"THE AWAKENING\n\nAND SELECTED SHORT STORIES\n\nby Kate Chopin\n\n\nWith an Introduction by Marilynne Robinson\n\n\n\n\nContents:\n\n     The Awakening\n     Beyond The Bayou\n     Ma'ame Pelagie\n     Desiree's Baby\n     A Respectable Woman\n     The Kiss\n     A Pair Of Silk Stockings\n     The Locket\n     A Reflection\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE AWAKENING\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nA green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept\nrepeating over and over:\n\n\"Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That's all right!\"\n\nHe could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody\nunderstood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other\nside of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with\nmaddening persistence.\n\nMr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort,\narose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust.\n\nHe walked down the gallery and across the narrow \"bridges\" which\nconnected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated\nbefore the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were\nthe property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the\nnoise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their\nsociety when they ceased to be entertaining.\n\nHe stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one\nfrom the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker\nrocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of\nreading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The\nSunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted\nwith the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials\nand bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New\nOrleans the day before.\n\nMr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height\nand rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and\nstraight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed.\n\nOnce in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked\nabout him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main\nbuilding was called \"the house,\" to distinguish it from the cottages.\nThe chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls,\nthe Farival twins, were playing a duet from \"Zampa\" upon the piano.\nMadame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a\nyard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally\nhigh voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was\na fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her\nstarched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before\none of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down,\ntelling her beads. A good many persons of the pension had gone over to\nthe Cheniere Caminada in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young\npeople were out under the wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's\ntwo children were there--sturdy little fellows of four and five. A\nquadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air.\n\nMr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper\ndrag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that\nwas advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly\nbetween the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of\nyellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue\nof the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its\npink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert\nLebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with\nsome appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each\nother, each leaning against a supporting post.\n\n\"What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!\" exclaimed Mr.\nPontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the\nmorning seemed long to him.\n\n\"You are burnt beyond recognition,\" he added, looking at his wife as one\nlooks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some\ndamage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them\ncritically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at\nthem reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband\nbefore leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,\nunderstanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them\ninto her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping\nher knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings\nsparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to\nthe other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the\nwater, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half\nso amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He\nyawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind\nto go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards.\n\n\"Come go along, Lebrun,\" he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted\nquite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs.\nPontellier.\n\n\"Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,\" instructed\nher husband as he prepared to leave.\n\n\"Here, take the umbrella,\" she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He\naccepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps\nand walked away.\n\n\"Coming back to dinner?\" his wife called after him. He halted a moment\nand shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a\nten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the\nearly dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company\nwhich he found over at Klein's and the size of \"the game.\" He did not\nsay this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.\n\nBoth children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting\nout. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nMrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish\nbrown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them\nswiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward\nmaze of contemplation or thought.\n\nHer eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and\nalmost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather\nhandsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain\nfrankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her\nmanner was engaging.\n\nRobert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could\nnot afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr.\nPontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his\nafter-dinner smoke.\n\nThis seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was\nnot unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more\npronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of\ncare upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the\nlight and languor of the summer day.\n\nMrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch\nand began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs\nfrom his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around\nthem; their amusing adventure out in the water--it had again assumed its\nentertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone\nto the Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and\nthe Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to \"The Poet and\nthe Peasant.\"\n\nRobert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not\nknow any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the\nsame reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of\nhis intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him.\nHe was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there.\nMeanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in\nNew Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish\ngave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.\n\nHe was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother\nat Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, \"the\nhouse\" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its\ndozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors\nfrom the \"Quartier Francais,\" it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the\neasy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.\n\nMrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her\ngirlhood home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was an American\nwoman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in\ndilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East,\nand who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, and\nwanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father\nwas like, and how long the mother had been dead.\n\nWhen Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for\nthe early dinner.\n\n\"I see Leonce isn't coming back,\" she said, with a glance in the\ndirection whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was\nnot, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein's.\n\nWhen Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended\nthe steps and strolled over toward the croquet players, where,\nduring the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the little\nPontellier children, who were very fond of him.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nIt was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from\nKlein's hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very\ntalkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep\nwhen he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her\nanecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the\nday. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank\nnotes and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau\nindiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else\nhappened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answered\nhim with little half utterances.\n\nHe thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object\nof his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned\nhim, and valued so little his conversation.\n\nMr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys.\nNotwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining\nroom where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they\nwere resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from\nsatisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of\nthem began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.\n\n\n\nMr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had\na high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and\nsat near the open door to smoke it.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to\nbed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.\nPontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken.\nHe assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.\n\nHe reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the\nchildren. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose\non earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage\nbusiness. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for\nhis family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell\nthem. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way.\n\nMrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon\ncame back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the\npillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he\nquestioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in\nhalf a minute he was fast asleep.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a\nlittle, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing out\nthe candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare\nfeet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went out\non the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock\ngently to and fro.\n\nIt was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint\nlight gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound\nabroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and\nthe everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft\nhour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.\n\nThe tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of\nher peignoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back\nof her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the\nshoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and\nwet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring\nany longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told\nwhy she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon\nin her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much\nagainst the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion\nwhich had come to be tacit and self-understood.\n\nAn indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar\npart of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish.\nIt was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day.\nIt was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there\ninwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed\nher footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a\ngood cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her\nfirm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.\n\nThe little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which\nmight have held her there in the darkness half a night longer.\n\nThe following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the\nrockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was\nreturning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again\nat the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure,\nwhich seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was\neager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet\nStreet.\n\nMr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away\nfrom Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most\nwomen, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.\n\n\"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!\" she\nexclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.\n\n\"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,\" he laughed, as\nhe prepared to kiss her good-by.\n\nThe boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that\nnumerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great\nfavorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to\nsay goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting,\nas he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.\n\nA few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It\nwas from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with luscious\nand toothsome bits--the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two,\ndelicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a\nbox; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The\npates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed\naround. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers\nand a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best\nhusband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew\nof none better.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nIt would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to\nhis own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her\nduty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than\nperceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and\nample atonement.\n\nIf one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he\nwas not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would\nmore likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the\nsand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled\ntogether and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled\nfists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other\nmother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance,\nonly good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair;\nsince it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and\nbrushed.\n\nIn short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women\nseemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them,\nfluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or\nimaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized\ntheir children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy\nprivilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as\nministering angels.\n\nMany of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment\nof every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her,\nhe was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adele\nRatignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that\nhave served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the\nfair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her\ncharms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold\nhair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were\nlike nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one\ncould only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in\nlooking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to\ndetract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would\nnot have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms\nmore slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a\njoy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold\nthimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little\nnight-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.\n\nMadame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took\nher sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was\nsitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans.\nShe had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing\nupon a diminutive pair of night-drawers.\n\nShe had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut\nout--a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body so\neffectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment,\nlike an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous\ndrafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found\ntheir way through key-holes.\n\nMrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material\nneeds of her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating and\nmaking winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations.\nBut she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she\nhad brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the\ngallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's directions she had cut a pattern\nof the impervious garment.\n\nRobert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs.\nPontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning\nlistlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she\nheld out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.\n\nThat lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon\na stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it could\npossibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years. About\nevery two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and\nwas beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always talking about her\n\"condition.\" Her \"condition\" was in no way apparent, and no one would\nhave known a thing about it but for her persistence in making it the\nsubject of conversation.\n\nRobert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who\nhad subsisted upon nougat during the entire--but seeing the color mount\ninto Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself and changed the subject.\n\nMrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly\nat home in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so\nintimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun's.\nThey all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among\nwhom existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which\ndistinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly\nwas their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was\nat first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in\nreconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to\nbe inborn and unmistakable.\n\nNever would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard Madame\nRatignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of one\nof her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was growing\naccustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting color\nback from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the\ndroll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group of\nmarried women.\n\nA book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read\nit, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read the\nbook in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done so,--to\nhide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openly\ncriticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over\nbeing astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThey formed a congenial group sitting there that summer\nafternoon--Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a\nstory or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands;\nRobert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words,\nglances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy\nand camaraderie.\n\nHe had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought\nanything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to\nMrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was\neleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted\nhimself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes\nit was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some\ninteresting married woman.\n\nFor two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle\nDuvigne's presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed as\nan inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle\nfor whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to\nvouchsafe.\n\nMrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might\nlook upon a faultless Madonna.\n\n\"Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?\" murmured\nRobert. \"She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It\nwas 'Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the\nbaby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and\nread Daudet to me while I sew.'\"\n\n\"Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet,\nlike a troublesome cat.\"\n\n\"You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared\non the scene, then it WAS like a dog. 'Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!'\"\n\n\"Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,\" she interjoined, with\nexcessive naivete. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of\nthe left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the Creole\nhusband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which has\nbecome dwarfed by disuse.\n\nMeanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his\none time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights,\nof consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his\ndaily plunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running,\ncontemptuous comment:\n\n\"Blagueur--farceur--gros bete, va!\"\n\nHe never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier.\nShe never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was\nimpossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion\nwas earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love\nto Madame Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs.\nPontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It\nwould have been unacceptable and annoying.\n\nMrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes\ndabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling. She felt\nin it satisfaction of a kind which no other employment afforded her.\n\nShe had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that\nlady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there\nlike some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching\nher splendid color.\n\nRobert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs.\nPontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with\na certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close\nacquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed her\nwork with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory expressions\nof appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle.\n\n\"Mais ce n'est pas mal! Elle s'y connait, elle a de la force, oui.\"\n\nDuring his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against\nMrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he\nrepeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness\non his part; yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did not\nremonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but firmly. He\noffered no apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance to Madame\nRatignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look\nlike her. But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects\nsatisfying.\n\nMrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch\ncritically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, and\ncrumpled the paper between her hands.\n\nThe youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at the\nrespectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. Pontellier\nmade them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought to\ndetain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly\nin earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbon\nbox. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each\nholding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they\nmight be filled; and then away they went.\n\nThe sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that\ncame up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea.\nChildren freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the\noaks. Their voices were high and penetrating.\n\nMadame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and\nthread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She\ncomplained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and\na fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne, while Robert\nplied the fan with unnecessary vigor.\n\nThe spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if\nthere were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the\nrose tint had never faded from her friend's face.\n\nShe stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries\nwith the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to\npossess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her\nwhite skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand\nendearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, as\neverybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a\npin!\n\n\"Are you going bathing?\" asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so\nmuch a question as a reminder.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she answered, with a tone of indecision. \"I'm tired; I think\nnot.\" Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose\nsonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.\n\n\"Oh, come!\" he insisted. \"You mustn't miss your bath. Come on. The water\nmust be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.\"\n\nHe reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside\nthe door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked\naway together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the\nbreeze was soft and warm.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nEdna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with\nRobert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the second\nplace have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory\nimpulses which impelled her.\n\nA certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,--the light\nwhich, showing the way, forbids it.\n\nAt that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to\ndreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome her\nthe midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.\n\nIn short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in\nthe universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an\nindividual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a\nponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of\ntwenty-eight--perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased\nto vouchsafe to any woman.\n\nBut the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily\nvague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever\nemerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!\n\nThe voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring,\nmurmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of\nsolitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.\n\nThe voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is\nsensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.\n\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nMrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic\nhitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her\nown small life all within herself. At a very early period she had\napprehended instinctively the dual life--that outward existence which\nconforms, the inward life which questions.\n\nThat summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of\nreserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been--there\nmust have been--influences, both subtle and apparent, working in their\nseveral ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the\ninfluence of Adele Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of the\nCreole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility\nto beauty. Then the candor of the woman's whole existence, which every\none might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own\nhabitual reserve--this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what\nmetals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy,\nwhich we might as well call love.\n\nThe two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm,\nunder the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratignolle\nto leave the children behind, though she could not induce her to\nrelinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele begged to be\nallowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some unaccountable way\nthey had escaped from Robert.\n\nThe walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did\nof a long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that\nbordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There\nwere acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away\nstill, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of\norange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened\nfrom afar in the sun.\n\nThe women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing\nthe more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier's\nphysique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long,\nclean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into\nsplendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped\nfashion-plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in\npassing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more\nfeeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of its\nmodeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which made\nEdna Pontellier different from the crowd.\n\nShe wore a cool muslin that morning--white, with a waving vertical line\nof brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big straw\nhat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat rested\nany way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was heavy, and\nclung close to her head.\n\nMadame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze\nveil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that\nprotected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness\nof ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which\nshe wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of line\ncould not have done.\n\nThere were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid\nconstruction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water.\nEach house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun's\npossessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential\nparaphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the owners\nmight desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just\nstrolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the\nwater. The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another\nunder the same roof.\n\nMrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit.\nUnlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged,\nbringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two\nhuge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the front\nof the building.\n\nThe two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by side,\nwith their backs against the pillows and their feet extended. Madame\nRatignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicate\nhandkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried\nsuspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon. Edna\nremoved her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan\nfrom Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her companion.\nIt was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks\nabout the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a\nchoppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered the\nskirts of the two women and kept them for a while engaged in adjusting,\nreadjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and hat-pins. A few persons\nwere sporting some distance away in the water. The beach was very still\nof human sound at that hour. The lady in black was reading her morning\ndevotions on the porch of a neighboring bathhouse. Two young lovers were\nexchanging their hearts' yearnings beneath the children's tent, which\nthey had found unoccupied.\n\nEdna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest\nupon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the\nblue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the\nhorizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and\nothers to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance.\n\n\"Of whom--of what are you thinking?\" asked Adele of her companion,\nwhose countenance she had been watching with a little amused attention,\narrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized and\nfixed every feature into a statuesque repose.\n\n\"Nothing,\" returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: \"How\nstupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to\nsuch a question. Let me see,\" she went on, throwing back her head and\nnarrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light.\n\"Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but\nperhaps I can retrace my thoughts.\"\n\n\"Oh! never mind!\" laughed Madame Ratignolle. \"I am not quite so\nexacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think,\nespecially to think about thinking.\"\n\n\"But for the fun of it,\" persisted Edna. \"First of all, the sight of the\nwater stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the blue\nsky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. The\nhot wind beating in my face made me think--without any connection that I\ncan trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as\nthe ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which was\nhigher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she\nwalked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I\nsee the connection now!\"\n\n\"Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?\"\n\n\"I don't remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big field.\nMy sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch of green\nbefore me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without coming to\nthe end of it. I don't remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I\nmust have been entertained.\n\n\"Likely as not it was Sunday,\" she laughed; \"and I was running away from\nprayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by my\nfather that chills me yet to think of.\"\n\n\"And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma chere?\"\nasked Madame Ratignolle, amused.\n\n\"No! oh, no!\" Edna hastened to say. \"I was a little unthinking child in\nthose days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On the\ncontrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold upon\nme; after I was twelve and until-until--why, I suppose until now, though\nI never thought much about it--just driven along by habit. But do you\nknow,\" she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and\nleaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that\nof her companion, \"sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking\nthrough the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and\nunguided.\"\n\nMadame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was\nnear her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly\nand warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand,\nmurmuring in an undertone, \"Pauvre cherie.\"\n\nThe action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent\nherself readily to the Creole's gentle caress. She was not accustomed to\nan outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in\nothers. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal\nthrough force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was\nmatronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and\nhousewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having\ndied when they were quite young, Margaret was not effusive; she\nwas practical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether\naccidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type--the\nself-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own character\nhad much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friend\nat school had been one of rather exceptional intellectual gifts, who\nwrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate;\nand with her she talked and glowed over the English classics, and\nsometimes held religious and political controversies.\n\nEdna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly\ndisturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her\npart. At a very early age--perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean\nof waving grass--she remembered that she had been passionately enamored\nof a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in\nKentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor remove\nher eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon's, with a\nlock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry officer\nmelted imperceptibly out of her existence.\n\nAt another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman\nwho visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went\nto Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the\nyoung lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of\nafternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her\nteens; and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing,\nnothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But he,\ntoo, went the way of dreams.\n\nShe was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed\nto be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a\ngreat tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The\npersistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The\nhopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.\n\nThe picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one\nmay possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or\ncomment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the\npresence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as\nshe handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the\nlikeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold\nglass passionately.\n\nHer marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this\nrespect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees\nof Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met\nhim. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his\nsuit with an earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired.\nHe pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there\nwas a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she\nwas mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her\nsister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no\nfurther for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for\nher husband.\n\nThe acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian,\nwas not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who\nworshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity\nin the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the\nrealm of romance and dreams.\n\nBut it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry\nofficer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found\nherself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband,\nrealizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion\nor excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby\nthreatening its dissolution.\n\nShe was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would\nsometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes\nforget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with\ntheir grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding\ntheir happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an\noccasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though\nshe did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a\nresponsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not\nfitted her.\n\nEdna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer\nday when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of it\nescaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder.\nShe was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and\nthe unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a\nfirst breath of freedom.\n\nThere was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by\na troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers were\nwith him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little girl in his arms.\nThere were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, looking\ndisagreeable and resigned.\n\nThe women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax\ntheir muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the\nbath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood\nthere in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging\ntheir vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, and\nwalked slowly away somewhere else.\n\nThe children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went\nover to join them.\n\nMadame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she\ncomplained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaned\ndraggingly upon his arm as they walked.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\n\"Do me a favor, Robert,\" spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as\nsoon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked\nup in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the\numbrella which he had lifted.\n\n\"Granted; as many as you like,\" he returned, glancing down into her eyes\nthat were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation.\n\n\"I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.\"\n\n\"Tiens!\" he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. \"Voila que Madame\nRatignolle est jalouse!\"\n\n\"Nonsense! I'm in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier\nalone.\"\n\n\"Why?\" he asked; himself growing serious at his companion's\nsolicitation.\n\n\"She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the\nunfortunate blunder of taking you seriously.\"\n\nHis face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began\nto beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. \"Why shouldn't she\ntake me seriously?\" he demanded sharply. \"Am I a comedian, a clown, a\njack-in-the-box? Why shouldn't she? You Creoles! I have no patience with\nyou! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme? I\nhope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she has discernment\nenough to find in me something besides the blagueur. If I thought there\nwas any doubt--\"\n\n\"Oh, enough, Robert!\" she broke into his heated outburst. \"You are\nnot thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little\nreflection as we might expect from one of those children down there\nplaying in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were\never offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be\nthe gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate\nwith the wives and daughters of the people who trust you.\"\n\nMadame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the\ngospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\n\"Oh! well! That isn't it,\" slamming his hat down vehemently upon his\nhead. \"You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a\nfellow.\"\n\n\"Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? Ma\nfoi!\"\n\n\"It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you--\" he went on, unheedingly,\nbut breaking off suddenly: \"Now if I were like Arobin-you remember Alcee\nArobin and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?\" And he related\nthe story of Alcee Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about the\ntenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should never\nhave been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs.\nPontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously\nwas apparently forgotten.\n\nMadame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take\nthe hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert\nbegged her pardon for the impatience--he called it rudeness--with which\nhe had received her well-meant caution.\n\n\"You made one mistake, Adele,\" he said, with a light smile; \"there is\nno earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You\nshould have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might\nthen have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection.\nAu revoir. But you look tired,\" he added, solicitously. \"Would you like\na cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with\na drop of Angostura.\"\n\nShe acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and\nacceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart\nfrom the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself\nbrought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a\nflaky cracker or two on the saucer.\n\nShe thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open\ndoor, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon\ngarcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward \"the\nhouse.\"\n\nThe lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were\nleaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the sea. There was\nnot a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been\nturned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The\nlady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more\njaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children.\nRobert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would\ndoubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to\nhis mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of\nodd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked\nout toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach.\nThe furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical.\n\nMadame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black\ngirl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the\nmachine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided\nof imperiling her health.\n\nRobert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the\ndormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically\nto read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned\nthe leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room;\nit was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother\nexchanged bits of desultory conversation.\n\n\"Where is Mrs. Pontellier?\"\n\n\"Down at the beach with the children.\"\n\n\"I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when\nyou go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table.\" Clatter,\nclatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.\n\n\"Where is Victor going with the rockaway?\"\n\n\"The rockaway? Victor?\"\n\n\"Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"Call him.\" Clatter, clatter!\n\nRobert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard\nback at the wharf.\n\n\"He won't look up.\"\n\nMadame Lebrun flew to the window. She called \"Victor!\" She waved a\nhandkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the\nvehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.\n\nMadame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor\nwas the younger son and brother--a tete montee, with a temper which\ninvited violence and a will which no ax could break.\n\n\"Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into\nhim that he's able to hold.\"\n\n\"If your father had only lived!\" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter,\nbang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the\nuniverse and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of\na more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed\nto other spheres during the early years of their married life.\n\n\"What do you hear from Montel?\" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose\nvain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill\nthe void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun\nhousehold. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!\n\n\"I have a letter somewhere,\" looking in the machine drawer and finding\nthe letter in the bottom of the workbasket. \"He says to tell you he will\nbe in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month,\"--clatter, clatter!--\"and\nif you still have the intention of joining him\"--bang! clatter, clatter,\nbang!\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted--\" Clatter,\nclatter, clatter!\n\n\"Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will\nbe in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon\ntill the last minute.\" Clatter, clatter! \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Where did you say the Goncourt was?\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nEvery light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it\ncould be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps\nwere fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room.\nSome one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these\nfashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches\nstood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped\nthe windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious\nwill of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.\n\nIt was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held\nbetween Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An\nunusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay\nover Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families,\nwith the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been\nremoved to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and\nin clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged\nits domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent\ndisposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more\ngeneral tone to the conversation.\n\nMany of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual\nbedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor\nlooking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier\nhad brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do\nso, and making their authority felt.\n\nMusic, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments\nfurnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about\nthe programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.\n\nAt an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to\nplay the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's\ncolors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin\nat their baptism. They played a duet from \"Zampa,\" and at the earnest\nsolicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to \"The\nPoet and the Peasant.\"\n\n\"Allez vous-en! Sapristi!\" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was\nthe only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he\nwas not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that\nsummer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant\nover the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and\nconsigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his\ndecrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately\noffered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom\nof his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the\ntwins in that one impetuous outburst.\n\nLater a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one\npresent had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the\ncity.\n\nA little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor.\nThe mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her\ndaughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have\nhad no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had\nbeen properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk\ntights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially\ncrimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses\nwere full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they shot\nout and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering.\n\nBut there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame\nRatignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the\nothers. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing\nan expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was\nkeeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she\nand her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and\nmaking it attractive.\n\nAlmost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to\nseparate during the brief period when one or the other should be\nwhirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced\ntogether, but they did not think of it.\n\nThe children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with\nshrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted\nto sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of\nhuman indulgence.\n\nThe ice-cream was passed around with cake--gold and silver cake arranged\non platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the\nafternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervision\nof Victor. It was pronounced a great success--excellent if it had only\ncontained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been\nfrozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of\nportions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about\nrecommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess.\n\nAfter Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with\nRobert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and\nswayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the\ngallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded a\nview of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the Gulf.\nThere was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up, and its\nmystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, restless\nwater.\n\n\"Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?\" asked Robert, coming\nout on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear\nMademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat\nher.\n\n\"I'll ask her,\" he said. \"I'll tell her that you want to hear her. She\nlikes you. She will come.\" He turned and hurried away to one of the far\ncottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging\na chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the crying\nof a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavoring to put\nto sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who\nhad quarreled with almost every one, owing to a temper which was\nself-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the rights of others.\nRobert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty.\n\nShe entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an\nawkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman,\nwith a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had\nabsolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with\na bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.\n\n\"Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,\" she requested\nof Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching the\nkeys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A general\nair of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one as they saw\nthe pianist enter. There was a settling down, and a prevailing air\nof expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus\nsignaled out for the imperious little woman's favor. She would not dare\nto choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz would please herself in\nher selections.\n\nEdna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains,\nwell rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes\nliked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played\nor practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled\n\"Solitude.\" It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the\npiece was something else, but she called it \"Solitude.\" When she heard\nit there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing beside\na desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was one\nof hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging its\nflight away from him.\n\nAnother piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire\ngown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue\nbetween tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play,\nand still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat.\n\nThe very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano\nsent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It was not\nthe first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the\nfirst time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered\nto take an impress of the abiding truth.\n\nShe waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and\nblaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures\nof solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions\nthemselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the\nwaves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking,\nand the tears blinded her.\n\nMademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow,\nshe went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed\nalong the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.\n\n\"Well, how did you like my music?\" she asked. The young woman was\nunable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively.\nMademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She\npatted her again upon the shoulder as she said:\n\n\"You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!\" and she\nwent shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room.\n\nBut she was mistaken about \"those others.\" Her playing had aroused a\nfever of enthusiasm. \"What passion!\" \"What an artist!\" \"I have always\nsaid no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!\" \"That last\nprelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!\"\n\nIt was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But\nsome one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour\nand under that mystic moon.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nAt all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.\nThere was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did\nnot lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered\nbehind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and\nhold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or\nmischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.\n\nThe Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the\narms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them,\nand could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join\nthem. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from\nher for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the\nnext, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him\nthe days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one\nmisses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun\nwhen it was shining.\n\nThe people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and\nlaughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein's\nhotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance.\nThere were strange, rare odors abroad--a tangle of the sea smell and of\nweeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a\nfield of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon\nthe sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no\nshadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the\nmystery and the softness of sleep.\n\nMost of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The\nsea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into\none another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy\ncrests that coiled back like slow, white serpents.\n\nEdna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received\ninstructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the\nchildren. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he\nwas nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of\nhis efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the\nwater, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure\nher.\n\nBut that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching\nchild, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time\nalone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy.\nShe did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her\nbody to the surface of the water.\n\nA feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant\nimport had been given her to control the working of her body and her\nsoul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She\nwanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.\n\nHer unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and\nadmiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings\nhad accomplished this desired end.\n\n\"How easy it is!\" she thought. \"It is nothing,\" she said aloud; \"why did\nI not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost\nsplashing about like a baby!\" She would not join the groups in their\nsports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she\nswam out alone.\n\nShe turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and\nsolitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the\nmoonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be\nreaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.\n\nOnce she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had\nleft there. She had not gone any great distance--that is, what would\nhave been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her\nunaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect\nof a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome.\n\nA quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time\nappalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her\nstaggering faculties and managed to regain the land.\n\nShe made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror,\nexcept to say to her husband, \"I thought I should have perished out\nthere alone.\"\n\n\"You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,\" he told her.\n\nEdna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes\nand was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She\nstarted to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her.\nShe waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to\ntheir renewed cries which sought to detain her.\n\n\"Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious,\"\nsaid Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that\nEdna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.\n\n\"I know she is,\" assented Mr. Pontellier; \"sometimes, not often.\"\n\nEdna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before\nshe was overtaken by Robert.\n\n\"Did you think I was afraid?\" she asked him, without a shade of\nannoyance.\n\n\"No; I knew you weren't afraid.\"\n\n\"Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others?\"\n\n\"I never thought of it.\"\n\n\"Thought of what?\"\n\n\"Of anything. What difference does it make?\"\n\n\"I'm very tired,\" she uttered, complainingly.\n\n\"I know you are.\"\n\n\"You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so\nexhausted in my life. But it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions have\nswept through me to-night. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mind\nwhat I'm saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever\nbe stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz's playing moved me to-night. I\nwonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is\nlike a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny,\nhalf-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night.\"\n\n\"There are,\" whispered Robert, \"Didn't you know this was the\ntwenty-eighth of August?\"\n\n\"The twenty-eighth of August?\"\n\n\"Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if\nthe moon is shining--the moon must be shining--a spirit that has haunted\nthese shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating\nvision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him\ncompany, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the\nsemi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he\nhas sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs.\nPontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell.\nPerhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk\nin the shadow of her divine presence.\"\n\n\"Don't banter me,\" she said, wounded at what appeared to be his\nflippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate\nnote of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not\ntell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said\nnothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she\nwas exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp,\nletting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm,\nbut she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though\nher thoughts were elsewhere--somewhere in advance of her body, and she\nwas striving to overtake them.\n\nRobert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before\nher door out to the trunk of a tree.\n\n\"Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'll stay out here. Good-night.\"\n\n\"Shall I get you a pillow?\"\n\n\"There's one here,\" she said, feeling about, for they were in the\nshadow.\n\n\"It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.\"\n\n\"No matter.\" And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath\nher head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of\nrelief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not\nmuch given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with\nno cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose\nwhich seemed to invade her whole body.\n\n\"Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?\" asked Robert, seating\nhimself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the\nhammock rope which was fastened to the post.\n\n\"If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which\nI left on the window-sill over at the house?\"\n\n\"Are you chilly?\"\n\n\"No; but I shall be presently.\"\n\n\"Presently?\" he laughed. \"Do you know what time it is? How long are you\ngoing to stay out here?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Will you get the shawl?\"\n\n\"Of course I will,\" he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking\nalong the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of\nmoonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.\n\nWhen he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She\ndid not put it around her.\n\n\"Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?\"\n\n\"I said you might if you wished to.\"\n\nHe seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in\nsilence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words\ncould have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more\npregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.\n\nWhen the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said\ngood-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again\nshe watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he\nwalked away.\n\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\n\"What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed,\"\nsaid her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up\nwith Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply.\n\n\"Are you asleep?\" he asked, bending down close to look at her.\n\n\"No.\" Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as\nthey looked into his.\n\n\"Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on,\" and he mounted the steps\nand went into their room.\n\n\"Edna!\" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone\nby.\n\n\"Don't wait for me,\" she answered. He thrust his head through the door.\n\n\"You will take cold out there,\" he said, irritably. \"What folly is this?\nWhy don't you come in?\"\n\n\"It isn't cold; I have my shawl.\"\n\n\"The mosquitoes will devour you.\"\n\n\"There are no mosquitoes.\"\n\nShe heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience\nand irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She\nwould, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of\nsubmission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as\nwe walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life\nwhich has been portioned out to us.\n\n\"Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?\" he asked again, this time\nfondly, with a note of entreaty.\n\n\"No; I am going to stay out here.\"\n\n\"This is more than folly,\" he blurted out. \"I can't permit you to stay\nout there all night. You must come in the house instantly.\"\n\nWith a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock.\nShe perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She\ncould not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She\nwondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if\nshe had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that\nshe had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded,\nfeeling as she then did.\n\n\"Leonce, go to bed,\" she said, \"I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to\ngo in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall\nnot answer you.\"\n\nMr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment.\nHe opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply\nin a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the\ngallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew\nup the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded\nto smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank\nanother glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass\nwhen it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with\nelevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more\ncigars.\n\nEdna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a\ndelicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities\npressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake\nher; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her\nhelpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.\n\nThe stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the\nworld seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from\nsilver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and\nthe water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.\n\nEdna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She\ntottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into\nthe house.\n\n\"Are you coming in, Leonce?\" she asked, turning her face toward her\nhusband.\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke.\n\"Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.\"\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nShe slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,\ndisturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving\nonly an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something\nunattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.\nThe air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However,\nshe was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external\nor from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her,\nas if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her\nsoul of responsibility.\n\nMost of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep.\nA few, who intended to go over to the Cheniere for mass, were moving\nabout. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were\nalready strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday\nprayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was\nfollowing them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and\nwas more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He\nput on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the\nhall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.\n\nThe little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine was\nsweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom.\nEdna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.\n\n\"Tell him I am going to the Cheniere. The boat is ready; tell him to\nhurry.\"\n\nHe had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had never\nasked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did not\nappear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding\nhis presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything\nextraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet\nglow when he met her.\n\nThey went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no\ntime to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window\nand the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and\nate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good.\n\nShe had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often\nnoticed that she lacked forethought.\n\n\"Wasn't it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you up?\"\nshe laughed. \"Do I have to think of everything?--as Leonce says when\nhe's in a bad humor. I don't blame him; he'd never be in a bad humor if\nit weren't for me.\"\n\nThey took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see\nthe curious procession moving toward the wharf--the lovers, shoulder to\nshoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old\nMonsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted\nSpanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,\nbringing up the rear.\n\nRobert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one\npresent understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a\nround, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small,\nand she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were\nbroad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her\nfeet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.\n\nBeaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room.\nIn reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who considered\nhimself the better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel with\nso old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. The\ngirl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy\nthe next, moving her head up and down, making \"eyes\" at Robert and\nmaking \"mouths\" at Beaudelet.\n\nThe lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The\nlady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur\nFarival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of\nwhat Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.\n\nEdna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly\nbrown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again.\n\n\"Why does she look at me like that?\" inquired the girl of Robert.\n\n\"Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?\"\n\n\"No. Is she your sweetheart?\"\n\n\"She's a married lady, and has two children.\"\n\n\"Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who had four\nchildren. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his\nboat.\"\n\n\"Shut up!\"\n\n\"Does she understand?\"\n\n\"Oh, hush!\"\n\n\"Are those two married over there--leaning on each other?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" laughed Robert.\n\n\"Of course not,\" echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of\nthe head.\n\nThe sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed\nto Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands.\nRobert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through\nthe water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing\nthem. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he\nlooked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his\nbreath.\n\nSailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if she\nwere being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose\nchains had been loosening--had snapped the night before when the mystic\nspirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose\nto set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed\nMariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered\nwith Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to\nherself sullenly.\n\n\"Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?\" said Robert in a low voice.\n\n\"What shall we do there?\"\n\n\"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold\nsnakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.\"\n\nShe gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be\nalone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and\nwatching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old\nfort.\n\n\"And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,\" he went\non.\n\n\"What shall we do there?\"\n\n\"Anything--cast bait for fish.\"\n\n\"No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.\"\n\n\"We'll go wherever you like,\" he said. \"I'll have Tonie come over and\nhelp me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one.\nAre you afraid of the pirogue?\"\n\n\"Oh, no.\"\n\n\"Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines.\nMaybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the\ntreasures are hidden--direct you to the very spot, perhaps.\"\n\n\"And in a day we should be rich!\" she laughed. \"I'd give it all to you,\nthe pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you\nwould know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or\nutilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for\nthe fun of seeing the golden specks fly.\"\n\n\"We'd share it, and scatter it together,\" he said. His face flushed.\n\nThey all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady\nof Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare.\n\nOnly Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita\nwalked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill\nhumor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nA feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service.\nHer head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before\nher eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her\ncomposure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of\nthe church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert's\nfeet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious,\nstood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he\nsank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in\nblack, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon\nthe pages of her velvet prayer-book.\n\n\"I felt giddy and almost overcome,\" Edna said, lifting her hands\ninstinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her\nforehead. \"I couldn't have stayed through the service.\" They were\noutside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude.\n\n\"It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone\nstaying. Come over to Madame Antoine's; you can rest there.\" He took her\narm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her\nface.\n\nHow still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the\nreeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray,\nweather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must\nalways have been God's day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought.\nThey stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask\nfor water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from the\ncistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on\none side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to them\nin a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face,\nand it greatly revived and refreshed her.\n\nMadame Antoine's cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed\nthem with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door\nto let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily\nacross the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her\nunderstand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to\nrest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of\nher comfortably.\n\nThe whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed,\nsnow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which\nlooked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a\ndisabled boat lying keel upward.\n\nMadame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she supposed\nhe would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and wait for\nhim. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame Antoine\nbusied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boiling\nmullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.\n\nEdna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing\nthe greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms in\nthe basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and\nstockings and stretched herself in the very center of the high, white\nbed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed,\nwith its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the sheets and\nmattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ran\nher fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She looked at her\nround arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one after the\nother, observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the first\ntime, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped her\nhands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep.\n\nShe slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the\nthings about her. She could hear Madame Antoine's heavy, scraping tread\nas she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were\nclucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the\ngrass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking under\nthe shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily\nover her sleepy eyes. The voices went on--Tonie's slow, Acadian drawl,\nRobert's quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectly\nunless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the other\ndrowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses.\n\nWhen Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and\nsoundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's step\nwas no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had\ngone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over\nher; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar.\nEdna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the\nwindow, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was\nfar advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the\nshade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading\nfrom a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become\nof the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as\nshe stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows.\n\nMadame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had\nplaced a box of poudre de riz within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder\nupon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little\ndistorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were\nbright and wide awake and her face glowed.\n\nWhen she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room.\nShe was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon\nthe table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one,\nwith a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit\na piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth.\nShe poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she\nwent softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging\nbough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and\nup.\n\nAn illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her\nunder the orange tree.\n\n\"How many years have I slept?\" she inquired. \"The whole island seems\nchanged. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and\nme as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die?\nand when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?\"\n\nHe familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.\n\n\"You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard\nyour slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed\nreading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled\nfowl from drying up.\"\n\n\"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,\" said Edna, moving with\nhim into the house. \"But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and\nthe others?\"\n\n\"Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought\nit best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I\nhere for?\"\n\n\"I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!\" she speculated, as she seated\nherself at table.\n\n\"Of course not; he knows you are with me,\" Robert replied, as he\nbusied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left\nstanding on the hearth.\n\n\"Where are Madame Antoine and her son?\" asked Edna.\n\n\"Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you\nback in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go.\"\n\nHe stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle\nafresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew\nand sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than\nthe mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was\nchildishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish\nwith which she ate the food which he had procured for her.\n\n\"Shall we go right away?\" she asked, after draining her glass and\nbrushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.\n\n\"The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours,\" he answered.\n\n\"The sun will be gone in two hours.\"\n\n\"Well, let it go; who cares!\"\n\nThey waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine\ncame back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain\nher absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not\nwillingly face any woman except his mother.\n\nIt was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun\ndipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and\ngold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque\nmonsters across the grass.\n\nEdna and Robert both sat upon the ground--that is, he lay upon the\nground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.\n\nMadame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside\nthe door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself\nup to the storytelling pitch.\n\nAnd what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the\nCheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years she\nhad squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the\nBaratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten\nit. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of\nmuffled gold.\n\nWhen she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail,\nmisty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and\nupon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nThe youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle\nsaid, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been\nunwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken\ncharge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in\nbed and asleep for two hours.\n\nThe youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him\nup as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby\nfist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna\ntook him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle\nand caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to\nsleep.\n\nIt was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the\nchildren.\n\nLeonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had\nwanted to start at once for the Cheniere. But Monsieur Farival had\nassured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that\nTonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been\ndissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking\nup some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities,\nexchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle\ndid not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She\nherself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried\na bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain\nwith Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all\nthings to be left alone.\n\nWhen Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and\nRobert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child\ncomfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged\nfrom the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.\n\n\"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert--since\nearly this morning?\" she said at parting.\n\n\"All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Goodnight.\"\n\nHe pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did\nnot join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.\n\nEdna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire\nto sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the\nRatignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices\nreached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her\nmind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover\nwherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer\nof her life. She could only realize that she herself--her present\nself--was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing\nwith different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions\nin herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet\nsuspect.\n\nShe wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to\nher to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong\nday. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that\nhe had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was\nnot absolutely required to leave her.\n\nAs Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert\nhad sung as they crossed the bay. It began with \"Ah! Si tu savais,\" and\nevery verse ended with \"si tu savais.\"\n\nRobert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice,\nthe notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nWhen Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her\nhabit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several\npersons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating,\neven over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had\ndressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by\nher dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat\nat table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle.\n\nAs she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which\nhad been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her\nsimultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down\nand looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her\nall the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico.\nShe had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say he\nwas at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing\nof, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in the\nafternoon, when she went down to the beach.\n\nShe looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who\npresided. Edna's face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she\nnever thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext\nof a smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy.\n\"When is he going?\" she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert were\nnot there to answer for himself.\n\n\"To-night!\" \"This very evening!\" \"Did you ever!\" \"What possesses him!\"\nwere some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French\nand English.\n\n\"Impossible!\" she exclaimed. \"How can a person start off from Grand Isle\nto Mexico at a moment's notice, as if he were going over to Klein's or\nto the wharf or down to the beach?\"\n\n\"I said all along I was going to Mexico; I've been saying so for years!\"\ncried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man\ndefending himself against a swarm of stinging insects.\n\nMadame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle.\n\n\"Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going\nto-night,\" she called out. \"Really, this table is getting to be more and\nmore like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes--I\nhope God will forgive me--but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would\nlose the power of speech.\"\n\nVictor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish,\nof which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might\nafford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself.\n\nMonsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in\nmid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would\nbe more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim\nfor making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a trifle\nhysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names.\n\n\"There's nothing much to explain, mother,\" he said; though he explained,\nnevertheless--looking chiefly at Edna--that he could only meet the\ngentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and such\na steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet was\ngoing out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave him\nan opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time.\n\n\"But when did you make up your mind to all this?\" demanded Monsieur\nFarival.\n\n\"This afternoon,\" returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance.\n\n\"At what time this afternoon?\" persisted the old gentleman, with nagging\ndetermination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a court of\njustice.\n\n\"At four o'clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,\" Robert replied, in\na high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentleman\non the stage.\n\nShe had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking\nthe flaky bits of a court bouillon with her fork.\n\nThe lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speak\nin whispers of matters which they rightly considered were interesting\nto no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a pair\nof prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico, with very special\nindulgence attached to them, but she had never been able to ascertain\nwhether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. Father\nFochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had not\ndone so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert would interest\nhimself, and discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to the\nindulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads.\n\nMadame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution\nin dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous\npeople, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no\ninjustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally\nbut one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she would\nhave trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was arrested\nfor stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not.\n\nVictor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote\nabout a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in\nDauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival,\nwho went into convulsions over the droll story.\n\nEdna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at\nthat rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the\nMexicans.\n\n\"At what time do you leave?\" she asked Robert.\n\n\"At ten,\" he told her. \"Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon.\"\n\n\"Are you all ready to go?\"\n\n\"Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in\nthe city.\"\n\nHe turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna,\nhaving finished her black coffee, left the table.\n\nShe went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy\nafter leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be\na hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began\nto set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the\nquadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed.\nShe gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of\nchairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She\nchanged her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She\nrearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then\nshe went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed.\n\nThey were very playful and inclined to talk--to do anything but lie\nquiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and\ntold her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children\na story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their\nwakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating about\nthe conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the\nfollowing night.\n\nThe little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to\nhave Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr.\nRobert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed,\nthat she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the\nhouse later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to\nremove her peignoir. But changing her mind once more she resumed\nthe peignoir, and went outside and sat down before her door. She was\noverheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while.\nMadame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter.\n\n\"All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,\" replied\nEdna, \"and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert\nstarting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if\nit were a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all\nmorning when he was with me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" agreed Madame Ratignolle. \"I think it was showing us all--you\nespecially--very little consideration. It wouldn't have surprised me in\nany of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must\nsay I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not\ncoming down? Come on, dear; it doesn't look friendly.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Edna, a little sullenly. \"I can't go to the trouble of\ndressing again; I don't feel like it.\"\n\n\"You needn't dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your waist.\nJust look at me!\"\n\n\"No,\" persisted Edna; \"but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended if\nwe both stayed away.\"\n\nMadame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth\nrather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation\nwhich was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.\n\nSomewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag.\n\n\"Aren't you feeling well?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?\"\n\nHe lit a match and looked at his watch. \"In twenty minutes,\" he said.\nThe sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a\nwhile. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the\nporch.\n\n\"Get a chair,\" said Edna.\n\n\"This will do,\" he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took it\noff again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of the\nheat.\n\n\"Take the fan,\" said Edna, offering it to him.\n\n\"Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some time,\nand feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.\"\n\n\"That's one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never\nknown one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone?\"\n\n\"Forever, perhaps. I don't know. It depends upon a good many things.\"\n\n\"Well, in case it shouldn't be forever, how long will it be?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don't like\nit. I don't understand your motive for silence and mystery, never saying\na word to me about it this morning.\" He remained silent, not offering to\ndefend himself. He only said, after a moment:\n\n\"Don't part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of\npatience with me before.\"\n\n\"I don't want to part in any ill humor,\" she said. \"But can't you\nunderstand? I've grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all\nthe time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don't even\noffer an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of\nhow pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter.\"\n\n\"So was I,\" he blurted. \"Perhaps that's the--\" He stood up suddenly\nand held out his hand. \"Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You\nwon't--I hope you won't completely forget me.\" She clung to his hand,\nstriving to detain him.\n\n\"Write to me when you get there, won't you, Robert?\" she entreated.\n\n\"I will, thank you. Good-by.\"\n\nHow unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something\nmore emphatic than \"I will, thank you; good-by,\" to such a request.\n\nHe had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house,\nfor he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out there\nwith an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked away\nin the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet's voice; Robert had\napparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion.\n\nEdna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to\nhide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the\nemotion which was troubling--tearing--her. Her eyes were brimming with\ntears.\n\nFor the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she\nhad felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and\nlater as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the\npoignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability.\nThe past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to\nheed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate.\nThe present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was\ndoing then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she\nhad held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly\nawakened being demanded.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\n\"Do you miss your friend greatly?\" asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning\nas she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on\nher way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she\nhad acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle\ndrew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to a\ndiversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she\nknew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulder\nand spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever in\nEdna's mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly possessed her.\n\nRobert's going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning\nout of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way changed,\nbut her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems to\nbe no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere--in others whom\nshe induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings to Madame\nLebrun's room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. She sat\nthere and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed around\nthe room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, and\ndiscovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined with\nthe keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment\nconcerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its\npages.\n\nThere was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in\nher lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone\nin the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the age\nof five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Edna\nlaugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers;\nwhile another interested her, taken when he left for college, looking\nthin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions.\nBut there was no recent picture, none which suggested the Robert who had\ngone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him.\n\n\"Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for\nthem himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,\" explained\nMadame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New\nOrleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to\nlook for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on the\nmantelpiece.\n\nThe letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and\nattraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark,\nthe handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening\nit. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the\ncity that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that\nhe was well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately\nremembered to all. There was no special message to Edna except a\npostscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the book\nwhich he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in his\nroom, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang of\njealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her.\n\nEvery one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her\nhusband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's departure,\nexpressed regret that he had gone.\n\n\"How do you get on without him, Edna?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's very dull without him,\" she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen\nRobert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where\nhad they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone\n\"in\" and had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about?\nChiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought\nwere promising. How did he look? How did he seem--grave, or gay, or how?\nQuite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which\nMr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek\nfortune and adventure in a strange, queer country.\n\nEdna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children\npersisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She\nwent down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not\nbeing more attentive.\n\nIt did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be\nmaking of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to\nspeak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way\nresembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever\nexpected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor\nthoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never\ntaken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and\nshe entertained the conviction that she had a right to them and that\nthey concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle\nthat she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one.\nThen had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear\nto understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried\nto appease her friend, to explain.\n\n\"I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my\nlife for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more\nclear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is\nrevealing itself to me.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the\nunessential,\" said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; \"but a woman who would\ngive her life for her children could do no more than that--your Bible\ntells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more than that.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes you could!\" laughed Edna.\n\nShe was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that\nlady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked\nif she did not greatly miss her young friend.\n\n\"Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss\nRobert. Are you going down to bathe?\"\n\n\"Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I\nhaven't been in the surf all summer,\" replied the woman, disagreeably.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should\nhave remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had\nfurnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was\non account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet,\nwhile others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes\nbelieved to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered\nEdna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket,\nby way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate\nchocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment\nin small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame\nLebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a\nwoman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and\nrequiring them to pay for it.\n\n\"She must feel very lonely without her son,\" said Edna, desiring to\nchange the subject. \"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard\nto let him go.\"\n\nMademoiselle laughed maliciously.\n\n\"Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale\nupon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has\nspoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the\nground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the\nmoney he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for\nhimself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I\nliked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is\nworth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like\nto play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a\nwonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago.\"\n\n\"I thought he had great patience with his brother,\" offered Edna, glad\nto be talking about Robert, no matter what was said.\n\n\"Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,\" said Mademoiselle.\n\"It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some\nsort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or\nwalking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket--I don't\nremember what;--and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave\nhim a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for\na good while. It's about time he was getting another.\"\n\n\"Was her name Mariequita?\" asked Edna.\n\n\"Mariequita--yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's a\nsly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!\"\n\nEdna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have\nlistened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed,\nalmost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she\ndonned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the\nshade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the season\nadvanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and\ninvigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that\nMademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her.\n\nBut Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and\nraved much over Edna's appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about\nmusic. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote\nher address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found\nin her pocket.\n\n\"When do you leave?\" asked Edna.\n\n\"Next Monday; and you?\"\n\n\"The following week,\" answered Edna, adding, \"It has been a pleasant\nsummer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"Well,\" agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, \"rather pleasant, if it\nhadn't been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nThe Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in\nNew Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda,\nwhose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was\npainted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were\ngreen. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and\nplants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within\ndoors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The\nsoftest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies\nhung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment\nand discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy\ndamask which daily appeared upon the table were the envy of many women\nwhose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier.\n\nMr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its\nvarious appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He\ngreatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and\nderived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a\nrare lace curtain--no matter what--after he had bought it and placed it\namong his household gods.\n\nOn Tuesday afternoons--Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's reception\nday--there was a constant stream of callers--women who came in carriages\nor in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance\npermitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a\ndiminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A\nmaid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or\nchocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome\nreception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon\nreceiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their\nwives.\n\nThis had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously\nfollowed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during\nthe week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.\n\nMr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten\no'clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the\nevening--dinner being served at half-past seven.\n\nHe and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few\nweeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together.\nThe boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping\nfeet could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the\nquadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not\nwear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress.\nMr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he\nserved the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.\n\n\"Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?\" he asked. He\ntasted his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,\nmustard--everything within reach.\n\n\"There were a good many,\" replied Edna, who was eating her soup with\nevident satisfaction. \"I found their cards when I got home; I was out.\"\n\n\"Out!\" exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation\nin his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her through\nhis glasses. \"Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What did\nyou have to do?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,\" said her husband, somewhat\nappeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.\n\n\"No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.\"\n\n\"Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people\ndon't do such things; we've got to observe les convenances if we ever\nexpect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you\nhad to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable\nexplanation for your absence.\n\n\"This soup is really impossible; it's strange that woman hasn't learned\nyet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better\none. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?\"\n\n\"Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don't remember who was here.\"\n\nThe boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver\ntray, which was covered with ladies' visiting cards. He handed it to\nMrs. Pontellier.\n\n\"Give it to Mr. Pontellier,\" she said.\n\nJoe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.\n\nMr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers, reading some of\nthem aloud, with comments as he read.\n\n\"'The Misses Delasidas.' I worked a big deal in futures for their father\nthis morning; nice girls; it's time they were getting married. 'Mrs.\nBelthrop.' I tell you what it is, Edna; you can't afford to snub Mrs.\nBelthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His\nbusiness is worth a good, round sum to me. You'd better write her a\nnote. 'Mrs. James Highcamp.' Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs.\nHighcamp, the better. 'Madame Laforce.' Came all the way from Carrolton,\ntoo, poor old soul. 'Miss Wiggs,' 'Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.'\" He pushed the\ncards aside.\n\n\"Mercy!\" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. \"Why are you taking the\nthing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?\"\n\n\"I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's just such seeming trifles\nthat we've got to take seriously; such things count.\"\n\nThe fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she\ndid not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to\nhis fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were\nserved.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" he said, \"we spend money enough in this house to\nprocure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his\nself-respect.\"\n\n\"You used to think the cook was a treasure,\" returned Edna,\nindifferently.\n\n\"Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They\nneed looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.\nSuppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office, just let them\nrun things their own way; they'd soon make a nice mess of me and my\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\" asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose\nfrom table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the\nhighly-seasoned soup.\n\n\"I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.\" He went into the\nhall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.\n\nShe was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her very\nunhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived of\nany desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchen\nto administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room and\nstudied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing out a\nmenu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after\nall, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name.\n\nBut that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced\ndeliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward\nfire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her\nroom, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was\nindisposed.\n\nIt was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim\nlight which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open\nwindow and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the\nmystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the\nperfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage.\nShe was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet,\nhalf-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing\nthat came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They\njeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope.\nShe turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its\nwhole length without stopping, without resting. She carried in her\nhands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a\nball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding\nring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there, she stamped\nher heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not\nmake an indenture, not a mark upon the little glittering circlet.\n\nIn a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung\nit upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The\ncrash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.\n\nA maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to\ndiscover what was the matter.\n\n\"A vase fell upon the hearth,\" said Edna. \"Never mind; leave it till\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma'am,\" insisted the\nyoung woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered upon\nthe carpet. \"And here's your ring, ma'am, under the chair.\"\n\nEdna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nThe following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked\nEdna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some new\nfixtures for the library.\n\n\"I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce. Don't let us get anything\nnew; you are too extravagant. I don't believe you ever think of saving\nor putting by.\"\n\n\"The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it,\"\nhe said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him and\nselect new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she was not\nlooking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale and\nvery quiet.\n\nShe stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently\npicked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She\ninhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her\nwhite morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small\n\"express wagon,\" which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The\nquadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a\nfictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was\ncrying his wares in the street.\n\nEdna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon\nher face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the\nchildren, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes,\nwere all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become\nantagonistic.\n\nShe went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook\nconcerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had\nsaved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly fitted.\nMr. Pontellier's arguments were usually convincing with those whom he\nemployed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sit\ndown that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner\ndeserving of the name.\n\nEdna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches.\nShe could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her\neyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor.\nFinally she gathered together a few of the sketches--those which she\nconsidered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when,\na little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and\ndistinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left\nher face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her\nheavy, yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a\nsmall, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden\nin her hair.\n\nAs Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was\nstill under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him,\nrealizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like\nan obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt\nupon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or\npeculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which\ndominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the\nmist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled her\nwith an incomprehensible longing.\n\nEdna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's. Their intimacy, begun at\nGrand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some\nfrequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no\ngreat distance from Edna's home, on the corner of a side street, where\nMonsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a\nsteady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before\nhim, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an\nenviable reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived\nin commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side\nwithin the porte cochere. There was something which Edna thought very\nFrench, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large\nand pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the\nRatignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soiree\nmusicale, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend who\nplayed upon the 'cello. One brought his flute and another his violin,\nwhile there were some who sang and a number who performed upon the piano\nwith various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles' soirees\nmusicales were widely known, and it was considered a privilege to be\ninvited to them.\n\nEdna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had\nreturned that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her\noccupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into\nher presence.\n\n\"'Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business,\" she explained\nto Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she summoned a young\nblack woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very careful in\nchecking off the list which she handed her. She told her to notice\nparticularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur Ratignolle's,\nwhich was missing last week, had been returned; and to be sure to set to\none side such pieces as required mending and darning.\n\nThen placing an arm around Edna's waist, she led her to the front of the\nhouse, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of great\nroses that stood upon the hearth in jars.\n\nMadame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a\nneglige which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich,\nmelting curves of her white throat.\n\n\"Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,\" said Edna with\na smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches and\nstarted to unfold them. \"I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I\nwanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you think it\nworth while to take it up again and study some more? I might study for a\nwhile with Laidpore.\"\n\nShe knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion in such a matter would be next\nto valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined;\nbut she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help her\nto put heart into her venture.\n\n\"Your talent is immense, dear!\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" protested Edna, well pleased.\n\n\"Immense, I tell you,\" persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the\nsketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm's length,\nnarrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. \"Surely, this\nBavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never\nhave I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reach\nout a hand and take one.\"\n\nEdna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at\nher friend's praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth.\nShe retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame\nRatignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly\nexhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a\nlittle later for his midday dinner.\n\nMr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the\nearth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his\ngoodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife\nspoke English with an accent which was only discernible through its\nun-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation.\nEdna's husband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles\nunderstood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings\ninto one has been accomplished on this sphere it was surely in their\nunion.\n\nAs Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, \"Better a dinner\nof herbs,\" though it did not take her long to discover that it was no\ndinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every\nway satisfying.\n\nMonsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her\nlooking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked\na good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and\nneighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that\ngave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife\nwas keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the\nbetter to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth.\n\nEdna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little\nglimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no\nregret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and\nshe could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved\nby a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,--a pity for that\ncolorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region\nof blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her\nsoul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium. Edna\nvaguely wondered what she meant by \"life's delirium.\" It had crossed her\nthought like some unsought, extraneous impression.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nEdna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish,\nto have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon\nthe tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such\nfutile expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she\nliked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not return\nthe visits of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectual\nefforts to conduct her household en bonne menagere, going and coming as\nit suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending herself to any\npassing caprice.\n\nMr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met\na certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected\nline of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her\nabsolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr.\nPontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to\ntake another step backward.\n\n\"It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household,\nand the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days which would be\nbetter employed contriving for the comfort of her family.\"\n\n\"I feel like painting,\" answered Edna. \"Perhaps I shan't always feel\nlike it.\"\n\n\"Then in God's name paint! but don't let the family go to the devil.\nThere's Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn't\nlet everything else go to chaos. And she's more of a musician than you\nare a painter.\"\n\n\"She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter. It isn't on account of\npainting that I let things go.\"\n\n\"On account of what, then?\"\n\n\"Oh! I don't know. Let me alone; you bother me.\"\n\nIt sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were\nnot growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she\nwas not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself\nand daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a\ngarment with which to appear before the world.\n\nHer husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office.\nEdna went up to her atelier--a bright room in the top of the house.\nShe was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing\nanything, however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. For\na time she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art. The\nboys posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation\nsoon lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a game\narranged especially for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours\nbefore Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the house-maid took\ncharge of the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But the\nhousemaid, too, served her term as model when Edna perceived that the\nyoung woman's back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that\nher hair, loosened from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While\nEdna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, \"Ah! si tu savais!\"\n\nIt moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the\nwater, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the\nbay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A\nsubtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold\nupon the brushes and making her eyes burn.\n\nThere were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was\nhappy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one\nwith the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some\nperfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and\nunfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned\nto dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and\nunmolested.\n\nThere were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,--when it did\nnot seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life\nappeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms\nstruggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on\nsuch a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nIt was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She\nhad not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her\nby their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see\nher--above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite\nearly in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist.\nUnfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, and\nlooking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman\nlived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell\ninto her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the\nnumber indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a\nrespectable family of mulattoes who had chambres garnies to let. They\nhad been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of\na Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing of any of their\nneighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction,\nthey assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions with\nMadame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery store, feeling\nsure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the proprietor.\n\nHe knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know\nher, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know her\nat all, or anything concerning her--the most disagreeable and unpopular\nwoman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had left\nthe neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know where\nshe had gone.\n\nEdna's desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since\nthese unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering\nwho could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurred\nto her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so. She\nknew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the most\ndistant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing\nconcerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing\nherself upon the subject as the corner grocer.\n\nEdna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was\nthe middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on\nChartres Street.\n\nTheir home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before\nthe door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old\nregime, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side\nwas a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the\nstreet was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and\nstood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted.\n\nIt was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her\nhands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna\ncould hear them in altercation, the woman--plainly an anomaly--claiming\nthe right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to\nanswer the bell.\n\nVictor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made\nno attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a\ndark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling\nhis mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the\nblack woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier\ndesired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty\nwhen she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her\ninterrupted task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered\na rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity\nand incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it\nwas, the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went\nmumbling into the house.\n\nEdna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side\nporch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She\nseated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to\nrock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew\nup his chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman's\noffensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not there\nto take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the morning\nbefore, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter at the\nisland; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got things ready\nfor the summer visitors.\n\nBut a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, and\nevery now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the city.\nMy! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn't want his\nmother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillant\nwith recollections. Of course, he couldn't think of telling Mrs.\nPontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending such\nthings. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through\nthe shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty! Certainly he\nsmiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not know\nhim if she supposed he was one to let an opportunity like that escape\nhim. Despite herself, the youngster amused her. She must have betrayed\nin her look some degree of interest or entertainment. The boy grew more\ndaring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself, in a little while,\nlistening to a highly colored story but for the timely appearance of\nMadame Lebrun.\n\nThat lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the\nsummer. Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier\ngo inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been\nthere before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet\nchildren? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November?\n\nVictor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother's chair,\nwhere he commanded a view of Edna's face. He had taken her parasol from\nher hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled it\nabove him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that it\nwas so dull coming back to the city; that she saw so few people now;\nthat even Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, had\nso much to occupy him and engage his time; then it was that the youth\nwent into contortions on the lounge and winked mischievously at Edna.\nShe somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severe\nand disapproving.\n\nThere had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they\ntold her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for\nthe letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He\nremembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when\nput to the test.\n\nOne letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City\nof Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his\nadvancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over the\none he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly\nbetter. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the people and\ntheir habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent his\nlove to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she\nwould affectionately remember him to all his friends. That was about the\nsubstance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a message\nfor her, she would have received it. The despondent frame of mind in\nwhich she had left home began again to overtake her, and she remembered\nthat she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz.\n\nMadame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the\naddress, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the\nremainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some\nother day. The afternoon was already well advanced.\n\nVictor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held\nit over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her\nto bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly\nconfidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too\nlate that she should have been dignified and reserved.\n\n\"How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!\" said Madame Lebrun to her son.\n\n\"Ravishing!\" he admitted. \"The city atmosphere has improved her. Some\nway she doesn't seem like the same woman.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nSome people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose\napartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars,\npeddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front\nroom. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always\nopen it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the\nroom a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light\nand air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen\nthe crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of\nthe Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment.\nIn the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a\ngasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend\nto the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping\nher belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred\nyears of use.\n\nWhen Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's front room door and entered,\nshe discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in\nmending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed\nall over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the\nface and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely,\nstanding there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace\nand the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head.\n\n\"So you remembered me at last,\" said Mademoiselle. \"I had said to\nmyself, 'Ah, bah! she will never come.'\"\n\n\"Did you want me to come?\" asked Edna with a smile.\n\n\"I had not thought much about it,\" answered Mademoiselle. The two had\nseated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall.\n\"I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there,\nand was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with\nme. And how is la belle dame? Always handsome! always healthy! always\ncontented!\" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers,\nholding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme\nupon the back and palm.\n\n\"Yes,\" she went on; \"I sometimes thought: 'She will never come. She\npromised as those women in society always do, without meaning it.\nShe will not come.' For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs.\nPontellier.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether I like you or not,\" replied Edna, gazing down at\nthe little woman with a quizzical look.\n\nThe candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle\nReisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the\nregion of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised\ncup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very\nacceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and\nwas now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she\nbrought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once\nagain on the lumpy sofa.\n\n\"I have had a letter from your friend,\" she remarked, as she poured a\nlittle cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her.\n\n\"My friend?\"\n\n\"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.\"\n\n\"Wrote to YOU?\" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee\nabsently.\n\n\"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee;\ndrink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was\nnothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.\"\n\n\"Let me see it,\" requested the young woman, entreatingly.\n\n\"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one\nto whom it is written.\"\n\n\"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?\"\n\n\"It was written about you, not to you. 'Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier?\nHow is she looking?' he asks. 'As Mrs. Pontellier says,' or 'as Mrs.\nPontellier once said.' 'If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play\nfor her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day\nor two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects\nher,' and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's\nsociety.\"\n\n\"Let me see the letter.\"\n\n\"Oh, no.\"\n\n\"Have you answered it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Let me see the letter.\"\n\n\"No, and again, no.\"\n\n\"Then play the Impromptu for me.\"\n\n\"It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?\"\n\n\"Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the\nImpromptu.\"\n\n\"But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Painting!\" laughed Edna. \"I am becoming an artist. Think of it!\"\n\n\"Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.\"\n\n\"Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?\"\n\n\"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or\nyour temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many\ngifts--absolute gifts--which have not been acquired by one's own effort.\nAnd, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by the courageous soul?\"\n\n\"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.\"\n\n\"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have\npersistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?\"\n\n\"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,\" replied\nMademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.\n\nThe letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table\nupon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened\nthe drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in\nEdna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano.\n\nMademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat\nlow at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful\ncurves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and\nimperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of\nthe Chopin Impromptu.\n\nEdna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa\ncorner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had\nglided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song,\nand back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing.\n\nThe shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and\nfantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The\nshadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the\nnight, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in\nthe silence of the upper air.\n\nEdna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when\nstrange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take\nher departure. \"May I come again, Mademoiselle?\" she asked at the\nthreshold.\n\n\"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are\ndark; don't stumble.\"\n\nMademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the\nfloor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with\ntears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the\nenvelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n\nOne morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of\nhis old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a\nsemi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels.\nHe bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill--leaving the active\npractice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries--and\nwas much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united\nto him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the\nservices of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these.\n\nMr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study.\nHis house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of\na delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the\nold gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up\ndisapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering\nwho had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning.\n\n\"Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do\nyou bring this morning?\" He was quite portly, with a profusion of\ngray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their\nbrightness but none of their penetration.\n\n\"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber--of\nthat old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away.\nI came to consult--no, not precisely to consult--to talk to you about\nEdna. I don't know what ails her.\"\n\n\"Madame Pontellier not well,\" marveled the Doctor. \"Why, I saw her--I\nthink it was a week ago--walking along Canal Street, the picture of\nhealth, it seemed to me.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; she seems quite well,\" said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward\nand whirling his stick between his two hands; \"but she doesn't act well.\nShe's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought\nperhaps you'd help me.\"\n\n\"How does she act?\" inquired the Doctor.\n\n\"Well, it isn't easy to explain,\" said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself\nback in his chair. \"She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.\"\n\n\"Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to\nconsider--\"\n\n\"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude--toward\nme and everybody and everything--has changed. You know I have a quick\ntemper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my\nwife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've\nmade a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for\nme,\" he went on nervously. \"She's got some sort of notion in her head\nconcerning the eternal rights of women; and--you understand--we meet in\nthe morning at the breakfast table.\"\n\nThe old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether\nlip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips.\n\n\"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?\"\n\n\"Doing! Parbleu!\"\n\n\"Has she,\" asked the Doctor, with a smile, \"has she been associating\nof late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritual\nsuperior beings? My wife has been telling me about them.\"\n\n\"That's the trouble,\" broke in Mr. Pontellier, \"she hasn't been\nassociating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has\nthrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself,\nmoping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's\npeculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it.\"\n\nThis was a new aspect for the Doctor. \"Nothing hereditary?\" he asked,\nseriously. \"Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The\nold gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday\nsins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses\nliterally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land\nI ever laid eyes upon. Margaret--you know Margaret--she has all the\nPresbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By\nthe way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.\"\n\n\"Send your wife up to the wedding,\" exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a\nhappy solution. \"Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will\ndo her good.\"\n\n\"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says\na wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing\nfor a woman to say to her husband!\" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming\nanew at the recollection.\n\n\"Pontellier,\" said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, \"let your\nwife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother\nyou. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism--a\nsensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to\nbe, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to\ndeal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me\nattempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most\nwomen are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife,\ndue to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But\nit will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her\naround to see me.\"\n\n\"Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it,\" objected Mr.\nPontellier.\n\n\"Then I'll go around and see her,\" said the Doctor. \"I'll drop in to\ndinner some evening en bon ami.\n\n\"Do! by all means,\" urged Mr. Pontellier. \"What evening will you come?\nSay Thursday. Will you come Thursday?\" he asked, rising to take his\nleave.\n\n\"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for\nme Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may\nexpect me.\"\n\nMr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:\n\n\"I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on\nhand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle\nthe ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,\" he\nlaughed.\n\n\"No, I thank you, my dear sir,\" returned the Doctor. \"I leave such\nventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood.\"\n\n\"What I wanted to say,\" continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the\nknob; \"I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take\nEdna along?\"\n\n\"By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't\ncontradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month,\ntwo, three months--possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.\"\n\n\"Well, good-by, a jeudi,\" said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.\n\nThe Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask,\n\"Is there any man in the case?\" but he knew his Creole too well to make\nsuch a blunder as that.\n\nHe did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively\nlooking out into the garden.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n\nEdna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days.\nShe was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain\ntastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming\nwas in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new\ndirection for her emotions.\n\nHe had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an\noutfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at\nher marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every\none immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such\nmatters. And his suggestions on the question of dress--which too\noften assumes the nature of a problem--were of inestimable value to his\nfather-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon\nEdna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a new\nset of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, and\nstill maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always\naccompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, emphasizing\nthe rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats\npadded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders\nand chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, and\nexcited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his\narrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch\nof him. He took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been\nten-fold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced\nas he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a\nmasterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be\ndirected toward successful achievement.\n\nBefore her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the\ncannon's mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the\nchildren, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up\nthere in their mother's bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned\nthem away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the\nfixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.\n\nEdna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet\nhim, having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle\ndeclined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale\nat the Ratignolles'. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the\nColonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at\nonce to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might\nselect. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive\nmanner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the\nColonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders.\nEdna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of\ncoquetry.\n\nThere were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale;\nbut she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract\ntheir notice--to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward\nthem. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy\nselected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them\nan opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the\nglance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had\ndisturbed her.\n\nMr. Pontellier did not attend these soirees musicales. He considered\nthem bourgeois, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame\nRatignolle he said the music dispensed at her soirees was too \"heavy,\"\ntoo far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her.\nBut she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier's club, and she was frank enough\nto tell Edna so.\n\n\"It's a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn't stay home more in the evenings.\nI think you would be more--well, if you don't mind my saying it--more\nunited, if he did.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear no!\" said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. \"What should I\ndo if he stayed home? We wouldn't have anything to say to each other.\"\n\nShe had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but\nhe did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, though\nshe realized that he might not interest her long; and for the first time\nin her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He\nkept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It amused her\nto do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the children to do\nanything for him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed, and\nthought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment which he had\nnever suspected.\n\nThe Colonel drank numerous \"toddies\" during the course of the day, which\nleft him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting strong\ndrinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic\nnames, and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that it\ndevolved upon Edna to procure for him.\n\nWhen Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could\ndiscern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her\nhusband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant.\nShe and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when\nthey seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of\nthe afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had not\nkept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing\nin what he called \"the good old times\" when the Lecompte stables\nflourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not\nbe left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed\nto impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with\nthis trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father\non his last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them.\nBesides, they had met some very charming people, according to the\nColonel's impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp,\nwho were there with Alcee Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the\nhours in a fashion that warmed him to think of.\n\nMr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, and\nwas even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially\nwhen he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He\nendeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and\nonly succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law.\nA pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father's\ncause and the Doctor remained neutral.\n\nHe observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and\nnoted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman\nhe had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with\nthe forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no\nrepression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful,\nsleek animal waking up in the sun.\n\nThe dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was\ncold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantness\nmelted and vanished with the fumes of the wine.\n\nMr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing\nplantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth,\nwhen he hunted 'possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed\nthe pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in\nmischievous idleness.\n\nThe Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things,\nrelated a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had\nacted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was\nthe Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new\nand curious story of the waning of a woman's love, seeking strange, new\nchannels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce\nunrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been\nunfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did not\nseem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of a\nwoman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and never\ncame back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one ever\nheard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was a\npure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her.\nThat, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But\nevery glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel\nthe hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of\nthe pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds'\nwings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools;\nthey could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in\noblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown.\n\nThe champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks\nwith Edna's memory that night.\n\nOutside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the\nnight was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak\nacross his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his\nfellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so\nseldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted\nPontellier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest\nand an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives\nthrust upon him.\n\n\"I hope it isn't Arobin,\" he muttered to himself as he walked. \"I hope\nto heaven it isn't Alcee Arobin.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n\nEdna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the\nsubject of her refusal to attend her sister's wedding. Mr. Pontellier\ndeclined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his\nauthority. He was following Doctor Mandelet's advice, and letting her do\nas she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of\nfilial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly\nconsideration. His arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted\nif Janet would accept any excuse--forgetting that Edna had offered\nnone. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure\nMargaret would not.\n\nEdna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself\noff with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded\nshoulders, his Bible reading, his \"toddies\" and ponderous oaths.\n\nMr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding\non his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love\ncould devise to atone somewhat for Edna's incomprehensible action.\n\n\"You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce,\" asserted the Colonel.\n\"Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good and\nhard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.\"\n\nThe Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into\nher grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought\nit needless to mention at that late day.\n\nEdna was not so consciously gratified at her husband's leaving home as\nshe had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached\nwhen he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting\nand affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his\nrepeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about\nhis health and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his\nclothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle\nwould have done under similar circumstances. She cried when he went\naway, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was quite certain she\nwould grow lonely before very long and go to join him in New York.\n\nBut after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found\nherself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had\ncome herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The\nold madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected\nduring Leonce's absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She was hungry\nfor them--even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want them\nto be wholly \"children of the pavement,\" she always said when begging\nto have them for a space. She wished them to know the country, with its\nstreams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young.\nShe wished them to taste something of the life their father had lived\nand known and loved when he, too, was a little child.\n\nWhen Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief.\nA feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She\nwalked all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting\nit for the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if\nshe had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she perambulated\naround the outside of the house, investigating, looking to see if\nwindows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were like\nnew acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and made\nherself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna called\nto the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, and\nstooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead, dry leaves.\nThe children's little dog came out, interfering, getting in her way. She\nscolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so good\nand looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all the\nbright flowers she could find, and went into the house with them, she\nand the little dog.\n\nEven the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had\nnever before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to\nsay that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they would\nrequire only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries.\nShe told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied during\nMr. Pontellier's absence, and she begged her to take all thought and\nresponsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders.\n\nThat night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the\ncenter of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle\nof light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and\nshadowy. The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast--a\nluscious tenderloin broiled a point. The wine tasted good; the marron\nglace seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to\ndine in a comfortable peignoir.\n\nShe thought a little sentimentally about Leonce and the children, and\nwondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the\ndoggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was\nbeside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable\nadvances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks\nand a lively agitation.\n\nThen Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she\ngrew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and\ndetermined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that\nher time was completely her own to do with as she liked.\n\nAfter a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled\ncomfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her,\nsuch as she had not known before.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\nWhen the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed the\nsun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reached\na stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, when\nin the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, and\nstriving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work\nin itself.\n\nOn rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of\nthe friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors\nand nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own\ncomfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as\nif life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled.\nYet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by\nfresh promises which her youth held out to her.\n\nShe went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp\ncalled for her one bright afternoon in Arobin's drag. Mrs. Highcamp was\na worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the\nforties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had\na daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of\nyoung men of fashion. Alcee Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar\nfigure at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was\na perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a\ncorresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listened\nto his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little\ninsolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened\nwith depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the\nconventional man of fashion.\n\nHe admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her\nfather. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to\nhim unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs.\nHighcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witness\nthe turf event of the season.\n\nThere were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse as\nwell as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She sat\nbetween her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed\nat Arobin's pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. The\nrace horse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The\natmosphere of the stables and the breath of the blue grass paddock\nrevived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive\nthat she was talking like her father as the sleek geldings ambled in\nreview before them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favored\nher. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes, and it got\ninto her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. People turned\ntheir heads to look at her, and more than one lent an attentive ear to\nher utterances, hoping thereby to secure the elusive but ever-desired\n\"tip.\" Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which drew him to\nEdna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with her\nindifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows.\n\nEdna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so.\nArobin also remained and sent away his drag.\n\nThe dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts\nof Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her\ndaughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed\nby going to the \"Dante reading\" instead of joining them. The girl held\na geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and\nnoncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only\ntalked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of\ndelicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed\nmost of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after\ndinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; while\nthe younger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. Miss\nHighcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed to\nhave apprehended all of the composer's coldness and none of his poetry.\nWhile Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had lost her\ntaste for music.\n\nWhen the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offer\nto escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless concern.\nIt was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was late\nwhen they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to enter for\na second to light his cigarette--his match safe was empty. He filled his\nmatch safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left her, after she\nhad expressed her willingness to go to the races with him again.\n\nEdna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the\nHighcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She\nrummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some\ncrackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox.\nEdna felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a\nfantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and munched\na cracker.\n\nShe wanted something to happen--something, anything; she did not know\nwhat. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour to\ntalk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But\nthere was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for\nhours in a sort of monotonous agitation.\n\nIn the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to\nwrite her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next\nday and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide\nawake composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote\nnext day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of\nMr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal\nStreet, while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded an\nEsplanade Street car:\n\n\"What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go.\"\n\nWhen, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna in his drag,\nMrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as\nthat lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she\nwas not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the\nmeeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not\naccompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were\nany one else she cared to ask.\n\nShe did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the\nfashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She\nthought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not\nleave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with her\nhusband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such a\nrequest from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for\nsome reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and Arobin.\n\nThe afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came\nback upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and\nconfidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner\ninvited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted\nwas one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging\nwoman was concerned.\n\nHe stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire.\nThey laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling\nher how different life might have been if he had known her years before.\nWith ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy\nhe had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist\nthe scar from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of\nParis when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red\ncicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was\nsomewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch\nupon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of\nhis palm.\n\nShe arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.\n\n\"The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,\" she said.\n\"I shouldn't have looked at it.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he entreated, following her; \"it never occurred to\nme that it might be repulsive.\"\n\nHe stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old,\nvanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw\nenough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he\nsaid his lingering good night.\n\n\"Will you go to the races again?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all\nthe money I've won, and I've got to work when the weather is bright,\ninstead of--\"\n\n\"Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning\nmay I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"Day after?\"\n\n\"No, no.\"\n\n\"Oh, please don't refuse me! I know something of such things. I might\nhelp you with a stray suggestion or two.\"\n\n\"No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? I\ndon't like you,\" she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting\nto draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and\nsincerity, and she knew that he felt it.\n\n\"I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have I\noffended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me?\" And he bent and\npressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw\nthem.\n\n\"Mr. Arobin,\" she complained, \"I'm greatly upset by the excitement of\nthe afternoon; I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in some\nway. I wish you to go, please.\" She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone.\nHe took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her,\nlooking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive\nsilence.\n\n\"Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,\" he said finally. \"My\nown emotions have done that. I couldn't help it. When I'm near you, how\ncould I help it? Don't think anything of it, don't bother, please. You\nsee, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do\nso. If you let me come back, I--oh! you will let me come back?\"\n\nHe cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response.\nAlcee Arobin's manner was so genuine that it often deceived even\nhimself.\n\nEdna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she\nwas alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had\nkissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She\nfelt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into\nan act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without\nbeing wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely\nthrough her mind, \"What would he think?\"\n\nShe did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her\nhusband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without\nlove as an excuse.\n\nShe lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin was absolutely\nnothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his\nglances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted\nlike a narcotic upon her.\n\nShe slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\nAlcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with\nsincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it\nappeared to her, absurd that she should have taken his action so\nseriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the\nwhole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored\nhis note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she\nreplied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind\nthe impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his\ninfluence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed.\nShe was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as\nlight and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she\nwould be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the\ninclination and his business gave him the opportunity.\n\nHe responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his\ndisarming naivete. And then there was scarcely a day which followed\nthat she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in\npretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit\nadoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were\nas often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became\nintimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He\nsometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the\ncrimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to\nthe animalism that stirred impatiently within her.\n\nThere was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as\na visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that\npersonality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine\nart, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free.\n\nIt was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when\nEdna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her\nclothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she\nentered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a\nlittle and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat\na pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to\nEdna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust,\nscowled at her from the mantelpiece.\n\n\"Ah! here comes the sunlight!\" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her\nknees before the stove. \"Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can\nlet the fire alone.\"\n\nShe closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in\nremoving Edna's dripping mackintosh.\n\n\"You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But\nwould you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the\nbottle which you brought me for my cold.\" A piece of red flannel was\nwrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold\nher head on one side.\n\n\"I will take some brandy,\" said Edna, shivering as she removed her\ngloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would\nhave done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said,\n\"Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade\nStreet.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially\ninterested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was\nendeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from\nits fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking\na pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their\naccustomed place.\n\n\"Aren't you astonished?\"\n\n\"Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your\nfather in Mississippi? where?\"\n\n\"Just two steps away,\" laughed Edna, \"in a little four-room house around\nthe corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass\nby; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never\nseemed like mine, anyway--like home. It's too much trouble. I have to\nkeep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them.\"\n\n\"That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling me\nlies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth.\"\nEdna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself.\n\n\"The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that\nenough reason?\"\n\n\"They are your husband's,\" returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a\nmalicious elevation of the eyebrows.\n\n\"Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a\ncaprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which\nmy father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the\nraces, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more\npleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I\ncannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease\nand confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through\nLaidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one\nservant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will\ncome stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the\nfeeling of freedom and independence.\"\n\n\"What does your husband say?\"\n\n\"I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will\nthink I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so.\"\n\nMademoiselle shook her head slowly. \"Your reason is not yet clear to\nme,\" she said.\n\nNeither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as\nshe sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away\nher husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how\nit would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding,\nan explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt;\nbut whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another\nthan herself.\n\n\"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!\" Edna\nexclaimed. \"You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you\neverything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh\nand be merry for once.\" And she uttered a sigh that came from the very\ndepths of her being.\n\nIf Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert\nduring the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter\nunsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her\nhumor prompted her while the young woman read the letter.\n\nThe little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the\ntin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door,\nand Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven\nand handed it to Edna.\n\n\"Another! so soon!\" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. \"Tell\nme, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?\"\n\n\"Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again\nif he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you\na message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and\nis trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to\nbelong to him.\"\n\n\"Why do you show me his letters, then?\"\n\n\"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot\ndeceive me,\" and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and\nbegan to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding\nit in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an\neffulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It\nprepared her for joy and exultation.\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. \"Why did\nyou not tell me?\" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the\nkeys. \"Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?\"\n\n\"That he was coming back? No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did not\ncome long ago.\"\n\n\"But when, when?\" cried Edna, impatiently. \"He does not say when.\"\n\n\"He says 'very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in\nthe letter.\"\n\n\"But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought--\" and she snatched the\nletter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way,\nlooking for the reason, which was left untold.\n\n\"If I were young and in love with a man,\" said Mademoiselle, turning on\nthe stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked\ndown at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, \"it seems to me\nhe would have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and ability\nto reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his\nfellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never\ndeem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.\"\n\n\"Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me,\nMademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing\nabout it. Why,\" went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into\nMademoiselle's twisted face, \"do you suppose a woman knows why she\nloves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: 'Go to! Here is a\ndistinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed\nto fall in love with him.' Or, 'I shall set my heart upon this musician,\nwhose fame is on every tongue?' Or, 'This financier, who controls the\nworld's money markets?'\n\n\"You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you in love with\nRobert?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow\noverspread her face, blotching it with red spots.\n\n\"Why?\" asked her companion. \"Why do you love him when you ought not to?\"\n\nEdna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before\nMademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands.\n\n\"Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because\nhe opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing;\nbecause he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he\ncan't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his\nyouth. Because--\"\n\n\"Because you do, in short,\" laughed Mademoiselle. \"What will you do when\nhe comes back?\" she asked.\n\n\"Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.\"\n\nShe was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his\nreturn. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours\nbefore, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the\nstreets on her way home.\n\nShe stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for\nthe children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she\nscribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses.\n\nBefore dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her\nhusband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the\nlittle house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before\nleaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out\nwith the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was\nbrilliant and brimming with cheerfulness.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" asked Arobin that evening. \"I never\nfound you in such a happy mood.\" Edna was tired by that time, and was\nreclining on the lounge before the fire.\n\n\"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun\npretty soon?\"\n\n\"Well, that ought to be reason enough,\" he acquiesced. \"You wouldn't\ngive me another if I sat here all night imploring you.\" He sat close to\nher on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the\nhair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his\nfingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively.\n\n\"One of these days,\" she said, \"I'm going to pull myself together for a\nwhile and think--try to determine what character of a woman I am; for,\ncandidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with,\nI am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't\nconvince myself that I am. I must think about it.\"\n\n\"Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when\nI can tell you what manner of woman you are.\" His fingers strayed\noccasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was\ngrowing a little full and double.\n\n\"Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is\ncaptivating. Spare yourself the effort.\"\n\n\"No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying\nif I did.\"\n\n\"Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?\" she asked irrelevantly.\n\n\"The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play.\"\n\n\"She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't\nnotice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.\"\n\n\"For instance?\"\n\n\"Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me\nand felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she\nsaid. 'The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition\nand prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the\nweaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.' Whither would\nyou soar?\"\n\n\"I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend\nher.\"\n\n\"I've heard she's partially demented,\" said Arobin.\n\n\"She seems to me wonderfully sane,\" Edna replied.\n\n\"I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you\nintroduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?\"\n\n\"Oh! talk of me if you like,\" cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her\nhead; \"but let me think of something else while you do.\"\n\n\"I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a little\nkinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if\nthey were not here with me.\" She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes\nwere very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across\nher, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued\nsilently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and\nkissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.\n\nIt was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really\nresponded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\nEdna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one\nphase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was\nwith her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the\nshock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's\nreproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had\nprovided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making\nitself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had\nawakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She\nfelt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to took\nupon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up\nof beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which\nassailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang\nof regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her,\nbecause it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nWithout even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his\nopinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for\nquitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house\naround the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that\ndirection. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose\nbetween the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning\nfollowing those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about\nsecuring her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it.\nWithin the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and\nlingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand\nmuffled voices bade her begone.\n\nWhatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired\naside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the\nother house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own\nresources.\n\nArobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the\nhouse-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and\nrobust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with\na red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her\nhair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a\npicture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open,\nand had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously.\n\n\"Come down!\" he said. \"Do you want to kill yourself?\" She greeted him\nwith affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation.\n\nIf he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in\nsentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised.\n\nHe was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the\nforegoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the\nsituation which confronted him.\n\n\"Please come down,\" he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at\nher.\n\n\"No,\" she answered; \"Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working\nover at the 'pigeon house'--that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's\nso small and looks like a pigeon house--and some one has to do this.\"\n\nArobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to\ntempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps,\nand went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to\ncontrol, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as\nhe could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened\nit at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder,\nunhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna\ndirected. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to\nwash his hands.\n\nEdna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather\nduster along the carpet when he came in again.\n\n\"Is there anything more you will let me do?\" he asked.\n\n\"That is all,\" she answered. \"Ellen can manage the rest.\" She kept the\nyoung woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone\nwith Arobin.\n\n\"What about the dinner?\" he asked; \"the grand event, the coup d'etat?\"\n\n\"It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the 'coup d'etat?'\nOh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything--crystal, silver and\ngold, Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let Leonce\npay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills.\n\n\"And you ask me why I call it a coup d'etat?\" Arobin had put on his\ncoat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She\ntold him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.\n\n\"When do you go to the 'pigeon house?'--with all due acknowledgment to\nEllen.\"\n\n\"Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.\"\n\n\"Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?\" asked Arobin.\n\"The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a\nthing, has parched my throat to a crisp.\"\n\n\"While Ellen gets the water,\" said Edna, rising, \"I will say good-by and\nlet you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to\ndo and think of.\"\n\n\"When shall I see you?\" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid\nhaving left the room.\n\n\"At the dinner, of course. You are invited.\"\n\n\"Not before?--not to-night or to-morrow morning or tomorrow noon or\nnight? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, without\nmy telling you, what an eternity it is?\"\n\nHe had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway,\nlooking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him.\n\n\"Not an instant sooner,\" she said. But she laughed and looked at him\nwith eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to\nwait.\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n\nThough Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was\nin truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests\ninvited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted\nupon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board,\nforgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree\nsouffrante and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun\nwould send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only\nten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number.\n\nThere were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in\nthe thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate,\nwho laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby\nmade himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of\ncourse, there was Alcee Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented\nto come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace\ntrimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his\nwife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon\nrelaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no\nlonger in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with\nthe keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual;\nit was suspected of her that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She had\ncome with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of\nthe daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except that he\nwas observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the\ntenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin\nand Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of their hostess.\n\nMrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs.\nMerriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle\nReisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle.\n\nThere was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the\ntable, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin\nunder strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass\ncandelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant\nroses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had\nsaid there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which the\nwomen wore.\n\nThe ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and\nreplaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected\nthroughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive,\nwas elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at\ntable upon bulky volumes.\n\n\"Something new, Edna?\" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed\ntoward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost\nsputtered, in Edna's hair, just over the center of her forehead.\n\n\"Quite new; 'brand' new, in fact; a present from my husband. It\narrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my\nbirthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink\nmy health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail,\ncomposed--would you say 'composed?'\" with an appeal to Miss\nMayblunt--\"composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet's wedding.\"\n\nBefore each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a\ngarnet gem.\n\n\"Then, all things considered,\" spoke Arobin, \"it might not be amiss\nto start out by drinking the Colonel's health in the cocktail which he\ncomposed, on the birthday of the most charming of women--the daughter\nwhom he invented.\"\n\nMr. Merriman's laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so\ncontagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never\nslackened.\n\nMiss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before\nher, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare it to\nnothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted were\nunspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it.\n\nMonsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the mets, the\nentre-mets, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked\nup from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to the\ngentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and Arobin,\nlawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm personal friend,\nwho permitted Arobin's name to decorate the firm's letterheads and to\nappear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street.\n\n\"There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,\" said\nArobin, \"that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these\ndays to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.\" Monsieur\nRatignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she\nconsidered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set\nthe previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in\nFrench, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but\ncharacteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the\nsymphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians\nof New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be\ncentered upon the delicacies placed before her.\n\nMr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin's remark about inquisitive people\nreminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles\nHotel--but as Mr. Merriman's stories were always lame and lacking point,\nhis wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to\nask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought\nthe week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking \"books\"\nwith Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current\nliterary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately\nto Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to think it\nextremely clever.\n\nMrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm\nand impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun.\nHer attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating\nherself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier\nand more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference\nfor an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the occasional\nsound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeable\naccompaniment rather than an interruption to the conversation. Outside\nthe soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the sound\npenetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came\nthrough the open windows.\n\nThe golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either\nside of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders.\nIt was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints\nthat one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in\nher attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against\nthe high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal\nwoman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.\n\nBut as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking\nher; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her\nlike an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition.\nIt was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to\nissue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her\nthe acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the\npresence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of\nthe unattainable.\n\nThe moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around\nthe circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people together\nwith jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break the\npleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle\nwas waiting for him at home. She was bien souffrante, and she was filled\nwith vague dread, which only her husband's presence could allay.\n\nMademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to escort\nher to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good, rich wines,\nand they must have turned her head, for she bowed pleasantly to all\nas she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and\nwhispered: \"Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage.\" She had been a little\nbewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her cushions, and\nMonsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her away.\n\nMrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she\nhad finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor's black curls.\nHe was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of\nchampagne to the light.\n\nAs if a magician's wand had touched him, the garland of roses\ntransformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the\ncolor of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing\nfire.\n\n\"Sapristi!\" exclaimed Arobin.\n\nBut Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took\nfrom the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had\ncovered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it\nacross the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black,\nconventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him,\nonly smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued to\ngaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of champagne.\n\n\"Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!\" exclaimed Miss\nMayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him.\n\n\"'There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground\nof gold.'\" murmured Gouvernail, under his breath.\n\nThe effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed\nvolubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a\nreverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead.\n\n\"Sing,\" entreated Mrs. Highcamp. \"Won't you sing to us?\"\n\n\"Let him alone,\" said Arobin.\n\n\"He's posing,\" offered Mr. Merriman; \"let him have it out.\"\n\n\"I believe he's paralyzed,\" laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the\nyouth's chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips.\nHe sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it\nupon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy handkerchief.\n\n\"Yes, I'll sing for you,\" he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs.\nHighcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the\nceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning\nan instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing:\n\n     \"Ah! si tu savais!\"\n\n\"Stop!\" she cried, \"don't sing that. I don't want you to sing it,\"\nand she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to\nshatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin's legs and\nsome of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp's black gauze gown. Victor\nhad lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not in\nearnest, for he laughed and went on:\n\n\n     \"Ah! si tu savais\n\n     Ce que tes yeux me disent\"--\n\n\"Oh! you mustn't! you mustn't,\" exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her\nchair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth.\nHe kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips.\n\n\"No, no, I won't, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn't know you meant it,\" looking\nup at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing\nsting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and\nflung it across the room.\n\n\"Come, Victor; you've posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.\"\n\nMrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss\nMayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it was\ntime to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it could\nbe so late.\n\nBefore parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her\ndaughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and\nsing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to\ncall upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself.\nHe asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not.\n\nThe mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness\nhad fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna's\ndisbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony\nof the night.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n\n\"Well?\" questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others\nhad departed.\n\n\"Well,\" she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling\nthe need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated.\n\n\"What next?\" he asked.\n\n\"The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have\ndismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot\naround to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning\nto straighten things up.\"\n\nHe looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights.\n\n\"What about upstairs?\" he inquired.\n\n\"I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. We\nhad better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my wrap\nand hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room.\"\n\nHe went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. She\nhated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found her\ncape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on.\n\nWhen everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through\nthe front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried\nfor Edna. He helped her down the steps.\n\n\"Will you have a spray of jessamine?\" he asked, breaking off a few\nblossoms as he passed.\n\n\"No; I don't want anything.\"\n\nShe seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which\nhe offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other\nhand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and\nout so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There\nwas the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the\nmidnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk.\n\nThe \"pigeon house\" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow parterre\nthat had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon\nwhich a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly\ninto the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room\nfor servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced.\n\nEdna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in\nmaking the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on\nthe table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting,\ncovered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful\npictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to\nher. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during\nEdna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage\nwere the dining-room and kitchen.\n\nEdna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort.\n\n\"Are you tired?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a\ncertain pitch--too tight--and something inside of me had snapped.\" She\nrested her head against the table upon her bare arm.\n\n\"You want to rest,\" he said, \"and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you\nand let you rest.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied.\n\nHe stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic\nhand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could\nhave fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand\nover her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck.\n\n\"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning,\" he said. \"You\nhave tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last\nstraw; you might have dispensed with it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she admitted; \"it was stupid.\"\n\n\"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out.\" His hand had strayed\nto her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh\nto his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon\nthe shoulder.\n\n\"I thought you were going away,\" she said, in an uneven voice.\n\n\"I am, after I have said good night.\"\n\n\"Good night,\" she murmured.\n\nHe did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good\nnight until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\n\nWhen Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home\nand take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter\nof unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which\nhe was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted\nupon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost,\nand above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of\nscandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never\nhave entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's\nname or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It\nmight get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and\nwere forced to conduct their menage on a humbler scale than heretofore.\nIt might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects.\n\nBut remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing\nthat she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he\ngrasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his\nwell-known business tact and cleverness.\n\nThe same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried\ninstructions--the most minute instructions--to a well-known architect\nconcerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long\ncontemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary\nabsence.\n\nExpert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the\nfurniture, carpets, pictures--everything movable, in short--to places\nof security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house\nwas turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition--a small\nsnuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put\ninto such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement.\n\nFurthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the\neffect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn\nabroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was\nundergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy\nuntil their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances!\n\nEdna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk\nhis intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was\naccepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it\nshould be so.\n\nThe pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character\nof a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected\nlike a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in\nthe social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in the\nspiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving herself from\nobligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She\nbegan to look with her own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeper\nundercurrents of life. No longer was she content to \"feed upon opinion\"\nwhen her own soul had invited her.\n\nAfter a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week\nwith her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, with\nall the summer's promise hovering in the air.\n\nHow glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when\nshe felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks\npressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with\nhungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories\nthey had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the mules!\nAbout riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake with\ntheir Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie's little black brood, and\nhauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more fun\nto haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag painted\nblocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street!\n\nShe went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the\ndarkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in\nthe back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of\nherself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence.\nThey listened, breathless, when she told them the house in Esplanade\nStreet was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling\nthe place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed was; what\nhad been done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe sleep, and\nwhere had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they were fired with\na desire to see the little house around the block. Was there any\nplace to play? Were there any boys next door? Raoul, with pessimistic\nforeboding, was convinced that there were only girls next door. Where\nwould they sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them the fairies\nwould fix it all right.\n\nThe old Madame was charmed with Edna's visit, and showered all manner\nof delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the\nEsplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the\npromise and pretext to keep the children indefinitely.\n\nIt was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She carried\naway with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks.\nAll along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her like the\nmemory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city\nthe song no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\nIt happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that\nthe little musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some small\nnecessary household purchase. The key was always left in a secret\nhiding-place in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to\nbe away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her return.\n\nWhen she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's door one afternoon there was\nno response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found the\napartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled\nup, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that\nshe sought out her friend.\n\nShe had worked at her canvas--a young Italian character study--all the\nmorning, completing the work without the model; but there had been many\ninterruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others of a\nsocial nature.\n\nMadame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public\nthoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her\nmuch of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the little\nhouse and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear all\nabout the dinner party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left so early. What had\nhappened after he left? The champagne and grapes which Edna sent over\nwere TOO delicious. She had so little appetite; they had refreshed and\ntoned her stomach. Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in\nthat little house, and the boys? And then she made Edna promise to go to\nher when her hour of trial overtook her.\n\n\"At any time--any time of the day or night, dear,\" Edna assured her.\n\nBefore leaving Madame Ratignolle said:\n\n\"In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without\na certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That is\nthe reason I want to say you mustn't mind if I advise you to be a little\ncareful while you are living here alone. Why don't you have some one\ncome and stay with you? Wouldn't Mademoiselle Reisz come?\"\n\n\"No; she wouldn't wish to come, and I shouldn't want her always with\nme.\"\n\n\"Well, the reason--you know how evil-minded the world is--some one was\ntalking of Alcee Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn't matter if\nMr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle was\ntelling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a\nwoman's name.\"\n\n\"Does he boast of his successes?\" asked Edna, indifferently, squinting\nat her picture.\n\n\"No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes.\nBut his character is so well known among the men. I shan't be able to\ncome back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day.\"\n\n\"Mind the step!\" cried Edna.\n\n\"Don't neglect me,\" entreated Madame Ratignolle; \"and don't mind what I\nsaid about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you.\n\n\"Of course not,\" Edna laughed. \"You may say anything you like to me.\"\nThey kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to go, and\nEdna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the street.\n\nThen in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their\n\"party call.\" Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the\nformality. They had also come to invite her to play vingt-et-un one\nevening at Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and\nMr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in a\nhalf-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and\nMrs. Merriman.\n\nLate in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and\nstayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade her\nwith the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room.\n\nEdna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops and across\nthe river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers, and she sat\nand picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm, and\nthe breeze which blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed her\nhat and laid it on the piano. She went on picking the leaves and\ndigging around the plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heard\nMademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, who\ncame in, bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she deposited in the\nadjoining room, and went away.\n\nEdna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one hand\nthe bars of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half-hour went\nby. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in the\nlower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking out\nthe aria, when there was a second rap at the door. She vaguely wondered\nwhat these people did when they found Mademoiselle's door locked.\n\n\"Come in,\" she called, turning her face toward the door. And this time\nit was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise; she\ncould not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered\nher at sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming,\n\"Why, Robert!\"\n\nHe came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he was\nsaying or doing.\n\n\"Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen--oh! how well you look! Is\nMademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.\"\n\n\"When did you come back?\" asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping her\nface with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool,\nand he begged her to take the chair by the window.\n\nShe did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool.\n\n\"I returned day before yesterday,\" he answered, while he leaned his arm\non the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound.\n\n\"Day before yesterday!\" she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking to\nherself, \"day before yesterday,\" in a sort of an uncomprehending way.\nShe had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had\nlived under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by\naccident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she\nsaid, \"Poor fool, he loves you.\"\n\n\"Day before yesterday,\" she repeated, breaking off a spray of\nMademoiselle's geranium; \"then if you had not met me here to-day you\nwouldn't--when--that is, didn't you mean to come and see me?\"\n\n\"Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many\nthings--\" he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle's music nervously. \"I\nstarted in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is as\nmuch chance for me here as there was there--that is, I might find it\nprofitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial.\"\n\nSo he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because\nbusiness was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and not\nbecause he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on the\nfloor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which was\nleft untold.\n\nShe had not noticed how he looked--only feeling his presence; but she\nturned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but\na few months, and was not changed. His hair--the color of hers--waved\nback from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more\nburned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he\nlooked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an\nadded warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same\nglance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and\nawakened them.\n\nA hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined their\nfirst meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her out\nat once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his\nlove for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart,\nshe at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling\nthem, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying:\n\n\"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a\nwonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving--mother told\nme yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him,\nor to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with\nhousekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have\nyou at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem--do you see much of\nMademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she\nwrote.\"\n\n\"Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?\" A\nflush overspread his whole face.\n\n\"I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you.\"\n\n\"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth.\" Edna reached for her hat on the\npiano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of\nhair with some deliberation.\n\n\"Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?\" asked Robert.\n\n\"No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to\ncome back till late.\" She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his\nhat.\n\n\"Won't you wait for her?\" asked Edna.\n\n\"Not if you think she will not be back till late,\" adding, as if\nsuddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, \"and I should miss the\npleasure of walking home with you.\" Edna locked the door and put the key\nback in its hiding-place.\n\nThey went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks\nencumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the\ndistance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the\nPontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert\nhad never known the house, and looked at it with interest.\n\n\"I never knew you in your home,\" he remarked.\n\n\"I am glad you did not.\"\n\n\"Why?\" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed\nas if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into\nthe little house.\n\n\"You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it\nis so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you.\"\n\nShe took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse\nabout his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an\nengagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was\ngrowing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained,\nwith all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and\nseated himself.\n\n\"Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!\" he exclaimed. All\nthe softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his\nshoulder.\n\n\"This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll\ngo tell Celestine.\" She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra\nplace. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which\nshe had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in\ndripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn.\n\nWhen she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches,\nand things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a\nphotograph, and exclaimed:\n\n\"Alcee Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?\"\n\n\"I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,\" answered Edna, \"and\nhe thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I\nthought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing\nmaterials.\"\n\n\"I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning\nthem. They don't amount to anything.\" Robert kept on looking at the\npicture.\n\n\"It seems to me--do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of\nMr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him.\"\n\n\"He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I always\nknew him--that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. But\nI'd rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doing\nand feeling out there in Mexico.\" Robert threw aside the picture.\n\n\"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the\nquiet, grassy street of the Cheniere; the old fort at Grande Terre. I've\nbeen working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There was\nnothing interesting.\"\n\nShe leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light.\n\n\"And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the\nquiet, grassy street of the Cheniere Caminada; the old sunny fort at\nGrande Terre. I've been working with a little more comprehension than\na machine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing\ninteresting.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel,\" he said, with feeling, closing his\neyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silence\ntill old Celestine announced dinner.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\n\nThe dining-room was very small. Edna's round mahogany would have almost\nfilled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table\nto the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that\nopened out on the narrow brick-paved yard.\n\nA certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of\ndinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents\nof his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest\nhim, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary\nquality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out to\npurchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana tignon twisted about her head,\nhobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and she\nlingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had known as\na boy.\n\nHe went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers,\nand when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black\ncoffee in the parlor.\n\n\"Perhaps I shouldn't have come back,\" he said. \"When you are tired of\nme, tell me to go.\"\n\n\"You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at\nGrand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being\ntogether.\"\n\n\"I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,\" he said, not looking at her,\nbut rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon the\ntable, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork\nof a woman.\n\n\"You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,\" said Edna, picking\nup the pouch and examining the needlework.\n\n\"Yes; it was lost.\"\n\n\"Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?\"\n\n\"It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,\" he\nreplied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.\n\n\"They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very\npicturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.\"\n\n\"Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere.\"\n\n\"What was she like--the one who gave you the pouch? You must have known\nher very well.\"\n\n\"She was very ordinary. She wasn't of the slightest importance. I knew\nher well enough.\"\n\n\"Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know\nand hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made on\nyou.\"\n\n\"There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the\nimprint of an oar upon the water.\"\n\n\"Was she such a one?\"\n\n\"It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and\nkind.\" He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away the\nsubject with the trifle which had brought it up.\n\nArobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that\nthe card party was postponed on account of the illness of one of her\nchildren.\n\n\"How do you do, Arobin?\" said Robert, rising from the obscurity.\n\n\"Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they\ntreat you down in Mexique?\"\n\n\"Fairly well.\"\n\n\"But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in\nMexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was down\nthere a couple of years ago.\"\n\n\"Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and\nthings for you?\" asked Edna.\n\n\"Oh! my! no! I didn't get so deep in their regard. I fear they made more\nimpression on me than I made on them.\"\n\n\"You were less fortunate than Robert, then.\"\n\n\"I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender\nconfidences?\"\n\n\"I've been imposing myself long enough,\" said Robert, rising, and\nshaking hands with Edna. \"Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier\nwhen you write.\"\n\nHe shook hands with Arobin and went away.\n\n\"Fine fellow, that Lebrun,\" said Arobin when Robert had gone. \"I never\nheard you speak of him.\"\n\n\"I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,\" she replied. \"Here is that\nphotograph of yours. Don't you want it?\"\n\n\"What do I want with it? Throw it away.\" She threw it back on the table.\n\n\"I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's,\" she said. \"If you see her, tell her\nso. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and say\nthat I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me.\"\n\n\"It would be a good scheme,\" acquiesced Arobin. \"I don't blame you;\nstupid lot!\"\n\nEdna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to\nwrite the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he\nhad in his pocket.\n\n\"What is the date?\" she asked. He told her.\n\n\"Will you mail this for me when you go out?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\" He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she\nstraightened things on the table.\n\n\"What do you want to do?\" he asked, throwing aside the paper. \"Do you\nwant to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a fine\nnight to drive.\"\n\n\"No; I don't want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and\namuse yourself. Don't stay.\"\n\n\"I'll go away if I must; but I shan't amuse myself. You know that I only\nlive when I am near you.\"\n\nHe stood up to bid her good night.\n\n\"Is that one of the things you always say to women?\"\n\n\"I have said it before, but I don't think I ever came so near meaning\nit,\" he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;\nonly a dreamy, absent look.\n\n\"Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,\" he said, and he kissed her hand\nand went away.\n\nShe stayed alone in a kind of reverie--a sort of stupor. Step by step\nshe lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after\nhe had entered Mademoiselle Reisz's door. She recalled his words,\nhis looks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A\nvision--a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before\nher. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come\nback. He had not said he would come back. She had been with him, had\nheard his voice and touched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearer\nto her off there in Mexico.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n\nThe morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her no\ndenial--only the promise of excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, with\nbright eyes full of speculation. \"He loves you, poor fool.\" If she could\nbut get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered about\nthe rest? She felt she had been childish and unwise the night before in\ngiving herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the motives which\nno doubt explained Robert's reserve. They were not insurmountable; they\nwould not hold if he really loved her; they could not hold against her\nown passion, which he must come to realize in time. She pictured him\ngoing to his business that morning. She even saw how he was dressed;\nhow he walked down one street, and turned the corner of another; saw him\nbending over his desk, talking to people who entered the office, going\nto his lunch, and perhaps watching for her on the street. He would come\nto her in the afternoon or evening, sit and roll his cigarette, talk a\nlittle, and go away as he had done the night before. But how delicious\nit would be to have him there with her! She would have no regrets, nor\nseek to penetrate his reserve if he still chose to wear it.\n\nEdna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her a\ndelicious printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her to\nsend him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten\ntiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Lidie's big white pig.\n\nA letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back early\nin March, and then they would get ready for that journey abroad which\nhe had promised her so long, which he felt now fully able to afford;\nhe felt able to travel as people should, without any thought of small\neconomies--thanks to his recent speculations in Wall Street.\n\nMuch to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written at\nmidnight from the club. It was to say good morning to her, to hope she\nhad slept well, to assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she in\nsome faintest manner returned.\n\nAll these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in a\ncheerful frame of mind, promising them bonbons, and congratulating them\nupon their happy find of the little pigs.\n\nShe answered her husband with friendly evasiveness,--not with any fixed\ndesign to mislead him, only because all sense of reality had gone out\nof her life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited the\nconsequences with indifference.\n\nTo Arobin's note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine's\nstove-lid.\n\nEdna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a picture\ndealer, who asked her if it were true that she was going abroad to study\nin Paris.\n\nShe said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for some\nParisian studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in December.\n\nRobert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did not\ncome the following day, nor the next. Each morning she awoke with hope,\nand each night she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seek\nhim out. But far from yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasion\nwhich might throw her in his way. She did not go to Mademoiselle Reisz's\nnor pass by Madame Lebrun's, as she might have done if he had still been\nin Mexico.\n\nWhen Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went--out to\nthe lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, and even a\nlittle unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along,\nand the quick, sharp sound of the horses' hoofs on the hard road. They\ndid not stop anywhere to eat or to drink. Arobin was not needlessly\nimprudent. But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna's little\ndining-room--which was comparatively early in the evening.\n\nIt was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing\nwhim with Arobin to see her and be with her. He had detected the latent\nsensuality, which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature's\nrequirements like a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom.\n\nThere was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there\nhope when she awoke in the morning.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n\nThere was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with a\nfew green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on the\nstone step in the sun, and an old mulatresse slept her idle hours away\nin her chair at the open window, till some one happened to knock on one\nof the green tables. She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and bread\nand butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee or fry\na chicken so golden brown as she.\n\nThe place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion,\nand so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search of\npleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day\nwhen the high-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green\ntable, blotched with the checkered sunlight that filtered through\nthe quivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumbering\nmulatresse, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of\nthe milk she had tasted in Iberville.\n\nShe often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a\nbook with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she found\nthe place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there alone,\nhaving instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at home. It\nwas the last place in the city where she would have expected to meet any\none she knew.\n\nStill she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest\ndinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking the\ncat, which had made friends with her--she was not greatly astonished to\nsee Robert come in at the tall garden gate.\n\n\"I am destined to see you only by accident,\" she said, shoving the\ncat off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost\nembarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly.\n\n\"Do you come here often?\" he asked.\n\n\"I almost live here,\" she said.\n\n\"I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche's good coffee. This\nis the first time since I came back.\"\n\n\"She'll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There's always\nenough for two--even three.\" Edna had intended to be indifferent and as\nreserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by a\nlaborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods.\nBut her resolve melted when she saw him before designing Providence had\nled him into her path.\n\n\"Why have you kept away from me, Robert?\" she asked, closing the book\nthat lay open upon the table.\n\n\"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to\nidiotic subterfuges?\" he exclaimed with sudden warmth. \"I suppose\nthere's no use telling you I've been very busy, or that I've been sick,\nor that I've been to see you and not found you at home. Please let me\noff with any one of these excuses.\"\n\n\"You are the embodiment of selfishness,\" she said. \"You save yourself\nsomething--I don't know what--but there is some selfish motive, and in\nsparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I think, or how\nI feel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would\ncall unwomanly; but I have got into a habit of expressing myself. It\ndoesn't matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like.\"\n\n\"No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe not\nintentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into disclosures\nwhich can result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound for\nthe pleasure of looking at it, without the intention or power of healing\nit.\"\n\n\"I'm spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven't\neaten a morsel.\"\n\n\"I only came in for a cup of coffee.\" His sensitive face was all\ndisfigured with excitement.\n\n\"Isn't this a delightful place?\" she remarked. \"I am so glad it has\nnever actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Do you\nnotice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It's so out of the way;\nand a good walk from the car. However, I don't mind walking. I always\nfeel so sorry for women who don't like to walk; they miss so much--so\nmany rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life\non the whole.\n\n\"Catiche's coffee is always hot. I don't know how she manages it, here\nin the open air. Celestine's coffee gets cold bringing it from the\nkitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet?\nTake some of the cress with your chop; it's so biting and crisp. Then\nthere's the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here.\nNow, in the city--aren't you going to smoke?\"\n\n\"After a while,\" he said, laying a cigar on the table.\n\n\"Who gave it to you?\" she laughed.\n\n\"I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a whole box.\" She\nwas determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable.\n\nThe cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked\nhis cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He\nlooked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to\nsave her the trouble of wading through it, he said.\n\nAgain he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when\nthey reached the little \"pigeon-house.\" She did not ask him to remain,\nwhich he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the\ndiscomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention\nof considering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her\nroom to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands.\n\nWhen she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines\nas before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair\nas if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging\nthe books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bent\nover the arm of his chair and called his name.\n\n\"Robert,\" she said, \"are you asleep?\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered, looking up at her.\n\nShe leaned over and kissed him--a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose\nvoluptuous sting penetrated his whole being-then she moved away from\nhim. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to\nhim. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her\nown. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips\nagain. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand\nin both of his.\n\n\"Now you know,\" he said, \"now you know what I have been fighting against\nsince last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove me back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Why have you been fighting against it?\" she asked. Her face glowed with\nsoft lights.\n\n\"Why? Because you were not free; you were Leonce Pontellier's wife. I\ncouldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as\nI went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so.\" She put\nher free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it\nsoftly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed.\n\n\"There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for\nyou.\"\n\n\"But not writing to me,\" she interrupted.\n\n\"Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses.\nI forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife.\"\n\n\"Your wife!\"\n\n\"Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared.\"\n\n\"Then you must have forgotten that I was Leonce Pontellier's wife.\"\n\n\"Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men\nwho had set their wives free, we have heard of such things.\"\n\n\"Yes, we have heard of such things.\"\n\n\"I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here--\"\n\n\"When you got here you never came near me!\" She was still caressing his\ncheek.\n\n\"I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had\nbeen willing.\"\n\nShe took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would\nnever withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes,\nthe cheeks, and the lips.\n\n\"You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of\nimpossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I\nam no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not.\nI give myself where I choose. If he were to say, 'Here, Robert, take her\nand be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both.\"\n\nHis face grew a little white. \"What do you mean?\" he asked.\n\nThere was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame\nRatignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that\nMadame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her\nimmediately.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Edna, rising; \"I promised. Tell her yes--to wait for\nme. I'll go back with her.\"\n\n\"Let me walk over with you,\" offered Robert.\n\n\"No,\" she said; \"I will go with the servant.\" She went into her room to\nput on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the\nsofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck.\n\n\"Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by.\" He kissed her with a degree\nof passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained\nher to him.\n\n\"I love you,\" she whispered, \"only you; no one but you. It was you who\nawoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made\nme so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now\nyou are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything\nto each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must\ngo to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will\nwait for me, Robert?\"\n\n\"Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,\" he pleaded. \"Why should\nyou go? Stay with me, stay with me.\"\n\n\"I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here.\" She buried\nher face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice,\ntogether with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had\ndeprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\n\nEdna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up\na mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny\nglass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be\na comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been\nwith her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the\nplantation, and Adele had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so\nkindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night\nfor the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet\nhad been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for\nhim any moment.\n\nEdna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of\nthe store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a\nback room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed\nin her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample\nwhite peignoir, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a nervous\nclutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard and\nunnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and plaited. It\nlay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a golden serpent.\nThe nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white apron and cap,\nwas urging her to return to her bedroom.\n\n\"There is no use, there is no use,\" she said at once to Edna. \"We must\nget rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said he\nwould be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time it\nis, Josephine.\"\n\nThe woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any\nsituation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so\nfamiliar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame only\nset her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gather\nin beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she uttered a\nprofound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled in a\nball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh handkerchief,\nsprinkled with cologne water.\n\n\"This is too much!\" she cried. \"Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is\nAlphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this--neglected by\nevery one?\"\n\n\"Neglected, indeed!\" exclaimed the nurse. Wasn't she there? And here was\nMrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to devote\nto her? And wasn't Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant through\nthe hall? And Josephine was quite sure she had heard Doctor Mandelet's\ncoupe. Yes, there it was, down at the door.\n\nAdele consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little\nlow couch next to her bed.\n\nDoctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle's upbraidings. He\nwas accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of her\nloyalty to doubt it.\n\nHe was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon\nand entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna\nshould leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted\na little, and said it took her mind off her sufferings.\n\nEdna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her own\nlike experiences seemed far away, unreal, and only half remembered. She\nrecalled faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a\nstupor which had deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a little\nnew life to which she had given being, added to the great unnumbered\nmultitude of souls that come and go.\n\nShe began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. She\nmight have invented a pretext for staying away; she might even invent a\npretext now for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony, with a\nflaming, outspoken revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed the\nscene of torture.\n\nShe was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leaned\nover her friend to kiss her and softly say good-by. Adele, pressing her\ncheek, whispered in an exhausted voice: \"Think of the children, Edna. Oh\nthink of the children! Remember them!\"\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\n\nEdna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The Doctor's\ncoupe had returned for him and stood before the porte cochere. She did\nnot wish to enter the coupe, and told Doctor Mandelet she would walk;\nshe was not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his carriage to meet\nhim at Mrs. Pontellier's, and he started to walk home with her.\n\nUp--away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the stars\nwere blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool with the breath\nof spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy,\nmeasured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absent-minded way,\nas she had walked one night at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had gone\nahead of her and she was striving to overtake them.\n\n\"You shouldn't have been there, Mrs. Pontellier,\" he said. \"That was no\nplace for you. Adele is full of whims at such times. There were a dozen\nwomen she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt that\nit was cruel, cruel. You shouldn't have gone.\"\n\n\"Oh, well!\" she answered, indifferently. \"I don't know that it matters\nafter all. One has to think of the children some time or other; the\nsooner the better.\"\n\n\"When is Leonce coming back?\"\n\n\"Quite soon. Some time in March.\"\n\n\"And you are going abroad?\"\n\n\"Perhaps--no, I am not going. I'm not going to be forced into doing\nthings. I don't want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody has\nany right--except children, perhaps--and even then, it seems to me--or\nit did seem--\" She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency of\nher thoughts, and stopped abruptly.\n\n\"The trouble is,\" sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning intuitively,\n\"that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be a provision of\nNature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes no\naccount of moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create,\nand which we feel obliged to maintain at any cost.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"The years that are gone seem like dreams--if one might\ngo on sleeping and dreaming--but to wake up and find--oh! well! perhaps\nit is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain\na dupe to illusions all one's life.\"\n\n\"It seems to me, my dear child,\" said the Doctor at parting, holding her\nhand, \"you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going to ask for your\nconfidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it to\nme, perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand. And I tell you\nthere are not many who would--not many, my dear.\"\n\n\"Some way I don't feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. Don't\nthink I am ungrateful or that I don't appreciate your sympathy. There\nare periods of despondency and suffering which take possession of me.\nBut I don't want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good deal,\nof course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, the\nprejudices of others--but no matter--still, I shouldn't want to trample\nupon the little lives. Oh! I don't know what I'm saying, Doctor. Good\nnight. Don't blame me for anything.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will blame you if you don't come and see me soon. We will talk\nof things you never have dreamt of talking about before. It will do\nus both good. I don't want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good\nnight, my child.\"\n\nShe let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat upon\nthe step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. All the tearing\nemotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away from her like a\nsomber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid of.\nShe went back to that hour before Adele had sent for her; and her senses\nkindled afresh in thinking of Robert's words, the pressure of his arms,\nand the feeling of his lips upon her own. She could picture at that\nmoment no greater bliss on earth than possession of the beloved one.\nHis expression of love had already given him to her in part. When she\nthought that he was there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb with\nthe intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleep\nperhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep\nthat she might arouse him with her caresses.\n\nStill, she remembered Adele's voice whispering, \"Think of the children;\nthink of them.\" She meant to think of them; that determination had\ndriven into her soul like a death wound--but not to-night. To-morrow\nwould be time to think of everything.\n\nRobert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere at\nhand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a piece of paper that\nlay in the lamplight:\n\n\"I love you. Good-by--because I love you.\"\n\nEdna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa.\nThen she stretched herself out there, never uttering a sound. She did\nnot sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. She\nwas still awake in the morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen door\nand came in to light the fire.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\n\nVictor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a\ncorner of one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling her\nlegs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. The\nsun was beating down upon them. The girl had covered her head with her\napron folded into a square pad. They had been talking for an hour or\nmore. She was never tired of hearing Victor describe the dinner at Mrs.\nPontellier's. He exaggerated every detail, making it appear a veritable\nLucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, he said. The champagne was\nquaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from the foam could have\npresented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing\nwith beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other women\nwere all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable charms. She\ngot it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs. Pontellier, and\nhe gave her evasive answers, framed so as to confirm her belief. She\ngrew sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off and leave him to\nhis fine ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about her at the Cheniere;\nand since it was the fashion to be in love with married people, why, she\ncould run away any time she liked to New Orleans with Celina's husband.\n\nCelina's husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it to\nher, Victor intended to hammer his head into a jelly the next time he\nencountered him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. She\ndried her eyes, and grew cheerful at the prospect.\n\nThey were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city life\nwhen Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped around the corner of the house. The\ntwo youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they considered\nto be an apparition. But it was really she in flesh and blood, looking\ntired and a little travel-stained.\n\n\"I walked up from the wharf,\" she said, \"and heard the hammering. I\nsupposed it was you, mending the porch. It's a good thing. I was always\ntripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and deserted\neverything looks!\"\n\nIt took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come in\nBeaudelet's lugger, that she had come alone, and for no purpose but to\nrest.\n\n\"There's nothing fixed up yet, you see. I'll give you my room; it's the\nonly place.\"\n\n\"Any corner will do,\" she assured him.\n\n\"And if you can stand Philomel's cooking,\" he went on, \"though I might\ntry to get her mother while you are here. Do you think she would come?\"\nturning to Mariequita.\n\nMariequita thought that perhaps Philomel's mother might come for a few\ndays, and money enough.\n\nBeholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once\nsuspected a lovers' rendezvous. But Victor's astonishment was so\ngenuine, and Mrs. Pontellier's indifference so apparent, that the\ndisturbing notion did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated with\nthe greatest interest this woman who gave the most sumptuous dinners in\nAmerica, and who had all the men in New Orleans at her feet.\n\n\"What time will you have dinner?\" asked Edna. \"I'm very hungry; but\ndon't get anything extra.\"\n\n\"I'll have it ready in little or no time,\" he said, bustling and packing\naway his tools. \"You may go to my room to brush up and rest yourself.\nMariequita will show you.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Edna. \"But, do you know, I have a notion to go down to\nthe beach and take a good wash and even a little swim, before dinner?\"\n\n\"The water is too cold!\" they both exclaimed. \"Don't think of it.\"\n\n\"Well, I might go down and try--dip my toes in. Why, it seems to me the\nsun is hot enough to have warmed the very depths of the ocean. Could you\nget me a couple of towels? I'd better go right away, so as to be back in\ntime. It would be a little too chilly if I waited till this afternoon.\"\n\nMariequita ran over to Victor's room, and returned with some towels,\nwhich she gave to Edna.\n\n\"I hope you have fish for dinner,\" said Edna, as she started to walk\naway; \"but don't do anything extra if you haven't.\"\n\n\"Run and find Philomel's mother,\" Victor instructed the girl. \"I'll\ngo to the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women have no\nconsideration! She might have sent me word.\"\n\nEdna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticing\nanything special except that the sun was hot. She was not dwelling upon\nany particular train of thought. She had done all the thinking which was\nnecessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa till\nmorning.\n\nShe had said over and over to herself: \"To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow\nit will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn't\nmatter about Leonce Pontellier--but Raoul and Etienne!\" She understood\nnow clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to Adele\nRatignolle that she would give up the unessential, but she would never\nsacrifice herself for her children.\n\nDespondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never\nlifted. There was no one thing in the world that she desired. There\nwas no human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she even\nrealized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought of\nhim would melt out of her existence, leaving her alone. The children\nappeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had\noverpowered and sought to drag her into the soul's slavery for the rest\nof her days. But she knew a way to elude them. She was not thinking of\nthese things when she walked down to the beach.\n\nThe water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with the\nmillion lights of the sun. The voice of the sea is seductive, never\nceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander\nin abysses of solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, there\nwas no living thing in sight. A bird with a broken wing was beating\nthe air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the\nwater.\n\nEdna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its\naccustomed peg.\n\nShe put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when she\nwas there beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant,\npricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she stood\nnaked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beat\nupon her, and the waves that invited her.\n\nHow strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how\ndelicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a\nfamiliar world that it had never known.\n\nThe foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents\nabout her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walked\non. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and reached\nout with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous,\nenfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.\n\nShe went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and\nrecalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to\nregain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on,\nthinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed when a little\nchild, believing that it had no beginning and no end.\n\nHer arms and legs were growing tired.\n\nShe thought of Leonce and the children. They were a part of her life.\nBut they need not have thought that they could possess her, body and\nsoul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if she\nknew! \"And you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame! The\nartist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies.\"\n\nExhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her.\n\n\"Good-by--because I love you.\" He did not know; he did not understand.\nHe would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have understood\nif she had seen him--but it was too late; the shore was far behind her,\nand her strength was gone.\n\nShe looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an\ninstant, then sank again. Edna heard her father's voice and her sister\nMargaret's. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the\nsycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked\nacross the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks\nfilled the air.\n\n\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nBEYOND THE BAYOU\n\n\nThe bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La\nFolle's cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned\nfield, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with\nwater enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions\nthe woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never\nstepped. This was the form of her only mania.\n\nShe was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name\nwas Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle,\nbecause in childhood she had been frightened literally \"out of her\nsenses,\" and had never wholly regained them.\n\nIt was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the\nwoods. Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with powder and crimson\nwith blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline's mother, his\npursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason.\n\nShe dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had\nlong since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more\nphysical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn\nand tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she\nhad long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived.\n\nPeople at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought\nnothing of it. Even when \"Old Mis'\" died, they did not wonder that La\nFolle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it,\nwailing and lamenting.\n\nP'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man,\nwith a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom La\nFolle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Cheri, and so did\nevery one else because she did.\n\nNone of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They had each\nand all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of\nthings that always happened \"yonda, beyon' de bayou.\"\n\nBut none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri did, nor\nrested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep in\nher arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did such things now, since\nhe had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls\ncut off.\n\nThat summer--the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls tied with\na knot of red ribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou that even the\nlittle children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the\ncattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when\nthey were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked to\nfeel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her\nown enclosure.\n\nIt was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had\nflocked to a neighboring village to do their week's trading, and the\nwomen were occupied with household affairs,--La Folle as well as the\nothers. It was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes,\nscoured her house, and did her baking.\n\nIn this last employment she never forgot Cheri. To-day she had fashioned\ncroquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for him. So when\nshe saw the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaming\nlittle new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, \"Cheri!\nCheri!\"\n\nBut Cheri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her.\nHis pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange that\nhe had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given\nthat day up at his father's house.\n\nHe was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets,\nLa Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her\napron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes\nin his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and\ndisappeared into the wood.\n\nHe had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there.\n\n\"You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?\" he had inquired,\nwith the calculating air of an experienced hunter.\n\n\"Non, non!\" the woman laughed. \"Don't you look fo' no deer, Cheri. Dat's\ntoo big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo' her dinner\nto-morrow, an' she goin' be satisfi'.\"\n\n\"One squirrel ain't a bite. I'll bring you mo' 'an one, La Folle,\" he\nhad boasted pompously as he went away.\n\nWhen the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy's rifle close\nto the wood's edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a sharp cry\nof distress had not followed the sound.\n\nShe withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been\nplunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling\nlimbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had\ncome.\n\nIt was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon the ground,\nwith his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:--\n\n\"I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!\"\n\n\"Non, non!\" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. \"Put you'\narm 'roun' La Folle's nake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin'; dat goin' be nuttin'.\"\nShe lifted him in her powerful arms.\n\nCheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled,--he did not\nknow how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg,\nand he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon the\nwoman's shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright.\n\n\"Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can' stan' it, La Folle!\"\n\n\"Don't cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!\" the woman spoke soothingly\nas she covered the ground with long strides. \"La Folle goin' mine you;\nDoctor Bonfils goin' come make mon Cheri well agin.\"\n\nShe had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her precious\nburden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to side. A\nterrible fear was upon her,--the fear of the world beyond the bayou, the\nmorbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood.\n\nWhen she was at the bayou's edge she stood there, and shouted for help\nas if a life depended upon it:--\n\n\"Oh, P'tit Maitre! P'tit Maitre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!\"\n\nNo voice responded. Cheri's hot tears were scalding her neck. She called\nfor each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came.\n\nShe shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or\nunheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Cheri\nmoaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother.\n\nLa Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was upon\nher. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could feel\nher heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ran\nsuddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till she\nhad climbed the opposite shore.\n\nShe stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she\nplunged into the footpath through the trees.\n\nShe spoke no more to Cheri, but muttered constantly, \"Bon Dieu, ayez\npitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!\"\n\nInstinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth\nenough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight\nof that unknown and terrifying world.\n\nA child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the\nquarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.\n\n\"La Folle!\" she screamed, in her piercing treble. \"La Folle done cross\nde bayer!\"\n\nQuickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.\n\n\"Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!\"\n\nChildren, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms,\nflocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most\nof them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend.\n\"She totin' Cheri!\" some of them shouted.\n\nSome of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels,\nonly to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face\nupon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a\nwhite foam on her black lips.\n\nSome one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with his family\nand guests upon the gallery.\n\n\"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda\ntotin' Cheri!\" This startling intimation was the first which they had of\nthe woman's approach.\n\nShe was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were\nfixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox.\n\nAt the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid\nthe boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had looked red to\nLa Folle suddenly turned black,--like that day she had seen powder and\nblood.\n\nShe reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she\nfell heavily to the ground.\n\nWhen La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own\ncabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the open\ndoor and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black mammy who\nstood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was very\nlate.\n\nOthers who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone\nagain. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who\nsaid that La Folle might die.\n\nBut death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with\nwhich she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner.\n\n\"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'm\ngoin' sleep, me.\"\n\nAnd she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without\ncompunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields\nto her own cabin in the new quarters.\n\nThe first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose,\ncalmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but\nyesterday.\n\nShe donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered\nthat this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong\nblack coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked\nacross the old familiar field to the bayou's edge again.\n\nShe did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with a\nlong, steady stride as if she had done this all her life.\n\nWhen she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwood-trees\nthat lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of a\nfield where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed\nfor acres and acres like frosted silver in the early dawn.\n\nLa Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She\nwalked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking\nabout her as she went.\n\nThe cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her,\nwere quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that\ndarted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins.\n\nWhen La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded\nthe house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf, that\nwas delicious beneath her tread.\n\nShe stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her\nsenses with memories from a time far gone.\n\nThere they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that\npeeped out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering down\nfrom the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from\nthe jessamine clumps around her.\n\nThere were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread\nin broad and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath the\nsparkling sheen of dew.\n\nWhen La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led\nup to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she\nhad made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow\nat the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul.\n\nLa Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Cheri's mother\nsoon cautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the\nastonishment she felt at seeing La Folle.\n\n\"Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?\"\n\n\"Oui, madame. I come ax how my po' li'le Cheri do, 's mo'nin'.\"\n\n\"He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be\nnothing serious. He's sleeping now. Will you come back when he awakes?\"\n\n\"Non, madame. I'm goin' wait yair tell Cheri wake up.\" La Folle seated\nherself upon the topmost step of the veranda.\n\nA look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched for\nthe first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world beyond the\nbayou.\n\n\n\n\n\nMA'AME PELAGIE\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nWhen the war began, there stood on Cote Joyeuse an imposing mansion\nof red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks\nsurrounded it.\n\nThirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull\nred brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging\nvines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the\nstone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately\nalong the whole stretch of Cote Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they\nknew it had cost Philippe Valmet sixty thousand dollars to build, away\nback in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as\nhis daughter Pelagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of\nfifty. \"Ma'ame Pelagie,\" they called her, though she was unmarried, as\nwas her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'ame Pelagie's eyes; a child of\nthirty-five.\n\nThe two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow of\nthe ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma'ame Pelagie's dream, which was\nto rebuild the old home.\n\nIt would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish this\nend; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the picayunes\nhoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma'ame Pelagie felt sure\nof twenty years of life before her, and counted upon as many more for\nher sister. And what could not come to pass in twenty--in forty--years?\n\nOften, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee,\nseated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of\nLouisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other\nand the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times\nand planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered vines\nhigh up among the columns, where owls nested.\n\n\"We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,\" Ma'ame Pelagie\nwould say; \"perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be\nreplaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should you\nbe willing, Pauline?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.\" It was always, \"Yes, Sesoeur,\" or\n\"No, Sesoeur,\" \"Just as you please, Sesoeur,\" with poor little Mam'selle\nPauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that old\nspendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness of\na young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant the\nnearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and\nflame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pelagie,\nand carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother,\nLeandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as\nPelagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its\nmemories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell\nin cities. That was many years ago. Now, Leandre's business called him\nfrequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless daughter\nwas coming to stay with her aunts at Cote Joyeuse.\n\nThey talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico.\nMam'selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into her\npale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out\nincessantly.\n\n\"But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?\nHow shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!\"\n\n\"She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,\" responded Ma'ame\nPelagie, \"and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; her\nfather has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it if we\nchose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true Valmet.\"\n\nThen Ma'ame Pelagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle\nher horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the\nfields; and Mam'selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled\ngrasses toward the cabin.\n\nThe coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent\natmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these\ntwo, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt\nPelagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the\nlight of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crepe\nmyrtle. Mam'selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pelagie looked\ninto her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of\nthe past in the living present.\n\nAnd they made room between them for this young life.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nLa Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,\nnarrow existence which she knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It went\nwell enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pelagie into the\nfields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count\nthe ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her\naunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief\npast, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing moss\nof the giant oaks.\n\nMam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes\nwere sometimes as bright as a bird's, unless La Petite were away\nfrom her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy\nexpectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her\nendearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very\nquiet,--not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then\nher cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes\nof the white crepe myrtle that grew in the ruin.\n\nOne day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a\nhand of each, she said: \"Tante Pelagie, I must tell you something,\nyou and Tan'tante.\" She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. \"I love you\nboth,--please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from\nyou. I can't live any longer here at Cote Joyeuse.\"\n\nA spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite\ncould feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined\nwith her own. Ma'ame Pelagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human\neye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul\nfelt. She said: \"What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to\nus, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain.\"\n\n\"My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and such will not be his wish when\nhe knows. Oh!\" she continued with a restless, movement, \"it is as though\na weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the\nlife I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day\nto day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music,\nmy books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of\nprivation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life,\nI should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante\nPelagie, you do not need to. It seems to me,\" she added in a whisper,\n\"that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is the matter\nwith Tan'tante?\"\n\nIt was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon\npass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some\nwater and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.\n\nBut that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam'selle Pauline sobbed\nand would not be comforted. Ma'ame Pelagie took her in her arms.\n\n\"Pauline, my little sister Pauline,\" she entreated, \"I never have seen\nyou like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy\ntogether, you and I?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, Sesoeur.\"\n\n\"Is it because La Petite is going away?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sesoeur.\"\n\n\"Then she is dearer to you than I!\" spoke Ma'ame Pelagie with sharp\nresentment. \"Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you\nwere born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could\ncherish you. Pauline, don't tell me that.\"\n\nMam'selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.\n\n\"I can't explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don't understand it myself. I\nlove you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes\naway I shall die. I can't understand,--help me, Sesoeur. She seems--she\nseems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand and\nwas leading me somewhere-somewhere I want to go.\"\n\nMa'ame Pelagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and\nslippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed\ndown the woman's soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence\nwas broken only by Mam'selle Pauline's continued sobs. Once Ma'ame\nPelagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to\nher sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child.\nAlmost an hour passed before Ma'ame Pelagie spoke again. Then she\nsaid:--\n\n\"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make\nyourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you\nunderstand? She will stay, I promise you.\"\n\nMam'selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith\nin the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of\nMa'ame Pelagie's strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nMa'ame Pelagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly\nand stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not\nlinger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossed\nthe distance that divided her cabin from the ruin.\n\nThe night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon\nresplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma'ame\nPelagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at\nnight-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had\nbeen there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the\nlast time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had\ncrowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.\n\nThere was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust\nold white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. There are\nguests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the city\nand from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had been\nabroad with Felix, and they did not notice how the time was speeding.\nFelix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside her, but she\ndoes not want to hear what he will tell her father.\n\nMa'ame Pelagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so\noften came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of\nthe window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with the\nmoonlight, for that is faint beside the other one--the sparkle from the\ncrystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and respectfully\nabout, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of them reflects\nand glances from the polished marble pillars!\n\nThe room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien,\nleaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something which\nMonsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His\nson Jules is with him--Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She\nwonders if Felix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome Lafirme\nplaying at checkers upon the sofa with Leandre. Little Pauline stands\nannoying them and disturbing the game. Leandre reproves her. She begins\nto cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off, limps\nacross the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the\nlittle one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better than\nshe did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor\nand raised a great \"bo-bo\" on her forehead. Pelagie was hurt and angry\nenough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought\nand laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one's steps were surer.\n\n\"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline.\" She was saying it aloud--\"faire\nmal a Pauline.\"\n\nBut she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where\nthe white crepe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has\nstruck Ma'ame Pelagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is\nbeyond there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group\nof friends over their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How\ntiresome! She has heard them say \"la guerre\" oftener than once. La\nguerre. Bah! She and Felix have something pleasanter to talk about, out\nunder the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders.\n\nBut they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled\nacross the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole\nstretch of Cote Joyeuse.\n\nYet Pelagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before\nher with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and\nof brazen impudence. Pelagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not\nbelieve. Not till Felix comes to her in the chamber above the dining\nhall--there where that trumpet vine hangs--comes to say good-by to her.\nThe hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed\ninto the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits upon the\nsofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would not\nhave been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same spot,\nand Ma'ame Pelagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all along, to\nlie there upon it some day when the time came to die.\n\nBut there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has\nbeen no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking the\nwines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits.\n\nOne of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She\nslaps his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his blanched\ncheek!\n\nNow there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her\nmotionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana\ncan perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her knees\nin an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved.\n\n\"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline.\" Again she is saying it\naloud--\"faire mal a Pauline.\"\n\nThe night was nearly spent; Ma'ame Pelagie had glided from the bench\nupon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone\nflagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to\nwalk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after the\nother, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips upon the\nsenseless brick.\n\n\"Adieu, adieu!\" whispered Ma'ame Pelagie.\n\nThere was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar\npathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that\nswung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about\nthe ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old\nmulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day\nwas mantling the earth. Ma'ame Pelagie hurried through the wet, clinging\ngrass, beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her face, walking\non toward the cabin-toward Pauline. Not once did she look back upon the\nruin that brooded like a huge monster--a black spot in the darkness that\nenveloped it.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nLittle more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmet\nplace had undergone was the talk and wonder of Cote Joyeuse. One would\nhave looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was\nthe log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and the\nbreezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woods\nthat the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid\nfoundation of brick.\n\nUpon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Leandre smoking his afternoon\ncigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be his\npied a terre now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. The\nlaughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within the\nhouse where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the enthusiasm\nof a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed marvelously\nbeautiful to Mam'selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near her. Mam'selle\nPauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmet. Her cheek was as\nfull and almost as flushed as La Petite's. The years were falling away\nfrom her.\n\nMa'ame Pelagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends.\nThen she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music\nwhich La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on\naround the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She\nstayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out calmly\nin the distance across the fields.\n\nShe was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore folded\nacross her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver diadem from\nher brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of fires that\nwould never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of months\nseemed to have passed over her since the night she bade farewell to her\nvisions.\n\nPoor Ma'ame Pelagie! How could it be different! While the outward\npressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into\nthe light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin.\n\n\n\n\n\nDESIREE'S BABY\n\n\nAs the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to see\nDesiree and the baby.\n\nIt made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed\nbut yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when\nMonsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying\nasleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.\n\nThe little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for \"Dada.\" That\nwas as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have\nstrayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The\nprevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of\nTexans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the\nferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame\nValmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been\nsent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection,\nseeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be\nbeautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,--the idol of Valmonde.\n\nIt was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in\nwhose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand\nAubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her.\nThat was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol\nshot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known\nher since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after\nhis mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he\nsaw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie\nfire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles.\n\nMonsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that\nis, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not\ncare. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a\nname when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana?\nHe ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what\npatience he could until it arrived; then they were married.\n\nMadame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When\nshe reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always\ndid. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the\ngentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and\nburied his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well\never to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl,\nreaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow\nstuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their\nthick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young\nAubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had\nforgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master's\neasy-going and indulgent lifetime.\n\nThe young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft\nwhite muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her\narm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman\nsat beside a window fanning herself.\n\nMadame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her,\nholding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the\nchild.\n\n\"This is not the baby!\" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the\nlanguage spoken at Valmonde in those days.\n\n\"I knew you would be astonished,\" laughed Desiree, \"at the way he has\ngrown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his\nhands and fingernails,--real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this\nmorning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?\"\n\nThe woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, \"Mais si, Madame.\"\n\n\"And the way he cries,\" went on Desiree, \"is deafening. Armand heard him\nthe other day as far away as La Blanche's cabin.\"\n\nMadame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it\nand walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the\nbaby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was\nturned to gaze across the fields.\n\n\"Yes, the child has grown, has changed,\" said Madame Valmonde, slowly,\nas she replaced it beside its mother. \"What does Armand say?\"\n\nDesiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.\n\n\"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly\nbecause it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,--that he\nwould have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn't true. I know he\nsays that to please me. And mamma,\" she added, drawing Madame Valmonde's\nhead down to her, and speaking in a whisper, \"he hasn't punished one of\nthem--not one of them--since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended\nto have burnt his leg that he might rest from work--he only laughed, and\nsaid Negrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightens\nme.\"\n\nWhat Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had\nsoftened Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly.\nThis was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him\ndesperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he\nsmiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand's dark,\nhandsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he\nfell in love with her.\n\nWhen the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to the\nconviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace.\nIt was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting\nsuggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from\nfar-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a\nstrange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not\nask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from\nwhich the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself\nfrom home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child,\nwithout excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take\nhold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree was miserable\nenough to die.\n\nShe sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly\ndrawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair\nthat hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon\nher own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its\nsatin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys--half\nnaked too--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock\nfeathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the\nbaby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she\nfelt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood\nbeside him, and back again; over and over. \"Ah!\" It was a cry that she\ncould not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood\nturned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her\nface.\n\nShe tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come,\nat first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress\nwas pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and\nobediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes.\n\nShe stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face\nthe picture of fright.\n\nPresently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went\nto a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.\n\n\"Armand,\" she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if\nhe was human. But he did not notice. \"Armand,\" she said again. Then she\nrose and tottered towards him. \"Armand,\" she panted once more, clutching\nhis arm, \"look at our child. What does it mean? tell me.\"\n\nHe coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust\nthe hand away from him. \"Tell me what it means!\" she cried despairingly.\n\n\"It means,\" he answered lightly, \"that the child is not white; it means\nthat you are not white.\"\n\nA quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her\nwith unwonted courage to deny it. \"It is a lie; it is not true, I am\nwhite! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you\nknow they are gray. And my skin is fair,\" seizing his wrist. \"Look at my\nhand; whiter than yours, Armand,\" she laughed hysterically.\n\n\"As white as La Blanche's,\" he returned cruelly; and went away leaving\nher alone with their child.\n\nWhen she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to\nMadame Valmonde.\n\n\"My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not\nwhite. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not\ntrue. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live.\"\n\nThe answer that came was brief:\n\n\"My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves\nyou. Come with your child.\"\n\nWhen the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study,\nand laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone\nimage: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.\n\nIn silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.\n\nHe said nothing. \"Shall I go, Armand?\" she asked in tones sharp with\nagonized suspense.\n\n\"Yes, go.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to go?\"\n\n\"Yes, I want you to go.\"\n\nHe thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and\nfelt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus\ninto his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the\nunconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.\n\nShe turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards\nthe door, hoping he would call her back.\n\n\"Good-by, Armand,\" she moaned.\n\nHe did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.\n\nDesiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre\ngallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no\nword of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the\nlive-oak branches.\n\nIt was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still\nfields the negroes were picking cotton.\n\nDesiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which\nshe wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden\ngleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road\nwhich led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a\ndeserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately\nshod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.\n\nShe disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the\nbanks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.\n\n\n\nSome weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the\ncentre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand\nAubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle;\nand it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which\nkept this fire ablaze.\n\nA graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was\nlaid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a\npriceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones\nadded to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for\nthe corbeille had been of rare quality.\n\nThe last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little\nscribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their\nespousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he\ntook them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from\nhis mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the\nblessing of her husband's love:--\n\n\"But above all,\" she wrote, \"night and day, I thank the good God for\nhaving so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that\nhis mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the\nbrand of slavery.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nA RESPECTABLE WOMAN\n\n\nMrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his\nfriend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation.\n\nThey had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had\nalso been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation.\nShe was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, and\nundisturbed tete-a-tete with her husband, when he informed her that\nGouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two.\n\nThis was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her\nhusband's college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a\nsociety man or \"a man about town,\" which were, perhaps, some of the\nreasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an\nimage of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with\neye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him.\nGouvernail was slim enough, but he wasn't very tall nor very cynical;\nneither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. And\nshe rather liked him when he first presented himself.\n\nBut why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself\nwhen she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of\nthose brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had\noften assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather mute\nand receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home\nand in face of Gaston's frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as\ncourteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he\nmade no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem.\n\nOnce settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide\nportico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his\ncigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston's experience as a sugar\nplanter.\n\n\"This is what I call living,\" he would utter with deep satisfaction, as\nthe air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm and\nscented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms with\nthe big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably against\nhis legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out\nand kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so.\n\nGouvernail's personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed,\nhe was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could\nunderstand him no better than at first, she gave over being puzzled and\nremained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her guest, for\nthe most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no\nmanner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon him,\naccompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along the\nbatture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which he\nhad unconsciously enveloped himself.\n\n\"When is he going--your friend?\" she one day asked her husband. \"For my\npart, he tires me frightfully.\"\n\n\"Not for a week yet, dear. I can't understand; he gives you no trouble.\"\n\n\"No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others,\nand I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.\"\n\nGaston took his wife's pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly\nand laughingly into her troubled eyes.\n\nThey were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda's\ndressing-room.\n\n\"You are full of surprises, ma belle,\" he said to her. \"Even I can never\ncount upon how you are going to act under given conditions.\" He kissed\nher and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he went on, \"taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making\na commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.\"\n\n\"Commotion!\" she hotly resented. \"Nonsense! How can you say such a\nthing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.\"\n\n\"So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That's why I\nasked him here to take a rest.\"\n\n\"You used to say he was a man of ideas,\" she retorted, unconciliated. \"I\nexpected him to be interesting, at least. I'm going to the city in the\nmorning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail\nis gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie's.\"\n\nThat night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live\noak tree at the edge of the gravel walk.\n\nShe had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused.\nShe could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct\nnecessity to quit her home in the morning.\n\nMrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in\nthe darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew\nit was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain\nunnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away his\ncigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion\nthat she might object to his presence.\n\n\"Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,\" he said,\nhanding her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her\nhead and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of\nthanks, and let it lie in her lap.\n\nHe made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the\nnight air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness,\nhe murmured, half to himself:\n\n\"'Night of south winds--night of the large few stars! Still nodding\nnight--'\"\n\nShe made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was\nnot addressed to her.\n\nGouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a\nself-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional,\nbut the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence\nmelted for the time.\n\nHe talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not\nunpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and\nGaston had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blind\nambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least,\na philosophic acquiescence to the existing order--only a desire to be\npermitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life,\nsuch as he was breathing now.\n\nHer mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being\nwas for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only\ndrinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in\nthe darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers\nupon the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper\nagainst his cheek--she did not care what--as she might have done if she\nhad not been a respectable woman.\n\nThe stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in\nfact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an\nappearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone.\n\nBefore she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and\nended his apostrophe to the night.\n\nMrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband--who\nwas also her friend--of this folly that had seized her. But she did not\nyield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a very\nsensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a human\nbeing must fight alone.\n\nWhen Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She\nhad taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till\nGouvernail was gone from under her roof.\n\nThere was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed.\nThat is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his\nwife's strenuous opposition.\n\nHowever, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself,\nto have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and\ndelighted with the suggestion coming from her.\n\n\"I am glad, chere amie, to know that you have finally overcome your\ndislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon\nhis lips, \"I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shall\nbe very nice to him.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE KISS\n\n\nIt was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains\ndrawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the\nroom was full of deep shadows.\n\nBrantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did\nnot mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened as\nardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight.\n\nShe was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs\nto the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly\nstroked the satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she\noccasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion sat.\nThey were talking low, of indifferent things which plainly were not\nthe things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved her--a\nfrank, blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his feelings,\nand no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought her society\neagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him to declare\nhimself and she meant to accept him. The rather insignificant and\nunattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she liked and required\nthe entourage which wealth could give her.\n\nDuring one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the next\nreception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain knew\nquite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two brought\nhim to her side, and bending over her chair--before she could suspect\nhis intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her\nvisitor--he pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips.\n\nBrantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the\nnewcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance\nstruggling with the confusion in his face.\n\n\"I believe,\" stammered Brantain, \"I see that I have stayed too long.\nI--I had no idea--that is, I must wish you good-by.\" He was clutching\nhis hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was\nextending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely\ndeserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak.\n\n\"Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it's deuced awkward\nfor you. But I hope you'll forgive me this once--this very first break.\nWhy, what's the matter?\"\n\n\"Don't touch me; don't come near me,\" she returned angrily. \"What do you\nmean by entering the house without ringing?\"\n\n\"I came in with your brother, as I often do,\" he answered coldly, in\nself-justification. \"We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I\ncame in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and\nought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say\nthat you forgive me, Nathalie,\" he entreated, softening.\n\n\"Forgive you! You don't know what you are talking about. Let me pass. It\ndepends upon--a good deal whether I ever forgive you.\"\n\nAt that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about she\napproached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when she\nsaw him there.\n\n\"Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?\" she asked\nwith an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy;\nbut when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired\ncorner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his\nexpression. She was apparently very outspoken.\n\n\"Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain;\nbut--but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since\nthat little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might\nhave misinterpreted it, and believed things\"--hope was plainly gaining\nthe ascendancy over misery in Brantain's round, guileless face--\"Of\ncourse, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you\nto understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing.\nWhy, we have always been like cousins--like brother and sister, I may\nsay. He is my brother's most intimate associate and often fancies that\nhe is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it\nis absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even,\" she was\nalmost weeping, \"but it makes so much difference to me what you think\nof--of me.\" Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery had\nall disappeared from Brantain's face.\n\n\"Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you\nMiss Nathalie?\" They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on\neither side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very\nend of it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain's face was\nradiant and hers was triumphant.\n\n\n\nHarvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a\nrare moment when she stood alone.\n\n\"Your husband,\" he said, smiling, \"has sent me over to kiss you.\"\n\nA quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. \"I suppose\nit's natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of this\nkind. He tells me he doesn't want his marriage to interrupt wholly that\npleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don't know\nwhat you've been telling him,\" with an insolent smile, \"but he has sent\nme here to kiss you.\"\n\nShe felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces,\nsees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and\ntender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked\nhungry for the kiss which they invited.\n\n\"But, you know,\" he went on quietly, \"I didn't tell him so, it would\nhave seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I've stopped kissing women;\nit's dangerous.\"\n\nWell, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can't have\neverything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to\nexpect it.\n\n\n\n\n\nA PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS\n\n\nLittle Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of\nfifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the\nway in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her a\nfeeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years.\n\nThe question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a\nday or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really\nabsorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act\nhastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during\nthe still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in\nher mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and\njudicious use of the money.\n\nA dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie's\nshoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than\nthey usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new\nshirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make\nthe old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown.\nShe had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop\nwindows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings--two\npairs apiece--and what darning that would save for a while! She would\nget caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her\nlittle brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives\nexcited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.\n\nThe neighbors sometimes talked of certain \"better days\" that little Mrs.\nSommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. She\nherself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time--no\nsecond of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed\nher every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster\nsometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes.\n\nMrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand\nfor hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was\nselling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had learned\nto clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persistence\nand determination till her turn came to be served, no matter when it\ncame.\n\nBut that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light\nluncheon--no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children\nfed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout,\nshe had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all!\n\nShe sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was\ncomparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge\nthrough an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting\nand figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she\nrested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By\ndegrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very\nsoothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand\nlay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that they\nhad been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one dollar\nand ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the counter\nasked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She\nsmiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds\nwith the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the\nsoft, sheeny luxurious things--with both hands now, holding them up\nto see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her\nfingers.\n\nTwo hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at\nthe girl.\n\n\"Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?\"\n\nThere were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of\nthat size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some\nlavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs.\nSommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely.\nShe pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured her\nwas excellent.\n\n\"A dollar and ninety-eight cents,\" she mused aloud. \"Well, I'll take\nthis pair.\" She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her\nchange and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed\nlost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.\n\nMrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain\ncounter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into\nthe region of the ladies' waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she\nexchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just\nbought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoning\nwith herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the\nmotive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the\ntime to be taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function and\nto have abandoned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed her\nactions and freed her of responsibility.\n\nHow good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying\nback in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of\nit. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the\ncotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag. After doing this\nshe crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be\nfitted.\n\nShe was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not\nreconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily\npleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her\nhead another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped\nboots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that\nthey belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent\nand stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she did\nnot mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as\nshe got what she desired.\n\nIt was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On\nrare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always \"bargains,\"\nso cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have\nexpected them to be fitted to the hand.\n\nNow she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a\npretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a\nlong-wristed \"kid\" over Mrs. Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down over\nthe wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second\nor two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand.\nBut there were other places where money might be spent.\n\nThere were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few\npaces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines\nsuch as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been\naccustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping.\nAs well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her\nstockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her\nbearing--had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to\nthe well-dressed multitude.\n\nShe was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings\nfor food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed\nherself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available.\nBut the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain\nany such thought.\n\nThere was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors;\nfrom the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask\nand shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of\nfashion.\n\nWhen she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation,\nas she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table\nalone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She\ndid not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite--a half\ndozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet--a\ncreme-frappee, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a\nsmall cup of black coffee.\n\nWhile waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and\nlaid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through\nit, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very\nagreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through\nthe window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and\ngentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like\nher own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle\nbreeze, was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read\na word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in\nthe silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the\nmoney out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he\nbowed before her as before a princess of royal blood.\n\nThere was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented\nitself in the shape of a matinee poster.\n\nIt was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun\nand the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant\nseats here and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between\nbrilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy\nand display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there\nsolely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one\npresent who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her\nsurroundings. She gathered in the whole--stage and players and people in\none wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at\nthe comedy and wept--she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the\ntragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman\nwiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and\npassed little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy.\n\nThe play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like\na dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to\nthe corner and waited for the cable car.\n\nA man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study\nof her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there.\nIn truth, he saw nothing-unless he were wizard enough to detect a\npoignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop\nanywhere, but go on and on with her forever.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOCKET\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nOne night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope\nof a hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces and\nwere awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond the\npoint of shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin cup\nover the embers. Two were lying at full length a little distance away,\nwhile a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn close to\nthe light. He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his flannel\nshirt front.\n\n\"What's that you got around your neck, Ned?\" asked one of the men lying\nin the obscurity.\n\nNed--or Edmond--mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and\ndid not reply. He went on reading his letter.\n\n\"Is it your sweet heart's picture?\"\n\n\"'Taint no gal's picture,\" offered the man at the fire. He had removed\nhis tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a small\nstick. \"That's a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o' them\npriests gave him to keep him out o' trouble. I know them Cath'lics.\nThat's how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he's\nbeen in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?\" Edmond looked up absently\nfrom his letter.\n\n\"What is it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Aint that a charm you got round your neck?\"\n\n\"It must be, Nick,\" returned Edmond with a smile. \"I don't know how I\ncould have gone through this year and a half without it.\"\n\nThe letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretched\nhimself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But he\nwas not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day when\nthe bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good bye\nto him. He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locket\nwhich she fastened about his own. It was an old fashioned golden locket\nbearing miniatures of her father and mother with their names and the\ndate of their marriage. It was her most precious earthly possession.\nEdmond could feel again the folds of the girl's soft white gown, and see\nthe droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about his\nneck. Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of\nparting, appeared before him as vividly as life. He turned over, burying\nhis face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless.\n\nThe profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of\npeace settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octavie\nbrought him a letter. He had no chair to offer her and was pained and\nembarrassed at the condition of his garments. He was ashamed of the poor\nfood which comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join them.\n\nHe dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to\ngrasp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream was\nclamor.\n\n\"Git your duds! you! Frenchy!\" Nick was bellowing in his face. There\nwas what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated\nmovement. The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden\nup-springing lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfolding\nout of the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below.\n\n\"What's it all about?\" wondered a big black bird perched in the top of\nthe tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was\nnot wise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept\nblinking and wondering.\n\nThe noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke\nthe little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled\nup toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds\nthought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better.\n\n\"They are children playing a game,\" thought he. \"I shall know more about\nit if I watch long enough.\"\n\nAt the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and\nsmoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had understood!\nWith a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward, circling toward\nthe plain.\n\nA man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the\ngarb of a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of\nreligion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger\na spark of life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and\na flask of wine.\n\nThere were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat\nhad been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to\nlook to the dead.\n\nThere was a soldier--a mere boy--lying with his face to the sky. His\nhands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails\nwere stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his\ndespairing grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his\nface and clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and\nlocket. The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed\nit from the dead soldier's neck. He had grown used to the terrors of\nwar and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always\nbrought the tears to his old, dim eyes.\n\nThe angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro knelt\nand murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the dead.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nThe peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like\na benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuous\nstream in central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, much\nthe worse for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes.\nThe fat, black horses went in a slow, measured trot, notwithstanding\nconstant urging on the part of the fat, black coachman. Within the\nvehicle were seated the fair Octavie and her old friend and neighbor,\nJudge Pillier, who had come to take her for a morning drive.\n\nOctavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrow\nbelt held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close\nfitting wristbands. She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not\nunlike a nun. Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket.\nShe never displayed it now. It had returned to her sanctified in her\neyes; made precious as material things sometimes are by being forever\nidentified with a significant moment of one's existence.\n\nA hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had\ncome back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored over\nit. As she sat beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon her\nknee, heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds and\nthe humming of insects in the air.\n\nShe was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over her\na sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest's letter. He\ntold of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold and the red\nfading out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows to cover the\nfaces of the dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of those dead\nwas her own! with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an agony of\nsupplication. A spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and swept over\nher. Why was the spring here with its flowers and its seductive breath\nif he was dead! Why was she here! What further had she to do with life\nand the living!\n\nOctavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessed\nresignation had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like a\nmantle and enveloped her.\n\n\"I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie,\" she murmured\nto herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary.\nAlready she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. She\nwalked with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie\nwhom some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while\nleaving her in possession of youth's illusions.\n\nAs she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover,\nagain there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had\nassailed her so often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its\nrights; for a share in the world's glory and exultation. She leaned back\nand drew her veil a little closer about her face. It was an old black\nveil of her Aunt Tavie's. A whiff of dust from the road had blown in and\nshe wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white handkerchief,\na homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old fine muslin\npetticoats.\n\n\"Will you do me the favor, Octavie,\" requested the judge in the\ncourteous tone which he never abandoned, \"to remove that veil which you\nwear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of\nthe day.\"\n\nThe young girl obediently yielded to her old companion's wish and\nunpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it\nneatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her.\n\n\"Ah! that is better; far better!\" he said in a tone expressing unbounded\nrelief. \"Never put it on again, dear.\" Octavie felt a little hurt; as if\nhe wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of affliction\nwhich had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the old\nmuslin handkerchief.\n\nThey had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had\nformerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and\nthere, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off\nin the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the\nfar end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane\nthat led to Judge Pillier's house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms\nmet them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome.\n\nAs they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the\ngirl's shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: \"Do you not\nthink that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole\nearth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that\nheaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?\" He spoke very\nlow, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which\nwas not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage.\nShe gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certain\nterror of joy.\n\nThey had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one\nside and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat quickened\ntheir lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the house, a\nwhole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of melodious\ngreeting from their leafy hiding places.\n\nOctavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was\nlike a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray\nhouse with its sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, she\nsaw familiar faces and heard voices as if they came from far across the\nfields, and Edmond was holding her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond,\nand she felt the beating of his heart against her and the agonizing\nrapture of his kisses striving to awake her. It was as if the spirit of\nlife and the awakening spring had given back the soul to her youth and\nbade her rejoice.\n\nIt was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom and\nlooked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance.\n\n\"It was the night before an engagement,\" he said. \"In the hurry of the\nencounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the fight\nwas over. I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the struggle,\nbut it was stolen.\"\n\n\"Stolen,\" she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his face\nuplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication.\n\nEdmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who had\nlain far back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing.\n\n\n\n\n\nA REFLECTION\n\n\nSome people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only\nenables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish\nin their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad\npace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the\nsignificance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do\nthey fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating\nthe moving procession.\n\nAh! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its\nfantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the\nundulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are failing beneath\nthe feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic\nrhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one\nharmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds--to complete\nGod's orchestra.\n\nIt is greater than the stars--that moving procession of human energy;\ngreater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh!\nI could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the\nclouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of\nthese symbols of life's immutability. In the procession I should\nfeel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and\nstifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.\n\nSalve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside."