The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening and Selected Short Stories, by Kate Chopin

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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.




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