your friend,” she remarked, as she poured a +little cream into Edna’s cup and handed it to her. + +“My friend?” + +“Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.” + +“Wrote to _you_?” repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee +absently. + +“Yes, to me. Why not? Don’t stir all the warmth out of your coffee; +drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was +nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.” + +“Let me see it,” requested the young woman, entreatingly. + +“No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one +to whom it is written.” + +“Haven’t you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?” + +“It was written about you, not to you. ‘Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? +How is she looking?’ he asks. ‘As Mrs. Pontellier says,’ or ‘as Mrs. +Pontellier once said.’ ‘If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play +for her that Impromptu of Chopin’s, my favorite. I heard it here a day +or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it +affects her,’ and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each +other’s society.” + +“Let me see the letter.” + +“Oh, no.” + +“Have you answered it?” + +“No.” + +“Let me see the letter.” + +“No, and again, no.” + +“Then play the Impromptu for me.” + +“It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?” + +“Time doesn’t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the +Impromptu.” + +“But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?” + +“Painting!” laughed Edna. “I am becoming an artist. Think of it!” + +“Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.” + +“Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?” + +“I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or +your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many +gifts—absolute gifts—which have not been acquired by one’s own effort. +And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous +soul.” + +“What do you mean by the courageous soul?” + +“Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.” + +“Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have +persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?” + +“It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,” replied +Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. + +The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table +upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the +drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in +Edna’s hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. + +Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat +low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into +ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. +Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening +minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. + +Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the +sofa corner reading Robert’s letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle +had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde’s +song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant +longing. + +The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and +fantastic—turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The +shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the +night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in +the silence of the upper air. + +Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when +strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take +her departure. “May I come again, Mademoiselle?” she asked at the +threshold. + +“Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings +are dark; don’t stumble.” + +Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert’s letter was on the +floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with +tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the +envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. + +XXII + +One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of +his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a +semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He +bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill—leaving the active +practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries—and +was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united +to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the +services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. + +Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his +study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center +of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old +gentleman’s study window. He was a great reader. He stared up +disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, +wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the +morning. + +“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do +you bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray +hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their +brightness but none of their penetration. + +“Oh! I’m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber—of +that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. +I came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you about +Edna. I don’t know what ails her.” + +“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I saw her—I +think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the picture of +health, it seemed to me.” + +“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward +and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she doesn’t act +well. She’s odd, she’s not like herself. I can’t make her out, and I +thought perhaps you’d help me.” + +“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor. + +“Well, it isn’t easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself +back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.” + +“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We’ve got to +consider—” + +“I know that; I told you I couldn’t explain. Her whole attitude—toward +me and everybody and everything—has changed. You know I have a quick +temper, but I don’t want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially +my wife; yet I’m driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after +I’ve made a fool of myself. She’s making it devilishly uncomfortable +for me,” he went on nervously. “She’s got some sort of notion in her +head concerning the eternal rights of women; and—you understand—we meet +in the morning at the breakfast table.” + +The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick +nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned +fingertips. + +“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?” + +“Doing! _Parbleu!_” + +“Has she,” asked the Doctor, with a smile, “has she been associating of +late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women—super-spiritual +superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them.” + +“That’s the trouble,” broke in Mr. Pontellier, “she hasn’t been +associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has +thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, +moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she’s +peculiar. I don’t like it; I feel a little worried over it.” + +This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he asked, +seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?” + +“Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. +The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his +weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his +race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky +farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret—you know Margaret—she has +all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a +vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.” + +“Send your wife up to the wedding,” exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a +happy solution. “Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will +do her good.” + +“That’s what I want her to do. She won’t go to the marriage. She says a +wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing +for a woman to say to her husband!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming +anew at the recollection. + +“Pontellier,” said the Doctor, after a moment’s reflection, “let your +wife alone for a while. Don’t bother her, and don’t let her bother you. +Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism—a +sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to +be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist +to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and +me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. +Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your +wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn’t try to +fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. +Send her around to see me.” + +“Oh! I couldn’t do that; there’d be no reason for it,” objected Mr. +Pontellier. + +“Then I’ll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. “I’ll drop in to +dinner some evening _en bon ami_.” + +“Do! by all means,” urged Mr. Pontellier. “What evening will you come? +Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?” he asked, rising to take his +leave. + +“Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me +Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may +expect me.” + +Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: + +“I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on +hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle +the ribbons. We’ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,” he +laughed. + +“No, I thank you, my dear sir,” returned the Doctor. “I leave such +ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your +blood.” + +“What I wanted to say,” continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the +knob; “I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to +take Edna along?” + +“By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don’t +contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, +two, three months—possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.” + +“Well, good-by, _à jeudi_,” said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. + +The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, +“Is there any man in the case?” but he knew his Creole too well to make +such a blunder as that. + +He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while +meditatively looking out into the garden. + +XXIII + +Edna’s father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She +was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain +tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming +was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new +direction for her emotions. + +He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an +outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at +her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one +immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such +matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress—which too often +assumes the nature of a problem—were of inestimable value to his +father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been +upon Edna’s hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with +a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, +and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had +always accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, +emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and +wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his +shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished +together, and excited a good deal of notice during their +perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her +atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very +seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it +would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had +bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, +which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward +successful achievement. + +Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the +cannon’s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the +children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up +there in their mother’s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned +them away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the +fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. + +Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him, +having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle +declined the invitation. So together they attended a _soirée musicale_ +at the Ratignolles’. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the +Colonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once +to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might +select. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive +manner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the +Colonel’s old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. +Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of +coquetry. + +There were one or two men whom she observed at the _soirée musicale;_ +but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract +their notice—to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward +them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy +selected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an +opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the +glance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had +disturbed her. + +Mr. Pontellier did not attend these _soirées musicales_. He considered +them _bourgeois_, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame +Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her _soirées_ was too +“heavy,” too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse +flattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier’s club, and she +was frank enough to tell Edna so. + +“It’s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn’t stay home more in the evenings. I +think you would be more—well, if you don’t mind my saying it—more +united, if he did.” + +“Oh! dear no!” said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. “What should I +do if he stayed home? We wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.” + +She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but +he did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, +though she realized that he might not interest her long; and for the +first time in her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted +with him. He kept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It +amused her to do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the +children to do anything for him which she might do herself. Her husband +noticed, and thought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment +which he had never suspected. + +The Colonel drank numerous “toddies” during the course of the day, +which left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting +strong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given +fantastic names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse +ingredients that it devolved upon Edna to procure for him. + +When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could +discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her +husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. +She and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when +they seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of +the afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had +not kept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing +in what he called “the good old times” when the Lecompte stables +flourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not +be left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed +to impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with +this trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on +his last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them. +Besides, they had met some very charming people, according to the +Colonel’s impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, +who were there with Alcée Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the +hours in a fashion that warmed him to think of. + +Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, +and was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially +when he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He +endeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and +only succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. +A pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father’s +cause and the Doctor remained neutral. + +He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and +noted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman +he had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with +the forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no +repression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some +beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun. + +The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was +cold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened +unpleasantness melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine. + +Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing +plantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth, +when he hunted ’possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed +the pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in +mischievous idleness. + +The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things, +related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had +acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was +the Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and +curious story of the waning of a woman’s love, seeking strange, new +channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce +unrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been +unfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did +not seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of +a woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and +never came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one +ever heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was +a pure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. +That, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But +every glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel +the hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of +the pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds’ +wings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools; +they could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in +oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown. + +The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks +with Edna’s memory that night. + +Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the +night was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak +across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his +fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so +seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted +Pontellier’s invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest +and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives +thrust upon him. + +“I hope it isn’t Arobin,” he muttered to himself as he walked. “I hope +to heaven it isn’t Alcée Arobin.” + +XXIV + +Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the +subject of her refusal to attend her sister’s wedding. Mr. Pontellier +declined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his +authority. He was following Doctor Mandelet’s advice, and letting her +do as she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of +filial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly +consideration. His arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted +if Janet would accept any excuse—forgetting that Edna had offered none. +He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure +Margaret would not. + +Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off +with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded +shoulders, his Bible reading, his “toddies” and ponderous oaths. + +Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on +his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love +could devise to atone somewhat for Edna’s incomprehensible action. + +“You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Léonce,” asserted the +Colonel. “Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down +good and hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.” + +The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into +her grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought +it needless to mention at that late day. + +Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband’s leaving home as +she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached +when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew +melting and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration +and his repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was +solicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around, +looking after his clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as +Madame Ratignolle would have done under similar circumstances. She +cried when he went away, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was +quite certain she would grow lonely before very long and go to join him +in New York. + +But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found +herself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had +come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The +old madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be +neglected during Léonce’s absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She +was hungry for them—even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not +want them to be wholly “children of the pavement,” she always said when +begging to have them for a space. She wished them to know the country, +with its streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to +the young. She wished them to taste something of the life their father +had lived and known and loved when he, too, was a little child. + +When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of +relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. +She walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if +inspecting it for the first time. She tried the various chairs and +lounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she +perambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to +see if windows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were +like new acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and +made herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna +called to the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she +stayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead, +dry leaves. The children’s little dog came out, interfering, getting in +her way. She scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden +smelled so good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna +plucked all the bright flowers she could find, and went into the house +with them, she and the little dog. + +Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had +never before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to +say that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they +would require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and +groceries. She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied +during Mr. Pontellier’s absence, and she begged her to take all thought +and responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders. + +That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the +center of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle +of light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and +shadowy. The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast—a +luscious tenderloin broiled _à point_. The wine tasted good; the +_marron glacé_ seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, +too, to dine in a comfortable _peignoir_. + +She thought a little sentimentally about Léonce and the children, and +wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the +doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was +beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable +advances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks +and a lively agitation. + +Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she +grew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and +determined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that +her time was completely her own to do with as she liked. + +After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled +comfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, +such as she had not known before. + +XXV + +When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed +the sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had +reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, +working, when in the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of +ambition, and striving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction +from the work in itself. + +On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the +friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors and +nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own +comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as +if life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. +Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by +fresh promises which her youth held out to her. + +She went again to the races, and again. Alcée Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp +called for her one bright afternoon in Arobin’s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was +a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the +forties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had +a daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of +young men of fashion. Alcée Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar +figure at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was +a perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a +corresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listened +to his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little +insolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened +with depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the +conventional man of fashion. + +He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her +father. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to +him unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. +Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to +witness the turf event of the season. + +There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse +as well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She +sat between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She +laughed at Arobin’s pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp’s +ignorance. The race horse was a friend and intimate associate of her +childhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the blue +grass paddock revived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She +did not perceive that she was talking like her father as the sleek +geldings ambled in review before them. She played for very high stakes, +and fortune favored her. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and +eyes, and it got into her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. +People turned their heads to look at her, and more than one lent an +attentive ear to her utterances, hoping thereby to secure the elusive +but ever-desired “tip.” Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which +drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, +unmoved, with her indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows. + +Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so. +Arobin also remained and sent away his drag. + +The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts +of Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her +daughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed +by going to the “Dante reading” instead of joining them. The girl held +a geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and +noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only +talked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of +delicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed +most of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after +dinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; while +the younger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. Miss +Highcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed +to have apprehended all of the composer’s coldness and none of his +poetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had +lost her taste for music. + +When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame +offer to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless +concern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it +was late when they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to +enter for a second to light his cigarette—his match safe was empty. He +filled his match safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left +her, after she had expressed her willingness to go to the races with +him again. + +Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the +Highcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She +rummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some +crackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. +Edna felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a +fantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and +munched a cracker. + +She wanted something to happen—something, anything; she did not know +what. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour to +talk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But +there was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for +hours in a sort of monotonous agitation. + +In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to +write her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next +day and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide +awake composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote +next day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of +Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on +Canal Street, while his wife was saying to Alcée Arobin, as they +boarded an Esplanade Street car: + +“What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go.” + +When, a few days later, Alcée Arobin again called for Edna in his drag, +Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as +that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she +was not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the +meeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not +accompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were +any one else she cared to ask. + +She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the +fashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She +thought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not +leave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with +her husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at +such a request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, +but for some reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and +Arobin. + +The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came +back upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and +confidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His +manner invited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming +acquainted was one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty +and engaging woman was concerned. + +He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. +They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling +her how different life might have been if he had known her years +before. With ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, +ill-disciplined boy he had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to +exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber cut which he had received +in a duel outside of Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand +as she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A +quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close +in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed +nails in the flesh of his palm. + +She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel. + +“The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,” she +said. “I shouldn’t have looked at it.” + +“I beg your pardon,” he entreated, following her; “it never occurred to +me that it might be repulsive.” + +He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, +vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw +enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he +said his lingering good night. + +“Will you go to the races again?” he asked. + +“No,” she said. “I’ve had enough of the races. I don’t want to lose all +the money I’ve won, and I’ve got to work when the weather is bright, +instead of—” + +“Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning +may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?” + +“No!” + +“Day after?” + +“No, no.” + +“Oh, please don’t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might +help you with a stray suggestion or two.” + +“No. Good night. Why don’t you go after you have said good night? I +don’t like you,” she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting to +draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and +sincerity, and she knew that he felt it. + +“I’m sorry you don’t like me. I’m sorry I offended you. How have I +offended you? What have I done? Can’t you forgive me?” And he bent and +pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw +them. + +“Mr. Arobin,” she complained, “I’m greatly upset by the excitement of +the afternoon; I’m not myself. My manner must have misled you in some +way. I wish you to go, please.” She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone. +He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, +looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive +silence. + +“Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said finally. “My +own emotions have done that. I couldn’t help it. When I’m near you, how +could I help it? Don’t think anything of it, don’t bother, please. You +see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do +so. If you let me come back, I—oh! you will let me come back?” + +He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. +Alcée Arobin’s manner was so genuine that it often deceived even +himself. + +Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was +alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had +kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She +felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into +an act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without +being wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely +through her mind, “What would he think?” + +She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her +husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without +love as an excuse. + +She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcée Arobin was absolutely +nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his +glances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted +like a narcotic upon her. + +She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams. + +XXVI + +Alcée Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with +sincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it +appeared to her absurd that she should have taken his action so +seriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the +whole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored +his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she +replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the +impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his +influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one’s hand kissed. +She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as +light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she +would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the +inclination and his business gave him the opportunity. + +He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his +disarming naïveté. And then there was scarcely a day which followed +that she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in +pretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and +tacit adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, +which were as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. +They became intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by +leaps. He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and +brought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, +appealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her. + +There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna’s senses as a +visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that +personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine +art, seemed to reach Edna’s spirit and set it free. + +It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna +climbed the stairs to the pianist’s apartments under the roof. Her +clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as +she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that +smoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring +to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and +dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood +of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. + +“Ah! here comes the sunlight!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her +knees before the stove. “Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can +let the fire alone.” + +She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in +removing Edna’s dripping mackintosh. + +“You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But +would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the +bottle which you brought me for my cold.” A piece of red flannel was +wrapped around Mademoiselle’s throat; a stiff neck compelled her to +hold her head on one side. + +“I will take some brandy,” said Edna, shivering as she removed her +gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man +would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she +said, “Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade +Street.” + +“Ah!” ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially +interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was +endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from +its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking +a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their +accustomed place. + +“Aren’t you astonished?” + +“Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your +father in Mississippi? where?” + +“Just two steps away,” laughed Edna, “in a little four-room house +around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever +I pass by; and it’s for rent. I’m tired looking after that big house. +It never seemed like mine, anyway—like home. It’s too much trouble. I +have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them.” + +“That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling +me lies. I don’t know your reason, but you have not told me the truth.” +Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. + +“The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn’t that +enough reason?” + +“They are your husband’s,” returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a +malicious elevation of the eyebrows. + +“Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a +caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother’s estate, which +my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the +races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and +more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. +I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease +and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through +Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one +servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will +come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the +feeling of freedom and independence.” + +“What does your husband say?” + +“I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will +think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so.” + +Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. “Your reason is not yet clear to +me,” she said. + +Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as +she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away +her husband’s bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know +how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an +understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust +themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again +to belong to another than herself. + +“I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!” Edna +exclaimed. “You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you +everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh +and be merry for once.” And she uttered a sigh that came from the very +depths of her being. + +If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during +the interval of Edna’s visits, she would give her the letter +unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her +humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter. + +The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the +tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, +and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven +and handed it to Edna. + +“Another! so soon!” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. “Tell +me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?” + +“Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me +again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he +send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor +fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to +him or to belong to him.” + +“Why do you show me his letters, then?” + +“Haven’t you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot +deceive me,” and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and +began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it +in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an +effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It +prepared her for joy and exultation. + +“Oh!” she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. “Why did you +not tell me?” She went and grasped Mademoiselle’s hands up from the +keys. “Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?” + +“That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not +come long ago.” + +“But when, when?” cried Edna, impatiently. “He does not say when.” + +“He says ‘very soon.’ You know as much about it as I do; it is all in +the letter.” + +“But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought—” and she snatched the +letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, +looking for the reason, which was left untold. + +“If I were young and in love with a man,” said Mademoiselle, turning on +the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked +down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, “it seems to me +he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and +ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice +of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should +never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.” + +“Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, +Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing +about it. Why,” went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into +Mademoiselle’s twisted face, “do you suppose a woman knows why she +loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: ‘Go to! Here is a +distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall +proceed to fall in love with him.’ Or, ‘I shall set my heart upon this +musician, whose fame is on every tongue?’ Or, ‘This financier, who +controls the world’s money markets?’ + +“You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love +with Robert?” + +“Yes,” said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow +overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. + +“Why?” asked her companion. “Why do you love him when you ought not +to?” + +Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before +Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. + +“Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; +because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of +drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger +which he can’t straighten from having played baseball too energetically +in his youth. Because—” + +“Because you do, in short,” laughed Mademoiselle. “What will you do +when he comes back?” she asked. + +“Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.” + +She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his +return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours +before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the +streets on her way home. + +She stopped at a confectioner’s and ordered a huge box of bonbons for +the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she +scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. + +Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her +husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the +little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before +leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with +the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was +brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. + +XXVII + +“What is the matter with you?” asked Arobin that evening. “I never +found you in such a happy mood.” Edna was tired by that time, and was +reclining on the lounge before the fire. + +“Don’t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun +pretty soon?” + +“Well, that ought to be reason enough,” he acquiesced. “You wouldn’t +give me another if I sat here all night imploring you.” He sat close to +her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the +hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his +fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. + +“One of these days,” she said, “I’m going to pull myself together for a +while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, +candidly, I don’t know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I +am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can’t +convince myself that I am. I must think about it.” + +“Don’t. What’s the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I +can tell you what manner of woman you are.” His fingers strayed +occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was +growing a little full and double. + +“Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is +captivating. Spare yourself the effort.” + +“No; I shan’t tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn’t be +lying if I did.” + +“Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?” she asked irrelevantly. + +“The pianist? I know her by sight. I’ve heard her play.” + +“She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t +notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.” + +“For instance?” + +“Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me +and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. +‘The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and +prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the +weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.’” + +“Whither would you soar?” + +“I’m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend +her.” + +“I’ve heard she’s partially demented,” said Arobin. + +“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied. + +“I’m told she’s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you +introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?” + +“Oh! talk of me if you like,” cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath +her head; “but let me think of something else while you do.” + +“I’m jealous of your thoughts to-night. They’re making you a little +kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if +they were not here with me.” She only looked at him and smiled. His +eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended +across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They +continued silently to look into each other’s eyes. When he leaned +forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. + +It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really +responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. + +XXVIII + +Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one +phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was +with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the +shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband’s +reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he +had provided for her external existence. There was Robert’s reproach +making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which +had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. +She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to +look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up +of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which +assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull +pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed +her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her +lips. + +XXIX + +Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his +opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for +quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house +around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that +direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose +between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning +following those hours passed in Arobin’s society, Edna set about +securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. +Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and +lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a +thousand muffled voices bade her begone. + +Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired +aside from her husband’s bounty, she caused to be transported to the +other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own +resources. + +Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the +house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and +robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, +with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to +protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, +unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the +front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in +unceremoniously. + +“Come down!” he said. “Do you want to kill yourself?” She greeted him +with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. + +If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging +in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. + +He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the +foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to +the situation which confronted him. + +“Please come down,” he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at +her. + +“No,” she answered; “Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is +working over at the ‘pigeon house’—that’s the name Ellen gives it, +because it’s so small and looks like a pigeon house—and some one has to +do this.” + +Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to +tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and +went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to +control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as +he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened +it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, +unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna +directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to +wash his hands. + +Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather +duster along the carpet when he came in again. + +“Is there anything more you will let me do?” he asked. + +“That is all,” she answered. “Ellen can manage the rest.” She kept the +young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone +with Arobin. + +“What about the dinner?” he asked; “the grand event, the _coup +d’état?_” + +“It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the ‘_coup +d’état?_’ Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything—crystal, +silver and gold, Sèvres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I’ll +let Léonce pay the bills. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees the +bills.” + +“And you ask me why I call it a _coup d’état?_” Arobin had put on his +coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She +told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. + +“When do you go to the ‘pigeon house?’—with all due acknowledgment to +Ellen.” + +“Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.” + +“Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?” asked Arobin. +“The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a +thing, has parched my throat to a crisp.” + +“While Ellen gets the water,” said Edna, rising, “I will say good-by +and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million +things to do and think of.” + +“When shall I see you?” asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid +having left the room. + +“At the dinner, of course. You are invited.” + +“Not before?—not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or +night? or the day after morning or noon? Can’t you see yourself, +without my telling you, what an eternity it is?” + +He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, +looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. + +“Not an instant sooner,” she said. But she laughed and looked at him +with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to +wait. + +XXX + +Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in +truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests +invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted +upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, +forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree +_souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun +would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only +ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. + +There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in +the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a +shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people’s witticisms, and +had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had +accompanied them. Of course, there was Alcée Arobin; and Mademoiselle +Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets +with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought +himself and his wife’s excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in +the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a +Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through +lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that +she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a +_nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of +Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing +special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet +and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight +they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on +either side of their hostess. + +Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. +Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle +Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle. + +There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the +table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin +under strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass +candelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant +roses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had +said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which +the women wore. + +The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion +and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be +collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly +diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes +hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. + +“Something new, Edna?” exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed +toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost +sputtered, in Edna’s hair, just over the center of her forehead. + +“Quite new; ‘brand’ new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived +this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my +birthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink +my health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, +composed—would you say ‘composed?’” with an appeal to Miss +Mayblunt—“composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet’s wedding.” + +Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a +garnet gem. + +“Then, all things considered,” spoke Arobin, “it might not be amiss to +start out by drinking the Colonel’s health in the cocktail which he +composed, on the birthday of the most charming of women—the daughter +whom he invented.” + +Mr. Merriman’s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so +contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that +never slackened. + +Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched +before her, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare +it to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted +were unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck +to it. + +Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the _mets_, +the _entre-mets_, the service, the decorations, even the people. He +looked up from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to +the gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and +Arobin, lawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm +personal friend, who permitted Arobin’s name to decorate the firm’s +letterheads and to appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street. + +“There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,” said +Arobin, “that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these +days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.” Monsieur +Ratignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she +considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set +the previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in +French, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but +characteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the +symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians +of New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be +centered upon the delicacies placed before her. + +Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin’s remark about inquisitive people +reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles +Hotel—but as Mr. Merriman’s stories were always lame and lacking point, +his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to +ask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought +the week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking “books” +with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon +current literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man +privately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to +think it extremely clever. + +Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm +and impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her +attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating +herself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier +and more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy +indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the +occasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an +agreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption to the +conversation. Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could +be heard; the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of +jessamine that came through the open windows. + +The golden shimmer of Edna’s satin gown spread in rich folds on either +side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It +was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints +that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something +in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head +against the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the +regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone. + +But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking +her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her +like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. +It was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to +issue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over +her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision +the presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense +of the unattainable. + +The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around +the circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people +together with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to +break the pleasant charm. At ten o’clock he excused himself. Madame +Ratignolle was waiting for him at home. She was _bien souffrante_, and +she was filled with vague dread, which only her husband’s presence +could allay. + +Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to +escort her to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good, +rich wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed +pleasantly to all as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the +shoulder, and whispered: “_Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage_.” She had +been a little bewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her +cushions, and Monsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her +away. + +Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she +had finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor’s black +curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a +glass of champagne to the light. + +As if a magician’s wand had touched him, the garland of roses +transformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the +color of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing +fire. + +“_Sapristi!_” exclaimed Arobin. + +But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took +from the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had +covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it +across the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, +conventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to +him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he +continued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of +champagne. + +“Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!” exclaimed Miss +Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him. + + “‘There was a graven image of Desire + Painted with red blood on a ground of gold.’” + +murmured Gouvernail, under his breath. + +The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed +volubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a +reverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead. + +“Sing,” entreated Mrs. Highcamp. “Won’t you sing to us?” + +“Let him alone,” said Arobin. + +“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman; “let him have it out.” + +“I believe he’s paralyzed,” laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the +youth’s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his +lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she +laid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy +handkerchief. + +“Yes, I’ll sing for you,” he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs. +Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the +ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning +an instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing: + + “Ah! si tu savais!” + +“Stop!” she cried, “don’t sing that. I don’t want you to sing it,” and +she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to +shatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin’s legs and +some of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp’s black gauze gown. Victor +had lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not +in earnest, for he laughed and went on: + + “Ah! si tu savais + Ce que tes yeux me disent”— + +“Oh! you mustn’t! you mustn’t,” exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her +chair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth. +He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips. + +“No, no, I won’t, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn’t know you meant it,” looking +up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a +pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his +head and flung it across the room. + +“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.” + +Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. +Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it +was time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it +could be so late. + +Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her +daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and +sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention +to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented +itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. + +The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness +had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna’s +disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony +of the night. + +XXXI + +“Well?” questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others +had departed. + +“Well,” she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling +the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. + +“What next?” he asked. + +“The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have +dismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot +around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the +morning to straighten things up.” + +He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights. + +“What about upstairs?” he inquired. + +“I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. +We had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my +wrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room.” + +He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. +She hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found +her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on. + +When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through +the front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried +for Edna. He helped her down the steps. + +“Will you have a spray of jessamine?” he asked, breaking off a few +blossoms as he passed. + +“No; I don’t want anything.” + +She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, +which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the +other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving +in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. +There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and +the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. + +The “pigeon house” stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_ +that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon +which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly +into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room +for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. + +Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in +making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on +the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, +covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful +pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise +to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them +during Edna’s absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small +passage were the dining-room and kitchen. + +Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. + +“Are you tired?” he asked. + +“Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a +certain pitch—too tight—and something inside of me had snapped.” She +rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. + +“You want to rest,” he said, “and to be quiet. I’ll go; I’ll leave you +and let you rest.” + +“Yes,” she replied. + +He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic +hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could +have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand +over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. + +“I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning,” he said. “You +have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last +straw; you might have dispensed with it.” + +“Yes,” she admitted; “it was stupid.” + +“No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out.” His hand had strayed +to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh +to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon +the shoulder. + +“I thought you were going away,” she said, in an uneven voice. + +“I am, after I have said good night.” + +“Good night,” she murmured. + +He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say +good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive +entreaties. + +XXXII + +When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife’s intention to abandon her home +and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter +of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons +which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not +acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, +foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not +dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing +which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection +with his wife’s name or his own. He was simply thinking of his +financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had +met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _ménage_ on a +humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his +business prospects. + +But remembering Edna’s whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing +that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he +grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his +well-known business tact and cleverness. + +The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried +instructions—the most minute instructions—to a well-known architect +concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long +contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary +absence. + +Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the +furniture, carpets, pictures—everything movable, in short—to places of +security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was +turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition—a small +snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be +put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. + +Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the +effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn +abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was +undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy +until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! + +Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to +balk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier +was accepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that +it should be so. + +The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character +of a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it +reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having +descended in the social scale, with a corresponding sense of having +risen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving +herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an +individual. She began to look with her own eyes; to see and to +apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content +to “feed upon opinion” when her own soul had invited her. + +After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a +week with her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, +with all the summer’s promise hovering in the air. + +How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when +she felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks +pressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces +with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what +stories they had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the +mules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake +with their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie’s little black +brood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand +times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie’s real fire than +to drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street! + +She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the +darkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in +the back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all +of herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young +existence. They listened, breathless, when she told them the house in +Esplanade Street was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, +and filling the place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed +was; what had been done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe +sleep, and where had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they +were fired with a desire to see the little house around the block. Was +there any place to play? Were there any boys next door? Raoul, with +pessimistic foreboding, was convinced that there were only girls next +door. Where would they sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them +the fairies would fix it all right. + +The old Madame was charmed with Edna’s visit, and showered all manner +of delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the +Esplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the +promise and pretext to keep the children indefinitely. + +It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She +carried away with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their +cheeks. All along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her +like the memory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained +the city the song no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone. + +XXXIII + +It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that the +little musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some small +necessary household purchase. The key was always left in a secret +hiding-place in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to +be away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her return. + +When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s door one afternoon there was +no response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found the +apartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled +up, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that +she sought out her friend. + +She had worked at her canvas—a young Italian character study—all the +morning, completing the work without the model; but there had been many +interruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others of +a social nature. + +Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public +thoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her +much of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the +little house and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to +hear all about the dinner party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left _so_ +early. What had happened after he left? The champagne and grapes which +Edna sent over were _too_ delicious. She had so little appetite; they +had refreshed and toned her stomach. Where on earth was she going to +put Mr. Pontellier in that little house, and the boys? And then she +made Edna promise to go to her when her hour of trial overtook her. + +“At any time—any time of the day or night, dear,” Edna assured her. + +Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said: + +“In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without +a certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That is +the reason I want to say you mustn’t mind if I advise you to be a +little careful while you are living here alone. Why don’t you have some +one come and stay with you? Wouldn’t Mademoiselle Reisz come?” + +“No; she wouldn’t wish to come, and I shouldn’t want her always with +me.” + +“Well, the reason—you know how evil-minded the world is—some one was +talking of Alcée Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn’t matter if +Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle was +telling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a +woman’s name.” + +“Does he boast of his successes?” asked Edna, indifferently, squinting +at her picture. + +“No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes. +But his character is so well known among the men. I shan’t be able to +come back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day.” + +“Mind the step!” cried Edna. + +“Don’t neglect me,” entreated Madame Ratignolle; “and don’t mind what I +said about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you.” + +“Of course not,” Edna laughed. “You may say anything you like to me.” +They kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to go, +and Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the street. + +Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their +“party call.” Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the +formality. They had also come to invite her to play _vingt-et-un_ one +evening at Mrs. Merriman’s. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and +Mr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in a +half-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and +Mrs. Merriman. + +Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and +stayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade +her with the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room. + +Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops and across +the river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers, and she +sat and picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm, +and the breeze which blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed +her hat and laid it on the piano. She went on picking the leaves and +digging around the plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heard +Mademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, who came +in, bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she deposited in the +adjoining room, and went away. + +Edna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one hand +the bars of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half-hour +went by. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in +the lower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking +out the aria, when there was a second rap at the door. She vaguely +wondered what these people did when they found Mademoiselle’s door +locked. + +“Come in,” she called, turning her face toward the door. And this time +it was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise; she +could not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered +her at sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming, +“Why, Robert!” + +He came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he was +saying or doing. + +“Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen—oh! how well you look! Is +Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.” + +“When did you come back?” asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping her +face with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool, +and he begged her to take the chair by the window. + +She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool. + +“I returned day before yesterday,” he answered, while he leaned his arm +on the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound. + +“Day before yesterday!” she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking to +herself, “day before yesterday,” in a sort of an uncomprehending way. +She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had +lived under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by +accident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she +said, “Poor fool, he loves you.” + +“Day before yesterday,” she repeated, breaking off a spray of +Mademoiselle’s geranium; “then if you had not met me here to-day you +wouldn’t—when—that is, didn’t you mean to come and see me?” + +“Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many +things—” he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle’s music nervously. “I +started in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is as +much chance for me here as there was there—that is, I might find it +profitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial.” + +So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because +business was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and +not because he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on +the floor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which +was left untold. + +She had not noticed how he looked—only feeling his presence; but she +turned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but +a few months, and was not changed. His hair—the color of hers—waved +back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more +burned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he +looked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an +added warmth and entreaty which had not been there before—the same +glance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and +awakened them. + +A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert’s return, and imagined their +first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her +out at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way +his love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet +apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and +smelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying: + +“I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier’s absence; it’s a +wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving—mother told +me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him, +or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with +housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan’t have you +at Grand Isle next summer; it won’t seem—do you see much of +Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she +wrote.” + +“Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?” +A flush overspread his whole face. + +“I couldn’t believe that my letters would be of any interest to you.” + +“That is an excuse; it isn’t the truth.” Edna reached for her hat on +the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil +of hair with some deliberation. + +“Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?” asked Robert. + +“No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to +come back till late.” She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his +hat. + +“Won’t you wait for her?” asked Edna. + +“Not if you think she will not be back till late,” adding, as if +suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, “and I should miss +the pleasure of walking home with you.” Edna locked the door and put +the key back in its hiding-place. + +They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and +sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of +the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the +Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert +had never known the house, and looked at it with interest. + +“I never knew you in your home,” he remarked. + +“I am glad you did not.” + +“Why?” She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it +seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed +her into the little house. + +“You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it +is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you.” + +She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some +excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something +about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; +it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking +pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside +and seated himself. + +“Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!” he exclaimed. All the +softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his +shoulder. + +“This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I’ll go +tell Celestine.” She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra +place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she +had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in +dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn. + +When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and +things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a +photograph, and exclaimed: + +“Alcée Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?” + +“I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,” answered Edna, “and he +thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I +thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my +drawing materials.” + +“I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with +it.” + +“Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning +them. They don’t amount to anything.” Robert kept on looking at the +picture. + +“It seems to me—do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of +Mr. Pontellier’s? You never said you knew him.” + +“He isn’t a friend of Mr. Pontellier’s; he’s a friend of mine. I always +knew him—that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. But +I’d rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doing +and feeling out there in Mexico.” Robert threw aside the picture. + +“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the +quiet, grassy street of the _Chênière;_ the old fort at Grande Terre. +I’ve been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There +was nothing interesting.” + +She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light. + +“And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days?” +he asked. + +“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the +quiet, grassy street of the _Chênière Caminada;_ the old sunny fort at +Grande Terre. I’ve been working with a little more comprehension than a +machine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing +interesting.” + +“Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel,” he said, with feeling, closing his +eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silence +till old Celestine announced dinner. + +XXXIV + +The dining-room was very small. Edna’s round mahogany would have almost +filled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table +to the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that +opened out on the narrow brick-paved yard. + +A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of +dinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents +of his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest +him, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary +quality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out to +purchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana _tignon_ twisted about her +head, hobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and +she lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had +known as a boy. + +He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, +and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black +coffee in the parlor. + +“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back,” he said. “When you are tired of +me, tell me to go.” + +“You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at +Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being +together.” + +“I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,” he said, not looking at her, +but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon the +table, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork +of a woman. + +“You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,” said Edna, picking +up the pouch and examining the needlework. + +“Yes; it was lost.” + +“Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?” + +“It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,” he +replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette. + +“They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very +picturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.” + +“Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere.” + +“What was she like—the one who gave you the pouch? You must have known +her very well.” + +“She was very ordinary. She wasn’t of the slightest importance. I knew +her well enough.” + +“Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know +and hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made on +you.” + +“There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the +imprint of an oar upon the water.” + +“Was she such a one?” + +“It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and +kind.” He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away the +subject with the trifle which had brought it up. + +Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that the +card party was postponed on account of the illness of one of her +children. + +“How do you do, Arobin?” said Robert, rising from the obscurity. + +“Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they +treat you down in Mexique?” + +“Fairly well.” + +“But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in +Mexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was +down there a couple of years ago.” + +“Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and +things for you?” asked Edna. + +“Oh! my! no! I didn’t get so deep in their regard. I fear they made +more impression on me than I made on them.” + +“You were less fortunate than Robert, then.” + +“I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender +confidences?” + +“I’ve been imposing myself long enough,” said Robert, rising, and +shaking hands with Edna. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier +when you write.” + +He shook hands with Arobin and went away. + +“Fine fellow, that Lebrun,” said Arobin when Robert had gone. “I never +heard you speak of him.” + +“I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,” she replied. “Here is that +photograph of yours. Don’t you want it?” + +“What do I want with it? Throw it away.” She threw it back on the +table. + +“I’m not going to Mrs. Merriman’s,” she said. “If you see her, tell her +so. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and say +that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me.” + +“It would be a good scheme,” acquiesced Arobin. “I don’t blame you; +stupid lot!” + +Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to +write the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he +had in his pocket. + +“What is the date?” she asked. He told her. + +“Will you mail this for me when you go out?” + +“Certainly.” He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she +straightened things on the table. + +“What do you want to do?” he asked, throwing aside the paper. “Do you +want to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a fine +night to drive.” + +“No; I don’t want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and +amuse yourself. Don’t stay.” + +“I’ll go away if I must; but I shan’t amuse myself. You know that I +only live when I am near you.” + +He stood up to bid her good night. + +“Is that one of the things you always say to women?” + +“I have said it before, but I don’t think I ever came so near meaning +it,” he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes; +only a dreamy, absent look. + +“Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,” he said, and he kissed her hand +and went away. + +She stayed alone in a kind of reverie—a sort of stupor. Step by step +she lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after +he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz’s door. She recalled his words, his +looks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A +vision—a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before +her. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come +back. He had not said he would come back. She had been with him, had +heard his voice and touched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearer +to her off there in Mexico. + +XXXV + +The morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her no +denial—only the promise of excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, with +bright eyes full of speculation. “He loves you, poor fool.” If she +could but get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered +about the rest? She felt she had been childish and unwise the night +before in giving herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the +motives which no doubt explained Robert’s reserve. They were not +insurmountable; they would not hold if he really loved her; they could +not hold against her own passion, which he must come to realize in +time. She pictured him going to his business that morning. She even saw +how he was dressed; how he walked down one street, and turned the +corner of another; saw him bending over his desk, talking to people who +entered the office, going to his lunch, and perhaps watching for her on +the street. He would come to her in the afternoon or evening, sit and +roll his cigarette, talk a little, and go away as he had done the night +before. But how delicious it would be to have him there with her! She +would have no regrets, nor seek to penetrate his reserve if he still +chose to wear it. + +Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her a +delicious printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her to +send him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten +tiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Lidie’s big white pig. + +A letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back early +in March, and then they would get ready for that journey abroad which +he had promised her so long, which he felt now fully able to afford; he +felt able to travel as people should, without any thought of small +economies—thanks to his recent speculations in Wall Street. + +Much to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written at +midnight from the club. It was to say good morning to her, to hope she +had slept well, to assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she in +some faintest manner returned. + +All these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in a +cheerful frame of mind, promising them bonbons, and congratulating them +upon their happy find of the little pigs. + +She answered her husband with friendly evasiveness,—not with any fixed +design to mislead him, only because all sense of reality had gone out +of her life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited the +consequences with indifference. + +To Arobin’s note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine’s +stove-lid. + +Edna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a +picture dealer, who asked her if it were true that she was going abroad +to study in Paris. + +She said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for some +Parisian studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in +December. + +Robert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did not +come the following day, nor the next. Each morning she awoke with hope, +and each night she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seek +him out. But far from yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasion +which might throw her in his way. She did not go to Mademoiselle +Reisz’s nor pass by Madame Lebrun’s, as she might have done if he had +still been in Mexico. + +When Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went—out to +the lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, and even a +little unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along, +and the quick, sharp sound of the horses’ hoofs on the hard road. They +did not stop anywhere to eat or to drink. Arobin was not needlessly +imprudent. But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna’s little +dining-room—which was comparatively early in the evening. + +It was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing +whim with Arobin to see her and be with her. He had detected the latent +sensuality, which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature’s +requirements like a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom. + +There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there +hope when she awoke in the morning. + +XXXVI + +There was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with a +few green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on +the stone step in the sun, and an old _mulatresse_ slept her idle hours +away in her chair at the open window, till some one happened to knock +on one of the green tables. She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and +bread and butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee +or fry a chicken so golden brown as she. + +The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion, +and so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search of +pleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day +when the high-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green +table, blotched with the checkered sunlight that filtered through the +quivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumbering +_mulatresse_, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of +the milk she had tasted in Iberville. + +She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a +book with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she +found the place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there +alone, having instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at +home. It was the last place in the city where she would have expected +to meet any one she knew. + +Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest +dinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking the +cat, which had made friends with her—she was not greatly astonished to +see Robert come in at the tall garden gate. + +“I am destined to see you only by accident,” she said, shoving the cat +off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost +embarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly. + +“Do you come here often?” he asked. + +“I almost live here,” she said. + +“I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche’s good coffee. This +is the first time since I came back.” + +“She’ll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There’s always +enough for two—even three.” Edna had intended to be indifferent and as +reserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by a +laborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods. +But her resolve melted when she saw him before designing Providence had +led him into her path. + +“Why have you kept away from me, Robert?” she asked, closing the book +that lay open upon the table. + +“Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to +idiotic subterfuges?” he exclaimed with sudden warmth. “I suppose +there’s no use telling you I’ve been very busy, or that I’ve been sick, +or that I’ve been to see you and not found you at home. Please let me +off with any one of these excuses.” + +“You are the embodiment of selfishness,” she said. “You save yourself +something—I don’t know what—but there is some selfish motive, and in +sparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I think, or how I +feel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would +call unwomanly; but I have got into a habit of expressing myself. It +doesn’t matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like.” + +“No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe not +intentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into disclosures +which can result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound for +the pleasure of looking at it, without the intention or power of +healing it.” + +“I’m spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven’t +eaten a morsel.” + +“I only came in for a cup of coffee.” His sensitive face was all +disfigured with excitement. + +“Isn’t this a delightful place?” she remarked. “I am so glad it has +never actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Do you +notice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It’s so out of the way; +and a good walk from the car. However, I don’t mind walking. I always +feel so sorry for women who don’t like to walk; they miss so much—so +many rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life +on the whole. + +“Catiche’s coffee is always hot. I don’t know how she manages it, here +in the open air. Celestine’s coffee gets cold bringing it from the +kitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet? +Take some of the cress with your chop; it’s so biting and crisp. Then +there’s the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here. +Now, in the city—aren’t you going to smoke?” + +“After a while,” he said, laying a cigar on the table. + +“Who gave it to you?” she laughed. + +“I bought it. I suppose I’m getting reckless; I bought a whole box.” +She was determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable. + +The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked +his cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He +looked at Edna’s book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to +save her the trouble of wading through it, he said. + +Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when +they reached the little “pigeon-house.” She did not ask him to remain, +which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the +discomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of +considering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her +room to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands. + +When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines +as before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair +as if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging +the books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She +bent over the arm of his chair and called his name. + +“Robert,” she said, “are you asleep?” + +“No,” he answered, looking up at her. + +She leaned over and kissed him—a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose +voluptuous sting penetrated his whole being—then she moved away from +him. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to +him. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her +own. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips +again. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand +in both of his. + +“Now you know,” he said, “now you know what I have been fighting +against since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove +me back again.” + +“Why have you been fighting against it?” she asked. Her face glowed +with soft lights. + +“Why? Because you were not free; you were Léonce Pontellier’s wife. I +couldn’t help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as +I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so.” She +put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, +rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. + +“There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for +you.” + +“But not writing to me,” she interrupted. + +“Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my +senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming +my wife.” + +“Your wife!” + +“Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared.” + +“Then you must have forgotten that I was Léonce Pontellier’s wife.” + +“Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men +who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things.” + +“Yes, we have heard of such things.” + +“I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here—” + +“When you got here you never came near me!” She was still caressing his +cheek. + +“I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had +been willing.” + +She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would +never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, +the cheeks, and the lips. + +“You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of +impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I +am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier’s possessions to dispose of or not. +I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, ‘Here, Robert, take +her and be happy; she is yours,’ I should laugh at you both.” + +His face grew a little white. “What do you mean?” he asked. + +There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame +Ratignolle’s servant had come around the back way with a message that +Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her +immediately. + +“Yes, yes,” said Edna, rising; “I promised. Tell her yes—to wait for +me. I’ll go back with her.” + +“Let me walk over with you,” offered Robert. + +“No,” she said; “I will go with the servant.” She went into her room to +put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the +sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. + +“Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by.” He kissed her with a +degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and +strained her to him. + +“I love you,” she whispered, “only you; no one but you. It was you who +awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have +made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, +suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We +shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any +consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No +matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?” + +“Don’t go; don’t go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,” he pleaded. “Why should +you go? Stay with me, stay with me.” + +“I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here.” She buried +her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, +together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had +deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. + +XXXVII + +Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a +mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny +glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a +comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle’s sister, who had always been +with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the +plantation, and Adèle had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so +kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night +for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet +had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for +him any moment. + +Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of +the store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a +back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed +in her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample +white _peignoir_, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a +nervous clutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes +haggard and unnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and +plaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a +golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white +apron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom. + +“There is no use, there is no use,” she said at once to Edna. “We must +get rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said he +would be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time +it is, Joséphine.” + +The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any +situation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so +familiar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame +only set her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat +gather in beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she +uttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled +in a ball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh +handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water. + +“This is too much!” she cried. “Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is +Alphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this—neglected by +every one?” + +“Neglected, indeed!” exclaimed the nurse. Wasn’t she there? And here +was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to +devote to her? And wasn’t Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant +through the hall? And Joséphine was quite sure she had heard Doctor +Mandelet’s coupé. Yes, there it was, down at the door. + +Adèle consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little +low couch next to her bed. + +Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle’s upbraidings. +He was accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of +her loyalty to doubt it. + +He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon +and entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna +should leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted +a little, and said it took her mind off her sufferings. + +Edna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her own +like experiences seemed far away, unreal, and only half remembered. She +recalled faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a +stupor which had deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a little +new life to which she had given being, added to the great unnumbered +multitude of souls that come and go. + +She began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. She +might have invented a pretext for staying away; she might even invent a +pretext now for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony, with +a flaming, outspoken revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed +the scene of torture. + +She was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leaned +over her friend to kiss her and softly say good-by. Adèle, pressing her +cheek, whispered in an exhausted voice: “Think of the children, Edna. +Oh think of the children! Remember them!” + +XXXVIII + +Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The +Doctor’s coupé had returned for him and stood before the _porte +cochère_. She did not wish to enter the coupé, and told Doctor Mandelet +she would walk; she was not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his +carriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier’s, and he started to walk home +with her. + +Up—away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the stars +were blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool with the breath +of spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy, +measured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absent-minded way, +as she had walked one night at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had gone +ahead of her and she was striving to overtake them. + +“You shouldn’t have been there, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said. “That was no +place for you. Adèle is full of whims at such times. There were a dozen +women she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt that +it was cruel, cruel. You shouldn’t have gone.” + +“Oh, well!” she answered, indifferently. “I don’t know that it matters +after all. One has to think of the children some time or other; the +sooner the better.” + +“When is Léonce coming back?” + +“Quite soon. Some time in March.” + +“And you are going abroad?” + +“Perhaps—no, I am not going. I’m not going to be forced into doing +things. I don’t want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody has +any right—except children, perhaps—and even then, it seems to me—or it +did seem—” She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency of her +thoughts, and stopped abruptly. + +“The trouble is,” sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning intuitively, +“that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be a provision of +Nature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes no +account of moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create, +and which we feel obliged to maintain at any cost.” + +“Yes,” she said. “The years that are gone seem like dreams—if one might +go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and find—oh! well! perhaps +it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to +remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.” + +“It seems to me, my dear child,” said the Doctor at parting, holding +her hand, “you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going to ask for +your confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it +to me, perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand. And I tell +you there are not many who would—not many, my dear.” + +“Some way I don’t feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. Don’t +think I am ungrateful or that I don’t appreciate your sympathy. There +are periods of despondency and suffering which take possession of me. +But I don’t want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good deal, +of course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, the +prejudices of others—but no matter—still, I shouldn’t want to trample +upon the little lives. Oh! I don’t know what I’m saying, Doctor. Good +night. Don’t blame me for anything.” + +“Yes, I will blame you if you don’t come and see me soon. We will talk +of things you never have dreamt of talking about before. It will do us +both good. I don’t want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good +night, my child.” + +She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat upon +the step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. All the +tearing emotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away from her like +a somber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid +of. She went back to that hour before Adèle had sent for her; and her +senses kindled afresh in thinking of Robert’s words, the pressure of +his arms, and the feeling of his lips upon her own. She could picture +at that moment no greater bliss on earth than possession of the beloved +one. His expression of love had already given him to her in part. When +she thought that he was there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb +with the intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleep +perhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep +that she might arouse him with her caresses. + +Still, she remembered Adèle’s voice whispering, “Think of the children; +think of them.” She meant to think of them; that determination had +driven into her soul like a death wound—but not to-night. To-morrow +would be time to think of everything. + +Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere at +hand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a piece of paper that +lay in the lamplight: + +“I love you. Good-by—because I love you.” + +Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa. +Then she stretched herself out there, never uttering a sound. She did +not sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. She +was still awake in the morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen +door and came in to light the fire. + +XXXIX + +Victor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a +corner of one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling her +legs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. The +sun was beating down upon them. The girl had covered her head with her +apron folded into a square pad. They had been talking for an hour or +more. She was never tired of hearing Victor describe the dinner at Mrs. +Pontellier’s. He exaggerated every detail, making it appear a veritable +Lucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, he said. The champagne was +quaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from the foam could have +presented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing +with beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other +women were all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable +charms. She got it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs. +Pontellier, and he gave her evasive answers, framed so as to confirm +her belief. She grew sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off +and leave him to his fine ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about +her at the _Chênière;_ and since it was the fashion to be in love with +married people, why, she could run away any time she liked to New +Orleans with Célina’s husband. + +Célina’s husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it to +her, Victor intended to hammer his head into a jelly the next time he +encountered him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. She +dried her eyes, and grew cheerful at the prospect. + +They were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city life +when Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped around the corner of the house. +The two youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they +considered to be an apparition. But it was really she in flesh and +blood, looking tired and a little travel-stained. + +“I walked up from the wharf,” she said, “and heard the hammering. I +supposed it was you, mending the porch. It’s a good thing. I was always +tripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and deserted +everything looks!” + +It took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come in +Beaudelet’s lugger, that she had come alone, and for no purpose but to +rest. + +“There’s nothing fixed up yet, you see. I’ll give you my room; it’s the +only place.” + +“Any corner will do,” she assured him. + +“And if you can stand Philomel’s cooking,” he went on, “though I might +try to get her mother while you are here. Do you think she would come?” +turning to Mariequita. + +Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel’s mother might come for a few +days, and money enough. + +Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once +suspected a lovers’ rendezvous. But Victor’s astonishment was so +genuine, and Mrs. Pontellier’s indifference so apparent, that the +disturbing notion did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated +with the greatest interest this woman who gave the most sumptuous +dinners in America, and who had all the men in New Orleans at her feet. + +“What time will you have dinner?” asked Edna. “I’m very hungry; but +don’t get anything extra.” + +“I’ll have it ready in little or no time,” he said, bustling and +packing away his tools. “You may go to my room to brush up and rest +yourself. Mariequita will show you.” + +“Thank you,” said Edna. “But, do you know, I have a notion to go down +to the beach and take a good wash and even a little swim, before +dinner?” + +“The water is too cold!” they both exclaimed. “Don’t think of it.” + +“Well, I might go down and try—dip my toes in. Why, it seems to me the +sun is hot enough to have warmed the very depths of the ocean. Could +you get me a couple of towels? I’d better go right away, so as to be +back in time. It would be a little too chilly if I waited till this +afternoon.” + +Mariequita ran over to Victor’s room, and returned with some towels, +which she gave to Edna. + +“I hope you have fish for dinner,” said Edna, as she started to walk +away; “but don’t do anything extra if you haven’t.” + +“Run and find Philomel’s mother,” Victor instructed the girl. “I’ll go +to the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women have no +consideration! She might have sent me word.” + +Edna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticing +anything special except that the sun was hot. She was not dwelling upon +any particular train of thought. She had done all the thinking which +was necessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa +till morning. + +She had said over and over to herself: “To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow +it will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn’t +matter about Léonce Pontellier—but Raoul and Etienne!” She understood +now clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to Adèle +Ratignolle that she would give up the unessential, but she would never +sacrifice herself for her children. + +Despondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never +lifted. There was no one thing in the world that she desired. There was +no human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she even +realized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought of him +would melt out of her existence, leaving her alone. The children +appeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had +overpowered and sought to drag her into the soul’s slavery for the rest +of her days. But she knew a way to elude them. She was not thinking of +these things when she walked down to the beach. + +The water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with the +million lights of the sun. The voice of the sea is seductive, never +ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander +in abysses of solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, there +was no living thing in sight. A bird with a broken wing was beating the +air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the +water. + +Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its +accustomed peg. + +She put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when she was +there beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant, +pricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she +stood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that +beat upon her, and the waves that invited her. + +How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how +delicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a +familiar world that it had never known. + +The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like +serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she +walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and +reached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is +sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. + +She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and +recalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to +regain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on, +thinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed when a little +child, believing that it had no beginning and no end. + +Her arms and legs were growing tired. + +She thought of Léonce and the children. They were a part of her life. +But they need not have thought that they could possess her, body and +soul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if +she knew! “And you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame! +The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies.” + +Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her. + +“Good-by—because I love you.” He did not know; he did not understand. +He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have +understood if she had seen him—but it was too late; the shore was far +behind her, and her strength was gone. + +She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an +instant, then sank again. Edna heard her father’s voice and her sister +Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the +sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked +across the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of +pinks filled the air. + + + + +BEYOND THE BAYOU + + +The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La +Folle’s cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned +field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with +water enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions +the woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never +stepped. This was the form of her only mania. + +She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name +was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle, +because in childhood she had been frightened literally “out of her +senses,” and had never wholly regained them. + +It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the +woods. Evening was near when P’tit Maître, black with powder and +crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline’s +mother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her +childish reason. + +She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had +long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more +physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn +and tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou +she had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived. + +People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they +thought nothing of it. Even when “Old Mis’” died, they did not wonder +that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of +it, wailing and lamenting. + +P’tit Maître was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man, +with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom +La Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Chéri, and so +did every one else because she did. + +None of the girls had ever been to her what Chéri was. They had each +and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of +things that always happened “yonda, beyon’ de bayou.” + +But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Chéri did, nor +rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep +in her arms as he used to do. For Chéri hardly did such things now, +since he had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black +curls cut off. + +That summer—the summer Chéri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a +knot of red ribbon—the water ran so low in the bayou that even the +little children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the +cattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when +they were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked to +feel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her +own enclosure. + +It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had +flocked to a neighboring village to do their week’s trading, and the +women were occupied with household affairs,—La Folle as well as the +others. It was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, +scoured her house, and did her baking. + +In this last employment she never forgot Chéri. To-day she had +fashioned croquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for +him. So when she saw the boy come trudging across the old field with +his gleaming little new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to +him, “Chéri! Chéri!” + +But Chéri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her. +His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange that +he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given +that day up at his father’s house. + +He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, +La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her +apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes +in his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and +disappeared into the wood. + +He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there. + +“You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?” he had +inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter. + +“_Non, non!_” the woman laughed. “Don’t you look fo’ no deer, Chéri. +Dat’s too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo’ her +dinner to-morrow, an’ she goin’ be satisfi’.” + +“One squirrel ain’t a bite. I’ll bring you mo’ ’an one, La Folle,” he +had boasted pompously as he went away. + +When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy’s rifle +close to the wood’s edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a +sharp cry of distress had not followed the sound. + +She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been +plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling +limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had +come. + +It was as she feared. There she found Chéri stretched upon the ground, +with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:— + +“I’m dead, La Folle! I’m dead! I’m gone!” + +“_Non, non!_” she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. “Put +you’ arm ’roun’ La Folle’s nake, Chéri. Dat’s nuttin’; dat goin’ be +nuttin’.” She lifted him in her powerful arms. + +Chéri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled,—he did not +know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, +and he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon the +woman’s shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright. + +“Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can’ stan’ it, La Folle!” + +“Don’t cry, _mon bébé, mon bébé, mon Chéri!_” the woman spoke +soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides. “La Folle goin’ +mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin’ come make _mon Chéri_ well agin.” + +She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her +precious burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to +side. A terrible fear was upon her,—the fear of the world beyond the +bayou, the morbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood. + +When she was at the bayou’s edge she stood there, and shouted for help +as if a life depended upon it:— + +“Oh, P’tit Maître! P’tit Maître! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!” + +No voice responded. Chéri’s hot tears were scalding her neck. She +called for each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came. + +She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or +unheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Chéri +moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother. + +La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was +upon her. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he +could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her +eyes, she ran suddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never +stopped till she had climbed the opposite shore. + +She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she +plunged into the footpath through the trees. + +She spoke no more to Chéri, but muttered constantly, “Bon Dieu, ayez +pitié La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitié moi!” + +Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth +enough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight +of that unknown and terrifying world. + +A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the +quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay. + +“La Folle!” she screamed, in her piercing treble. “La Folle done cross +de bayer!” + +Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins. + +“Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!” + +Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, +flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most +of them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend. +“She totin’ Chéri!” some of them shouted. + +Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, +only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face +upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a +white foam on her black lips. + +Some one had run ahead of her to where P’tit Maître sat with his family +and guests upon the gallery. + +“P’tit Maître! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda +totin’ Chéri!” This startling intimation was the first which they had +of the woman’s approach. + +She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were +fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox. + +At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid +the boy in his father’s arms. Then the world that had looked red to La +Folle suddenly turned black,—like that day she had seen powder and +blood. + +She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she +fell heavily to the ground. + +When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own +cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the +open door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black +mammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It +was very late. + +Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone +again. P’tit Maître had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who +said that La Folle might die. + +But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with +which she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner. + +“Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b’lieve +I’m goin’ sleep, me.” + +And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without +compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields +to her own cabin in the new quarters. + +The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose, +calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but +yesterday. + +She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered +that this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong +black coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and +walked across the old familiar field to the bayou’s edge again. + +She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with +a long, steady stride as if she had done this all her life. + +When she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwood-trees +that lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of a +field where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed +for acres and acres like frosted silver in the early dawn. + +La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She +walked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking +about her as she went. + +The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, +were quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that +darted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins. + +When La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded +the house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf, +that was delicious beneath her tread. + +She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her +senses with memories from a time far gone. + +There they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that +peeped out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering down +from the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from +the jessamine clumps around her. + +There were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread +in broad and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath +the sparkling sheen of dew. + +When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led +up to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she +had made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow +at the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul. + +La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Chéri’s mother soon +cautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the +astonishment she felt at seeing La Folle. + +“Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?” + +“_Oui_, madame. I come ax how my po’ li’le Chéri do, ’s mo’nin’.” + +“He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be +nothing serious. He’s sleeping now. Will you come back when he awakes?” + +“_Non_, madame. I’m goin’ wait yair tell Chéri wake up.” La Folle +seated herself upon the topmost step of the veranda. + +A look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched +for the first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world +beyond the bayou. + + + + +MA’AME PÉLAGIE + +I + +When the war began, there stood on Côte Joyeuse an imposing mansion of +red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks +surrounded it. + +Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull +red brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging +vines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the +stone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately +along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they +knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty thousand dollars to build, away +back in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as +his daughter Pélagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of +fifty. “Ma’ame Pélagie,” they called her, though she was unmarried, as +was her sister Pauline, a child in Ma’ame Pélagie’s eyes; a child of +thirty-five. + +The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow +of the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma’ame Pélagie’s dream, which +was to rebuild the old home. + +It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish +this end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the +picayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma’ame +Pélagie felt sure of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon +as many more for her sister. And what could not come to pass in +twenty—in forty—years? + +Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, +seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of +Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other +and the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times +and planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered +vines high up among the columns, where owls nested. + +“We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,” Ma’ame Pélagie +would say; “perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be +replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should +you be willing, Pauline?” + +“Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.” It was always, “Yes, Sesoeur,” +or “No, Sesoeur,” “Just as you please, Sesoeur,” with poor little +Mam’selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that +old spendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness +of a young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant +the nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and +flame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pélagie, +and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother, +Léandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as +Pélagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its +memories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell +in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Léandre’s business called him +frequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless +daughter was coming to stay with her aunts at Côte Joyeuse. + +They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. +Mam’selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into +her pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in +and out incessantly. + +“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her? +How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!” + +“She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,” responded Ma’ame +Pélagie, “and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; +her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it +if we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true +Valmêt.” + +Then Ma’ame Pélagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle +her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the +fields; and Mam’selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled +grasses toward the cabin. + +The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent +atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these +two, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt +Pélagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the +light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crèpe +myrtle. Mam’selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma’ame Pélagie +looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a +likeness of the past in the living present. + +And they made room between them for this young life. + +II + +La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, +narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Côte Joyeuse. It went +well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma’ame Pélagie into the +fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count +the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her +aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief +past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing +moss of the giant oaks. + +Mam’selle Pauline’s steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes +were sometimes as bright as a bird’s, unless La Petite were away from +her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy +expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her +endearingly Tan’tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very +quiet,—not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then +her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes +of the white crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin. + +One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a +hand of each, she said: “Tante Pélagie, I must tell you something, you +and Tan’tante.” She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. “I love you +both,—please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from +you. I can’t live any longer here at Côte Joyeuse.” + +A spasm passed through Mam’selle Pauline’s delicate frame. La Petite +could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined +with her own. Ma’ame Pélagie remained unchanged and motionless. No +human eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her +soul felt. She said: “What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent +you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain.” + +“My father loves me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when +he knows. Oh!” she continued with a restless movement, “it is as though +a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the +life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day +to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my +books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of +privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life, +I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante +Pélagie, you do not need to. It seems to me,” she added in a whisper, +“that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan’tante!—what is the matter +with Tan’tante?” + +It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon +pass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some +water and fanned her with a palmetto leaf. + +But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam’selle Pauline sobbed +and would not be comforted. Ma’ame Pélagie took her in her arms. + +“Pauline, my little sister Pauline,” she entreated, “I never have seen +you like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy +together, you and I?” + +“Oh, yes, Sesoeur.” + +“Is it because La Petite is going away?” + +“Yes, Sesoeur.” + +“Then she is dearer to you than I!” spoke Ma’ame Pélagie with sharp +resentment. “Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you +were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could +cherish you. Pauline, don’t tell me that.” + +Mam’selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs. + +“I can’t explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don’t understand it myself. I +love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes +away I shall die. I can’t understand,—help me, Sesoeur. She seems—she +seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand +and was leading me somewhere—somewhere I want to go.” + +Ma’ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her _peignoir_ and +slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed +down the woman’s soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence +was broken only by Mam’selle Pauline’s continued sobs. Once Ma’ame +Pélagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to +her sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child. +Almost an hour passed before Ma’ame Pélagie spoke again. Then she +said:— + +“Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make +yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you +understand? She will stay, I promise you.” + +Mam’selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith +in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of +Ma’ame Pélagie’s strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep. + +III + +Ma’ame Pélagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly +and stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not +linger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she +crossed the distance that divided her cabin from the ruin. + +The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon +resplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma’ame +Pélagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at +night-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had +been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the +last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had +crowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell. + +There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a +robust old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. +There are guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from +the city and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She +had been abroad with Félix, and they did not notice how the time was +speeding. Félix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside +her, but she does not want to hear what he will tell her father. + +Ma’ame Pélagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so +often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of +the window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with +the moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one—the sparkle from +the crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and +respectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of +them reflects and glances from the polished marble pillars! + +The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien +Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something +which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. +His son Jules is with him—Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. +She wonders if Félix has told her father yet. There is young Jérôme +Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline +stands annoying them and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She +begins to cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off, +limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive +the little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better +than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor +and raised a great “bo-bo” on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry +enough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought +and laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one’s steps were surer. + +“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” She was saying it aloud—“faire +mal a Pauline.” + +But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where +the white crèpe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has +struck Ma’ame Pélagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is +beyond there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group of +friends over their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How +tiresome! She has heard them say “la guerre” oftener than once. La +guerre. Bah! She and Félix have something pleasanter to talk about, out +under the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders. + +But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled +across the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole +stretch of Côte Joyeuse. + +Yet Pélagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before +her with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and +of brazen impudence. Pélagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not +believe. Not till Félix comes to her in the chamber above the dining +hall—there where that trumpet vine hangs—comes to say good-by to her. +The hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed +into the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits upon the +sofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would not +have been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same +spot, and Ma’ame Pélagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all +along, to lie there upon it some day when the time came to die. + +But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has +been no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking +the wines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits. + +One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She +slaps his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his +blanched cheek! + +Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her +motionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana +can perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her +knees in an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved. + +“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” Again she is saying it +aloud—“faire mal à Pauline.” + +The night was nearly spent; Ma’ame Pélagie had glided from the bench +upon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone +flagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to +walk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after +the other, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips +upon the senseless brick. + +“Adieu, adieu!” whispered Ma’ame Pélagie. + +There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar +pathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that +swung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about +the ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old +mulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day +was mantling the earth. Ma’ame Pélagie hurried through the wet, +clinging grass, beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her +face, walking on toward the cabin—toward Pauline. Not once did she look +back upon the ruin that brooded like a huge monster—a black spot in the +darkness that enveloped it. + +IV + +Little more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmêt +place had undergone was the talk and wonder of Côte Joyeuse. One would +have looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was +the log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and +the breezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woods +that the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid +foundation of brick. + +Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Léandre smoking his afternoon +cigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be his +_pied à terre_ now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. +The laughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within +the house where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the +enthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed +marvelously beautiful to Mam’selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near +her. Mam’selle Pauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmêt. +Her cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite’s. The years +were falling away from her. + +Ma’ame Pélagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends. +Then she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music +which La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on +around the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She +stayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out +calmly in the distance across the fields. + +She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore +folded across her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver +diadem from her brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of +fires that would never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of +months seemed to have passed over her since the night she bade farewell +to her visions. + +Poor Ma’ame Pélagie! How could it be different! While the outward +pressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into +the light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin. + + + + +DÉSIRÉE’S BABY + + +As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L’Abri to see +Désirée and the baby. + +It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed but +yesterday that Désirée was little more than a baby herself; when +Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying +asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. + +The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for “Dada.” That was +as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have +strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The +prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of +Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the +ferry that Coton Maïs kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame +Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one that Désirée had been +sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her +affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl +grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,—the idol of +Valmondé. + +It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in +whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand +Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. +That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a +pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he +had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of +eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that +day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or +like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all +obstacles. + +Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered: +that is, the girl’s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did +not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter +about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in +Louisiana? He ordered the _corbeille_ from Paris, and contained himself +with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married. + +Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When +she reached L’Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she +always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not +known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having +married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own +land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like +a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the +yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their +thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young +Aubigny’s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had +forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master’s +easy-going and indulgent lifetime. + +The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her +soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, +upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow +nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself. + +Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and kissed her, +holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the +child. + +“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was +the language spoken at Valmondé in those days. + +“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Désirée, “at the way he has +grown. The little _cochon de lait!_ Look at his legs, mamma, and his +hands and finger-nails,—real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them +this morning. Isn’t it true, Zandrine?” + +The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si, Madame.” + +“And the way he cries,” went on Désirée, “is deafening. Armand heard +him the other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.” + +Madame Valmondé had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted +it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned +the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face +was turned to gaze across the fields. + +“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmondé, slowly, +as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand say?” + +Désirée’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. + +“Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly +because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,—that he +would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn’t true. I know he +says that to please me. And mamma,” she added, drawing Madame +Valmondé’s head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, “he hasn’t +punished one of them—not one of them—since baby is born. Even +Négrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from +work—he only laughed, and said Négrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, +I’m so happy; it frightens me.” + +What Désirée said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son +had softened Armand Aubigny’s imperious and exacting nature greatly. +This was what made the gentle Désirée so happy, for she loved him +desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he +smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand’s dark, +handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he +fell in love with her. + +When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to the +conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It +was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting +suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from +far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a +strange, an awful change in her husband’s manner, which she dared not +ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, +from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented +himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her +child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to +take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Désirée was miserable +enough to die. + +She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her _peignoir_, listlessly +drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair +that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon +her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its +satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche’s little quadroon boys—half +naked too—stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock +feathers. Désirée’s eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the +baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she +felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood +beside him, and back again; over and over. “Ah!” It was a cry that she +could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The +blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon +her face. + +She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, +at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his +mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, +and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare +tiptoes. + +She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face +the picture of fright. + +Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went +to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it. + +“Armand,” she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if +he was human. But he did 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 Valmondé. + +“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 Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves +you. Come with your child.” + +When the letter reached Désirée 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. + +Désirée 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 afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still +fields the negroes were picking cotton. + +Désirée had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which +she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden +gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road +which led to the far-off plantation of Valmondé. She walked across a +deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so +delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. + +She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the +banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. + +Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L’Abri. In the +centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand +Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; +and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which +kept this fire ablaze. + +A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid +upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a +priceless _layette_. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin +ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; +for the _corbeille_ had been of rare quality. + +The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little +scribblings that Désirée had sent to him during the days of their +espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he +took them. But it was not Désirée’s; it was part of an old letter from +his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the +blessing of her husband’s love:— + +“But above all,” she wrote, “night and day, I thank the good God for +having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that +his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the +brand of slavery.” + + + + +A RESPECTABLE WOMAN + + +Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected +his friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation. + +They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time +had also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild +dissipation. She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, +and undisturbed tête-à-tête with her husband, when he informed her that +Gouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two. + +This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her +husband’s college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a +society man or “a man about town,” which were, perhaps, some of the +reasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an +image of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with +eye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. +Gouvernail was slim enough, but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; +neither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. And +she rather liked him when he first presented himself. + +But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself +when she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of +those brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had +often assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather +mute and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home +and in face of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as +courteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he +made no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem. + +Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide +portico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his +cigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston’s experience as a +sugar planter. + +“This is what I call living,” he would utter with deep satisfaction, as +the air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm +and scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms +with the big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably +against his legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness +to go out and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so. + +Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. +Indeed, he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when +she could understand him no better than at first, she gave over being +puzzled and remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her +guest, for the most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail +took no manner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon +him, accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along +the batture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which +he had unconsciously enveloped himself. + +“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her husband. “For my +part, he tires me frightfully.” + +“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no +trouble.” + +“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, +and I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.” + +Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked +tenderly and laughingly into her troubled eyes. + +They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s +dressing-room. + +“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he said to her. “Even I can +never count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.” He +kissed her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror. + +“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously and +making a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.” + +“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a +thing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.” + +“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why +I asked him here to take a rest.” + +“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” she retorted, unconciliated. +“I expected him to be interesting, at least. I’m going to the city in +the morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. +Gouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.” + +That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a +live oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk. + +She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. +She could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct +necessity to quit her home in the morning. + +Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in +the darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She +knew it was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to +remain unnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away +his cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a +suspicion that she might object to his presence. + +“Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, +handing her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her +head and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of +thanks, and let it lie in her lap. + +He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the +night air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the +darkness, he murmured, half to himself: + + “‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! + Still nodding night—’” + +She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was +not addressed to her. + +Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a +self-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but +the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence +melted for the time. + +He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not +unpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and +Gaston had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and +blind ambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at +least, a philosophic acquiescence to the existing order—only a desire +to be permitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine +life, such as he was breathing now. + +Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being +was for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only +drinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in +the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon +the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper +against his cheek—she did not care what—as she might have done if she +had not been a respectable woman. + +The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, +in fact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without +an appearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone. + +Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and +ended his apostrophe to the night. + +Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who was +also her friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not +yield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a +very sensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a +human being must fight alone. + +When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She +had taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till +Gouvernail was gone from under her roof. + +There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. +That is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his +wife’s strenuous opposition. + +However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to +have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and +delighted with the suggestion coming from her. + +“I am glad, chère amie, to know that you have finally overcome your +dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.” + +“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon +his lips, “I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shall +be very nice to him.” + + + + +THE KISS + + +It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains +drawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the +room was full of deep shadows. + +Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did +not mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened as +ardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight. + +She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs +to the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked +the satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she +occasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion +sat. They were talking low, of indifferent things which plainly were +not the things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved +her—a frank, blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his +feelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought her +society eagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him +to declare himself and she meant to accept him. The rather +insignificant and unattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she +liked and required the entourage which wealth could give her. + +During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the +next reception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain +knew quite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two +brought him to her side, and bending over her chair—before she could +suspect his intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her +visitor—he pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips. + +Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the +newcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance +struggling with the confusion in his face. + +“I believe,” stammered Brantain, “I see that I have stayed too long. +I—I had no idea—that is, I must wish you good-by.” He was clutching his +hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was +extending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely +deserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak. + +“Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it’s deuced awkward +for you. But I hope you’ll forgive me this once—this very first break. +Why, what’s the matter?” + +“Don’t touch me; don’t come near me,” she returned angrily. “What do +you mean by entering the house without ringing?” + +“I came in with your brother, as I often do,” he answered coldly, in +self-justification. “We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I +came in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and +ought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say +that you forgive me, Nathalie,” he entreated, softening. + +“Forgive you! You don’t know what you are talking about. Let me pass. +It depends upon—a good deal whether I ever forgive you.” + +At that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about +she approached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when +she saw him there. + +“Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?” she asked +with an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy; but +when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired +corner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his +expression. She was apparently very outspoken. + +“Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain; +but—but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since +that little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might +have misinterpreted it, and believed things”—hope was plainly gaining +the ascendancy over misery in Brantain’s round, guileless face—“Of +course, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you +to understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing. +Why, we have always been like cousins—like brother and sister, I may +say. He is my brother’s most intimate associate and often fancies that +he is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is +absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even,” she was +almost weeping, “but it makes so much difference to me what you think +of—of me.” Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery had +all disappeared from Brantain’s face. + +“Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you +Miss Nathalie?” They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on +either side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very +end of it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain’s face was +radiant and hers was triumphant. + +Harvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a +rare moment when she stood alone. + +“Your husband,” he said, smiling, “has sent me over to kiss you.” + +A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. “I suppose +it’s natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of +this kind. He tells me he doesn’t want his marriage to interrupt wholly +that pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don’t +know what you’ve been telling him,” with an insolent smile, “but he has +sent me here to kiss you.” + +She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, +sees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and +tender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked +hungry for the kiss which they invited. + +“But, you know,” he went on quietly, “I didn’t tell him so, it would +have seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I’ve stopped kissing women; +it’s dangerous.” + +Well, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can’t have +everything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to +expect it. + + + + +A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS + + +Little Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of +fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the +way in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old _porte-monnaie_ gave +her a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years. + +The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day +or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really +absorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act +hastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during +the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her +mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and +judicious use of the money. + +A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie’s +shoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than +they usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new +shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make +the old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She +had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop +windows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings—two +pairs apiece—and what darning that would save for a while! She would +get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her +little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives +excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation. + +The neighbors sometimes talked of certain “better days” that little +Mrs. Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. +Sommers. She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had +no time—no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the +present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some +dim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never +comes. + +Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand +for hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that +was selling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had +learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with +persistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no +matter when it came. + +But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a +light luncheon—no! when she came to think of it, between getting the +children fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the +shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all! + +She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was +comparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge +through an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting +and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she +rested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By +degrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very +soothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand +lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that +they had been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one +dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the +counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. +She smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of +diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on +feeling the soft, sheeny luxurious things—with both hands now, holding +them up to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like +through her fingers. + +Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up +at the girl. + +“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?” + +There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of +that size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some +lavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. +Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. +She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured +her was excellent. + +“A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, I’ll take +this pair.” She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her +change and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed +lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag. + +Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain +counter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor +into the region of the ladies’ waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired +corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which +she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process +or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her +satisfaction the motive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She +seemed for the time to be taking a rest from that laborious and +fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical +impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility. + +How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like +lying back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the +luxury of it. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, +rolled the cotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag. +After doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department and +took her seat to be fitted. + +She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not +reconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily +pleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her +head another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped +boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize +that they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an +excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, +and she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the +price so long as she got what she desired. + +It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On +rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always “bargains,” +so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have +expected them to be fitted to the hand. + +Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a +pretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a +long-wristed “kid” over Mrs. Sommers’s hand. She smoothed it down over +the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second +or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. +But there were other places where money might be spent. + +There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few +paces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines +such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been +accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. +As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her +stockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her +bearing—had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to +the well-dressed multitude. + +She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings +for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed +herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. +But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain +any such thought. + +There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; +from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask +and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of +fashion. + +When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, +as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table +alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. +She did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite—a half +dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet—a +crème-frappée, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a +small cup of black coffee. + +While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and +laid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through +it, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very +agreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through +the window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and +gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like +her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle +breeze was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read +a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in +the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the +money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon +he bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood. + +There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented +itself in the shape of a matinee poster. + +It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun +and the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats +here and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between +brilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy +and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there +solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one +present who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her +surroundings. She gathered in the whole—stage and players and people in +one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the +comedy and wept—she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the +tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman +wiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace +and passed little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy. + +The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a +dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to +the corner and waited for the cable car. + +A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study +of her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. +In truth, he saw nothing—unless he were wizard enough to detect a +poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop +anywhere, but go on and on with her forever. + + + + +THE LOCKET + + +I + +One night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope +of a hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces +and were awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond +the point of shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin +cup over the embers. Two were lying at full length a little distance +away, while a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn +close to the light. He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his +flannel shirt front. + +“What’s that you got around your neck, Ned?” asked one of the men lying +in the obscurity. + +Ned—or Edmond—mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and did +not reply. He went on reading his letter. + +“Is it your sweet heart’s picture?” + +“’Taint no gal’s picture,” offered the man at the fire. He had removed +his tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a small +stick. “That’s a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o’ them +priests gave him to keep him out o’ trouble. I know them Cath’lics. +That’s how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he’s +been in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?” Edmond looked up +absently from his letter. + +“What is it?” he asked. + +“Aint that a charm you got round your neck?” + +“It must be, Nick,” returned Edmond with a smile. “I don’t know how I +could have gone through this year and a half without it.” + +The letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretched +himself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But +he was not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day +when the bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good +bye to him. He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locket +which she fastened about his own. It was an old fashioned golden locket +bearing miniatures of her father and mother with their names and the +date of their marriage. It was her most precious earthly possession. +Edmond could feel again the folds of the girl’s soft white gown, and +see the droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about +his neck. Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of +parting, appeared before him as vividly as life. He turned over, +burying his face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless. + +The profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of +peace settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octavie brought +him a letter. He had no chair to offer her and was pained and +embarrassed at the condition of his garments. He was ashamed of the +poor food which comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join +them. + +He dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to +grasp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream +was clamor. + +“Git your duds! you! Frenchy!” Nick was bellowing in his face. There +was what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated +movement. The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden +up-springing lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfolding +out of the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below. + +“What’s it all about?” wondered a big black bird perched in the top of +the tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was not +wise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept +blinking and wondering. + +The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke +the little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled +up toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds +thought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better. + +“They are children playing a game,” thought he. “I shall know more +about it if I watch long enough.” + +At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and +smoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had +understood! With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward, +circling toward the plain. + +A man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the garb +of a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of +religion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger +a spark of life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and +a flask of wine. + +There were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat +had been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to +look to the dead. + +There was a soldier—a mere boy—lying with his face to the sky. His +hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were +stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his +despairing grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his +face and clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and +locket. The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed +it from the dead soldier’s neck. He had grown used to the terrors of +war and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always +brought the tears to his old, dim eyes. + +The angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro +knelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for +the dead. + +II + +The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like +a benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuous +stream in central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, much +the worse for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes. The +fat, black horses went in a slow, measured trot, notwithstanding +constant urging on the part of the fat, black coachman. Within the +vehicle were seated the fair Octavie and her old friend and neighbor, +Judge Pillier, who had come to take her for a morning drive. + +Octavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrow +belt held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close +fitting wristbands. She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not +unlike a nun. Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket. +She never displayed it now. It had returned to her sanctified in her +eyes; made precious as material things sometimes are by being forever +identified with a significant moment of one’s existence. + +A hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had +come back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored over +it. As she sat beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon her +knee, heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds +and the humming of insects in the air. + +She was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over +her a sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest’s +letter. He told of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold +and the red fading out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows +to cover the faces of the dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of +those dead was her own! with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an +agony of supplication. A spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and +swept over her. Why was the spring here with its flowers and its +seductive breath if he was dead! Why was she here! What further had she +to do with life and the living! + +Octavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessed +resignation had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like +a mantle and enveloped her. + +“I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie,” she murmured +to herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary. +Already she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. She +walked with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie +whom some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while +leaving her in possession of youth’s illusions. + +As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover, +again there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had +assailed her so often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its +rights; for a share in the world’s glory and exultation. She leaned +back and drew her veil a little closer about her face. It was an old +black veil of her Aunt Tavie’s. A whiff of dust from the road had blown +in and she wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white +handkerchief, a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old +fine muslin petticoats. + +“Will you do me the favor, Octavie,” requested the judge in the +courteous tone which he never abandoned, “to remove that veil which you +wear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of +the day.” + +The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion’s wish and +unpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it +neatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her. + +“Ah! that is better; far better!” he said in a tone expressing +unbounded relief. “Never put it on again, dear.” Octavie felt a little +hurt; as if he wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden +of affliction which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew +forth the old muslin handkerchief. + +They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had +formerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and +there, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off +in the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the +far end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane +that led to Judge Pillier’s house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms +met them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome. + +As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the +girl’s shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: “Do you not +think that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole +earth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that +heaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?” He spoke very +low, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which +was not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage. +She gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certain +terror of joy. + +They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one +side and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat +quickened their lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to +the house, a whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent +of melodious greeting from their leafy hiding places. + +Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was +like a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray +house with its sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, she +saw familiar faces and heard voices as if they came from far across the +fields, and Edmond was holding her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond, +and she felt the beating of his heart against her and the agonizing +rapture of his kisses striving to awake her. It was as if the spirit of +life and the awakening spring had given back the soul to her youth and +bade her rejoice. + +It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom and +looked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance. + +“It was the night before an engagement,” he said. “In the hurry of the +encounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the fight +was over. I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the +struggle, but it was stolen.” + +“Stolen,” she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his face +uplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication. + +Edmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who had +lain far back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing. + + + + +A REFLECTION + + +Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only +enables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish +in their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad +pace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the +significance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do +they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating +the moving procession. + +Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its +fantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the +undulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are falling beneath +the feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic +rhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one +harmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds—to complete +God’s orchestra. + +It is greater than the stars—that moving procession of human energy; +greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! +I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the +clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of +these symbols of life’s immutability. In the procession I should feel +the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and +stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march. + +_Salve!_ ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 160-0.txt or 160-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/160/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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