 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Section 5. CHAPTER XXI. Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reich always chose apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, peddlers and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room a good deal of smoke and soot, but at the same time all the light and air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her belongings in a rarer old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use. When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reich's front room door and entered, she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or patching an old prune alligator. The little musician laughed all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of flowers on the side of her head. So you remembered me at last, said Mademoiselle. I had said to myself, ah, bah, she will never come. Did you want me to come? asked Edna with a smile. I had not thought much about it, answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me, and how is La Belle Dame? Always handsome, always healthy, always contented. She took Edna's hand between her strong, wiry fingers, holding it closely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. Yes, she went on. I sometimes thought, she will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come, for I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier. I don't know whether I like you or not, replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candour of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reich. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guests with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Le Bruns and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. I have had a letter from your friend, she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. My friend? Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the city of Mexico. Wrote to you? repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. Yes, to me? Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee. Drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you, it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end. Let me see it, requested the young woman intriguingly. No, a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written. Haven't you just said it, concerned me, from beginning to end? It was written about you, not to you. Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking? he asks. As Mrs. Pontellier says, or as Mrs. Pontellier once said, if Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that impromptu of showpans, my favourite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her, and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society. Let me see the letter. Oh, no. Have you answered it? No. Let me see the letter. No, and again, no. Then play the impromptu for me. It's growing late. What time do you have to be home? Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the impromptu. But you've told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing? Painting, laughed Edna. I am becoming an artist. Think of it. Ah, an artist. You have pretensions, Madame. Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist? I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much. One must possess many gifts, absolute gifts, which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul. What do you mean by the courageous soul? Courageous ma foie, the brave soul, the soul that dares and defies. Show me the letter and play for me the impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art? It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated. Replied Madame Oisele with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Madame Oisele opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Madame Oisele played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin impromptu. Edna did not know when the impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Madame Oisele had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Vizaldi's song and back again to the impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic, turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft within treaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure. May I come again, Madame Oisele? She asked at the threshold. Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful. The stairs and landings are dark. Don't stumble. Madame Oisele re-entered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Madame Oisele smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope and replaced it in the table drawer. CHAPTER XXI One morning on his way into town, Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Dr. Mandalay. The doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting as the saying is upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill, leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries, and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eyeglasses, as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning? He was quite portly, with a profusion of grey hair and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. Oh, I'm never sick, doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her. Madame Pontellier, not well, marveled the doctor. While I saw her, I think it was a week ago, walking along Canal Street. The picture of health, it seemed to me. Yes, yes, she seems quite well, said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whorling his stick between his two hands. But she doesn't act well. She's odd. She's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me. How did she act? inquired the doctor. Well, it isn't easy to explain, said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. She lets a housekeeper go to the Dickens. Well, well, women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider. I know that I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife, yet I'm driven to it. And I feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me. He went on nervously. She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women, and you understand, we meet in the morning at the breakfast table. The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick, nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. What have you been doing to her, Pontellier? Doing parbleur. Has she, asked the doctor with a smile, has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women, super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them. That's the trouble, broken, Mr. Pontellier. She hasn't been associating with anyone. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it. I feel a little worried over it. This was a new aspect for the doctor. Nothing hereditary, he asked seriously. Nothing peculiar about her family antecedence is there. Oh, no, no, indeed. She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I've heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact that his race-horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret, you know Margaret, she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted, and the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now. Send your wife up to the wedding! exclaimed the doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. Let her stay among her own people for a while. It will do her good. That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband! exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection. Pontellier, said the doctor, after a moment's reflection. Let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism. A sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them, and when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies, the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, but due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me. Oh, I couldn't do that! There'd be no reason for it! objected Mr. Pontellier. Then I'll go around and see her, said the doctor. I'll drop in to dinner some evening, on Bonamie. Do, by all means, urged Mr. Pontellier. What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday? he asked, rising to take his leave. Very well, Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise you may expect me. Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say, I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and I want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, doctor. He laughed. No, I thank you, my dear sir. Return the doctor. I leave such ventures to you, younger men, with the fever of life still in your blood. What I wanted to say, continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob. I may have to be absent for a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along? By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months, possibly longer, but it will pass. Have patience. Well, good-bye. Ajudi, said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. The doctor would have liked during the course of the conversation to ask, is there any man in the case? But he knew his creole too well to make such a blunder as that. He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively looking out into the garden. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Edna's father was in the city and had been with him several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance. It seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions. He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as everyone immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters, and his suggestions on the question of dress, which too often assumes the nature of a problem, were of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair and moustache were white and silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together and excited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been tenfold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the gems of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement. Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the cannon's mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in their mother's bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them away with an expressive action of the foot, loathed to disturb the fixed lines of his countenance, his arms or his rigid shoulders. Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Madame Waselle Reich to meet him, having promised him a treat in her piano playing, but Madame Waselle declined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale at the Ratignolles. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel, installing him as the guest of honour and engaging him at once to dine with them the following Sunday, or at any day which he might select. Madame co-catted with him in the most captivating and naive manner with eyes, gestures and a profusion of compliments till the Colonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marvelled, not comprehending. She herself was almost a void of coquetry. There were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale, but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract their notice, to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy selected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the glance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had disturbed her. Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soiree musicales. He considered them bourgeois and found more diversion at the club. To Madame Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her soirees was too heavy, too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her, but she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier's club, and she was frank enough to tell Edna so. It's a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn't stay home more in the evenings. I think you would be more, well, if you don't mind my saying it, more united if he did. Oh, no, dear, said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. What should I do if he stayed home? We wouldn't have anything to say to each other. She had not much of anything to say to her father for that matter, but he did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, though she realized that he might not interest her long, and for the first time in her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He kept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It amused her to do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the children to do anything for him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed and thought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment which he had never suspected. The Colonel drank numerous toddies during the course of the day, which left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting strong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that it devolved upon Edna to procure for him. When Dr. Mandalay dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday, he could discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. She and her father had been to the race course and their thoughts when they seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of the afternoon and their talk was still of the track. The doctor had not kept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing in what he called the good old times when the Lecomte stables flourished and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not be left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon the Colonel and was even far from impressing him with his trumped up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on his last venture with the most gratifying results to both of them. Besides they had met some very charming people according to the Colonel's impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp who were there with Alsay Aroban had joined them and had enlivened the hours in a fashion that warmed him to think of. Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horse racing and was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime especially when he considered the fate of that bluegrass farm in Kentucky. He endeavored in a general way to express a particular disapproval and only succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. A pretty dispute followed in which Edna warmly espoused her father's cause and the doctor remained neutral. He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows and noted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman he had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with the forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful sleek animal waking up in the sun. The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was cold and under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantness melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine. Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing plantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth when he hunted possum in company with some friendly darkie, thrashed the pecan trees, shot the grow-beck, and roamed the woods and fields in mischievous idleness. The kernel with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days in which he had acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the doctor happier in his selection when he told the old, ever-new and curious story of the waning of a woman's love, seeking strange new channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce unrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been unfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did not seem especially to impress Etna. She had one of her own to tell of a woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pierogue and never came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian islands and no one ever heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was a pure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That also was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had, but every glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel the hot breath of the southern night. They could hear the long sweep of the pierogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of the bird's wings, startled from among the reeds in the saltwater pools. They could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, wrapped in oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown. The champagne was cold and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks with Etna's memory that night. Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the night was chill and murky. The doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his fellow-creatures better than most men, knew that inner life which so seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted Pantelier's invitation. He was growing old and beginning to need rest and an imperturbbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives thrust upon him. I hope it isn't Araben. He muttered to himself as he walked. I hope to heaven it isn't Alcee Araben. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Etna and her father had a warm and almost violent dispute upon the subject of her refusal to attend her sister's wedding. Mr. Pantelier declined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his authority. He was following Dr. Mandalay's advice and letting her do as she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of filial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His arguments were laboured and unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would accept any excuse, forgetting that Etna had offered none. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again and he was sure Margaret would not. Etna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders, his Bible reading, his toddies and ponderous oaths. Mr. Pantelier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on his way to New York and endeavour by every means which money and love could devise to atone somewhat for Etna's incomprehensible action. You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce! asserted the Colonel. Authority, coercion are what is needed. Sit down good and hard. The only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it. The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into her grave. Mr. Pantelier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought it needless to mention at that late day. Etna was not so consciously gratified at her husband's leaving home as she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around looking after his clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle would have done under similar circumstances. She cried when he went away, calling him her dear good friend, and she was quite certain she would grow lonely before very long and go to join him in New York. But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found herself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pantelier had come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The old Madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected during Leonce's absence. She hardly ventured to think so. She was hungry for them, even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want them to be holy children of the pavement. She always said, when begging to have them for space, she wished them to know the country, with its streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young. She wished them to taste something of the life their father had lived and known and loved when he too was a little child. When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief, a feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it for the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them before, and she perambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to see if windows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were like new acquaintances. She approached them in a familiar spirit and made herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp and Edna called to the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead dry leaves. The children's little dog came out interfering, getting in her way. She scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all the bright flowers she could find and went into the house with them, she and the little dog. Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had never before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook to say that the butcher would have to bring much less meat that they would require only half their usual quantity of bread of milk and groceries. She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied during Mr. Pontellier's absence and she begged her to take all thought and responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders. That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candies in the centre of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle of light in which she sat, the large dining room looked solemn and shadowy. The cook, placed upon her metal, served a delicious repast, a luscious tenderloin broiled a point. The wine tasted good, the marin-glacé seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a comfortable peignoir. She thought a little sentimentally about layoffs in the children and wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable advances and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks and a lively agitation. Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she grew sleepy. She realised that she had neglected her reading and determined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that her time was completely her own to do with as she liked. After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed and as she snuggled comfortably beneath the Eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had not known before. End of Chapter 24 CHAPTER 25 When the weather was dark and cloudy, Edna could not work. She needed the sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working when in the humour with sureness and ease and being devoid of ambition and striving not towards accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work in itself. On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the friends she had made at Grand Isle or else she stayed indoors and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair, but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises which her youth held out to her. She went again to the races, and again Alice Aroben and Mrs. Highcamp called for her one bright afternoon in Aroben's drag. Mrs. Highcamp was a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the forties with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of young men of fashion. Alice Aroben was one of them. He was a familiar figure at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a corresponding cheerfulness in anyone who looked into them and listened to his good-humoured voice. His manner was quiet and at times a little insolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened with depth of thought or feeling, and his dress was that of the conventional man of fashion. He admired Edna extravagantly after meeting her at the races with her father. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to him unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the jockey club to witness the turf event of the season. There were possibly a few trackmen out there who knew the racehorse as well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She sat between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed at Aroben's pretensions and deplored Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. The racehorse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the bluegrass paddock revived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that she was talking like her father as the sleek gildings ambled in review before them. She played for very high stakes and fortune favoured her. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes and it got into her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. People turned their heads to look at her, and more than one lent an attentive ear to her utterances, bringing thereby to secure the elusive but ever desired tip. Aroben caught the contagion of excitement which drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows. Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so. Aroben also remained and sent away his drag. The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of Aroben to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her daughter from the races and tried to convey to her what she had missed by going to the Dante reading instead of joining them. The girl held a geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain bald-headed man who only talked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of delicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed most of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after dinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight while the younger people went into the drawing room nearby and talked. Mrs. Highcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed to have apprehended all of the composer's coldness and none of his poetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had lost her taste for music. When the time came for her to go home Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offer to escort her looking down at his slippered feet with tactless concern. It was Aroban who took her home. The car ride was long and it was late when they reached Esplanade Street. Aroban asked permission to enter for a second to light his cigarette. His match safe was empty. He filled his match safe but did not light his cigarette until he left her. After she had expressed her willingness to go to the races with him again Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again for the Highcamp dinner though of excellent quality had lacked abundance. She rummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some crackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the ice-box. Edna felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and munched a cracker. She wanted something to happen, something, anything. She did not know what. She regretted that she had not made Aroban stay half an hour to talk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won but there was nothing else to do so she went to bed and tossed there for hours in a sort of monotonous agitation. In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to write her regular letter to her husband and she decided to do so next day and tell him about her afternoon at the jockey club. She lay wide awake composing a letter which was nothing like the one she wrote next day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal Street while his wife was saying to El Se Aroban as they boarded an Esplanade streetcar to see that so much talent has been neglected but I must go. When, a few days later, El Se Aroban again called for Edna in his drag Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up but as that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up she was not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the meeting of a branch folklore society and regretted that she could not accompany them. Aroban appeared non-plussed and asked Edna if there were anyone else she cared to ask. She did not deem it worthwhile to go in search of any of the fashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She thought of Madame Ratignoll but knew that her fair friend did not leave the house except to take a languid walk around the block with her husband after nightfall. Madame Waselle Reich would have laughed at such a request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing but for some reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and Aroban. The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came back upon her like a remittant fever. Her talk grew familiar and confidential. It was no labour to become intimate with Aroban. His manner invited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging woman was concerned. He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. They laughed and talked, and before it was time to go he was telling her how different life might have been if he had known her years before. Within genius frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had been and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a sabercut which he had received in a jewel outside of Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of his palm. She arose hastily and walked towards the mantle. The sight of a wounded scar always agitates and sickens me, she said. I shouldn't have looked at it. I beg your pardon, he entreated, following her. It never occurred to me that it might be repulsive. He stood close to her and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old vanishing self in her yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said his lingering good night. Will you go to the races again? He asked. No, she said. I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all the money I've won and I've got to work when the weather is bright instead of— Yes, work, to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning may I come up to your atelier? Tomorrow? No. Day after? No, no. Oh, please, don't refuse me. I know something of such things. I might help you with a stray suggestion or two. No, good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? I don't like you! She went on in a high excited pitch, attempting to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity and she knew that he felt it. I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have I offended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me? And he bent down and pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw them. Mr. Alban, she complained, I'm greatly upset by the excitement of the afternoon. I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in some way. I wish you to go, please. She spoke in a monotonous dull tone. He took his hat from the table and with eyes turned from her, looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive silence. Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier, he said finally. My own emotions have done that. I couldn't help it. When I'm near you, how could I help it? Don't think anything of it. Don't bother, please. You see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. If you let me come back, oh, will you let me come back? He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. Alsay Arban's manner was so genuine that it often deceived even himself. Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand, which he had kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into an act of infidelity and realizes the significance of the act without being wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely through her mind. What would he think? She did not mean her husband. She was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love as an excuse. She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alsay Arban was absolutely nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a narcotic upon her. She slept a languorous sleep interwoven with vanishing dreams. End of Chapter 25 End of Section 5 Read by Sandra in Wales United Kingdom, August 2006. Chapter 26 Alsay Arban wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. It embarrassed her, for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her absurd that she should have taken his actions so seriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed. She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination as gave him the opportunity. He responded at once by presenting himself at her door with all his disarming naivete, and then there was scarcely a day which followed that she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in pretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the crimson into her face, in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her. There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as a visit to Mademoiselle Reyes. It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, and by her divine art seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere. One afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof, her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavouring to heat her pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven covered with a hood of dust scowled at her from the mantelpiece. Ah, here comes the sunlight! exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. Now it will be warm and bright enough. I can let the fire alone. She closed the stove door with a bang and approached, assisting in removing Edna's dripping Macintosh. You're cold. You look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold. A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat. A stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then, flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa, she said, Mademoiselle, I'm going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street. Ah! ejaculated the musician. Neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavouring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and, taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. Aren't you astonished? Passively. Where are you going? To New York? To Iberville? To your father in Mississippi? Where? Just two steps away, laughed Edna, in a little four-room house around the corner. It looked so cosy, so inviting and restful whenever I passed by, and—it's for rent. I'm tired of looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway, like home. It's too much trouble I have to keep. Too many servants. I'm tired of bothering with them. That is not your true reason, my belle. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason. But you have not told me the truth. Edna did not protest, or endeavour to justify herself. The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason? There are your husbands. I turned Mademoiselle with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. Ho-ho! I see there's no deceiving you. Then let me tell you, it is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I want a large sum this winter on the races, and I'm beginning to sell my sketches. Ledpour is more and more pleased with my work. He says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Ledpour. I can live in the tiny house for a little or nothing, with one servant, old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come and stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it. I like the feeling of freedom and independence. What does your husband say? I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so? Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. Your reason is not yet clear to me, she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself, but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt, but whatever came she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house, Edna exclaimed. You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once. And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter, unsolicited, and she would see herself at the piano and play as her humour prompted her while the young woman read the letter. The little stove was roaring, it was red hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle, rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna. Another so soon, she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters? Never in the world he would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him. Why do you show me his letters, then? Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh, you cannot deceive me! And Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand while the music penetrated her whole being like an effusions warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. She prepared her for joy and exultation. Oh, she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. Why did you not tell me? She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. Oh, unkind, malicious, why did you not tell me? Then he was coming back. No great news, ma foie. I wonder he did not come along ago. But when, when! cried Edna impatiently. He does not say when. He says very soon. He knows much about it as I do. It's all in the letter. But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought... And she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way looking for the reason which was left untold. If I were young and in love with a man, said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna who sat on the floor holding the letter, it seems to me he would have to be some grand exprès, a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them, one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow man. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion. Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle, or else you have never been in love and know nothing about it. I went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face. Do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself, go to? Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities. I shall proceed to fall in love with him or I shall set my heart upon this musician whose fame is on every tongue or this financier who controls the world's money markets. You are purposely misunderstanding me, Marine. Are you in love with Robert? Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it and a glow overspread her face blotching it with red spots. Why?" asked her companion. Why do you love him when you ought not to? Edna, with emotion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle's who took the glowing face between her two hands. Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples because he opens and shuts his eyes and his nose is a little out of drawing. Because he has two lips and a square chin and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth because you do, in short, laughed Mademoiselle. What will you do when he comes back? She asked. Do? Do you accept Field glad and happy to be alive? She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky which had depressed her a few hours before seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box on which she scribbled a tender message of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block and to give a farewell dinner before leaving regretting that he was not there to share it to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. CHAPTER 27 What is the matter with you? I asked Alba that evening. I never found you in such a happy mood. Edna was tired by that time and was reclining on the lounge before the fire. Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon? Well, that ought to be reason enough, he acquiesced. You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you. He sat close to her on the low taboo-gay and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair and closed her eyes sensitively. One of these days, she said, I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think, try to determine what character of a woman I am for candidly I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sacks, but some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it. Don't. What's the use? Do you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are? His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. Oh, yes, you will tell me that I am adorable, everything that is captivating, spare yourself the effort. No. I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did. Do you know Mademoiselle Reyes? She asked, irrelevantly. The pianist, I know her by sight, I've heard her play. She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward, for instance. Well, for instance, when I left her today she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades to see if my wings were strong, she said. The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. Wither would you soar. I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights, I only have to comprehend her. I've heard she's partially demented, said Alba. She seems to me wonderfully sane, Edna replied. I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you? Don't talk of me if you like, cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head. But let me think of something else while you do. I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a little kinder than usual but some way I feel as if they were wandering as if they were not here with me. She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her she clasped his head holding his lips to hers. It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. Chapter 28 Edna cried a little that night after Arabelle left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt by a quicker fiercer, more overpowering love which had awakened within her toward him. Of all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her. Because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. Chapter 29 Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of deliberation no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Ehobar's society Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her be gone. Whatever was her own in the house everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty was caused to be transported to the other house supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Ehobar found her with rolled sleeves working in company with the housemaid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. Come down! he said. Do you want to kill yourself? She greeted him with affected carelessness and appeared absorbed in her own occupation. If he had ex- he was no doubt prepared for any emergency ready for any of the foregoing attitudes just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. Please come down! he insisted holding the ladder and looking up at her. No, she answered. Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon-house. That's the name Ellen gives it because it's so small and looks like a pigeon-house and someone has to do this. Aobar pulled off his coat and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps and went into contortions of mirth which she found it impossible to control when she saw him put it on before the mirror grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished, he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. Edna was sitting on the table-gay, idly brushing the tips of a feather-duster along the carpet when he came in again. Is there anything more you will let me do? Edna asked. That is all, she answered. Ellen can manage the rest. She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room unwilling to be left alone with Aobar. What about the dinner? He asked. The grand-event. The coup d'etat. It will be day after tomorrow. Why do you call it the coup d'etat? Oh, it will be very fine. All my best of everything. Crystal, silver and gold, cèvres, flowers, music to pay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills. And you ask me why I call it a coup d'etat. Aobar had put on his coat and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plum. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. When do you go to the pigeon-house with all due acknowledgement to Ellen? Day after tomorrow, after the dinner, I shall sleep there. Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water? Asterobar, the dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp. While Ellen gets the water, said Edna, rising, I will say good-bye and let you go. I must get rid of this grime and I have a million things to do and think of. When shall I see you? Asterobar, seeking to detain her, the maid having left the room. At the dinner, of course, you are invited. Not before. Not to-night or to-morrow morning or night or the day after morning or noon can't you see yourself without my telling you what an eternity it is. He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. Not an instant sooner, she said, but she laughed, and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait. Chapter 30 Though Edna had spoken of the dinner and the grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very select in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree souffrant and un-presentable and not foreseeing that Madame Le Brun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty vivacious little woman in the 30s, her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them, of course there was, Al-Séh-Robin and M. Moussa-Rez had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. M. Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Le Brun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was Miss Mablant, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lagnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual. It was suspected of her that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She had come with a gentleman by the name Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers of whom nothing special could be said except that he was observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Al-Robin and M. Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Al-Robin and Victor Le Brun, then came M. Merrimant, M. Gouvernail, M. Mablant, M. Merrimant and M. Merrimant sat next to M. Ratignolle. There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lacework. There were wax candles in massive brass candelabra burning softly under yellow silk shades, full, fragrant roses, yellow and red abounded. There were silver gold as she had said there would be and crystal, which glittered like the gems which the women wore. The ordinary stiff dining-chairs had been discarded for the occasion and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected throughout the house. Man was El-Rez, being exceedingly diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. Something new, Edna, exclaimed Miss Mabelant, with Launette directed towards a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost sputtered in Edna's hair just over the centre of her forehead. Quite new, brand new, in fact, a present from my husband. It arrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my birthday and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink my health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, composed—would you say composed, with an appeal to Miss Mabelant— composed by my father in order of Sister Janet's wedding. Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a garnet gem. Then all things considered, spoke Arroba, it might not be amiss to start out by drinking the Colonel's health in the cocktail which he composed on the birthday of the most charming of women the daughter whom he invented. Mr. Merriman's laugh at the sally was such a genuine outburst and so contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never slackened. Miss Mabelant begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before her just to look at. The colour was marvellous. She could compare it to nothing she had ever seen and the garnet lights which she had admitted were unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist and stuck to it. Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously. The mets, the entremets, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked up from his pompano and inquired of Arroba if he were related to that gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Letnay and Arroba Lawyers. The young man admitted that Letnay was a warm personal friend who permitted Arroba to decorate the firm's letterheads and appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street. There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding, said Arroba, that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not. Monsieur Ratignolle stared a little then turned to ask Mlle. As if she considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set the previous winter. Mlle. As answered Mlle. Edna thought a little rude under the circumstances, but characteristic. Manmoselle had only disagreeable things to say of the symphony concerts and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians of New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interests seemed to be centered upon the delicacies placed before her. Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arroba's remark about inquisitive people reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles Hotel. But as Mr. Merriman's stories had been lacking point his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to ask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought the week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking books with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately to Miss Mayblunt who pretended to be greatly amused and to think he'd extremely clever. She also affected interest upon the warm and impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbour Victor Lebrun. Her attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating herself at table, and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier and more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the occasional sound of music of mandolin sufficiently removed to be in agreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption outside the soft monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard, the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through the open windows. The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the colour of her skin without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high back chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone. But as she sat there amid her guests she felt the old ennui overtaking her, the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something which announced itself a chill breath that seemed to issue from the vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the cute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable. The moments glided on while a feeling of good fellowship passed around the circle like a mystic cord holding and binding these people together with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break the pleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle was waiting for him at home. She was bien souffrante and she was filled with vague dread which only her husband's presence could allay. Mademoiselle Reyes arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to escort her to the car. She had tasted the good, rich wines and they must have turned her head for she bowed pleasantly to all as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder and whispered, Benoît-Marin, so yes-age. She had been a little bewildered upon rising, or rather descending from her cushions and Monsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her away. Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. In the garland she laid it lightly upon Victor's black curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of champagne to the light. As if a magician's wand had touched him the garland of roses transformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the colour of crushed grapes and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire. C'est pris-t-i? exclaimed Ahrebin. But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took from the back of her chair a white silk and scarf with which she had covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across the boy in graceful folds and in a way to conceal his black conventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth while he continued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of champagne. But in colour rather than in words exclaimed Miss Mablant, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him, there was a graven image of desire painted with red blood on a ground of gold, murmured Gournail under his breath. The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed volubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a reverie and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead. "'Sing,' entreated Mrs. Highcamp. "'Won't you sing to us?' "'Let him alone,' said our bar.' "'He's posing,' offered Mr. Merriman. Let him have it out.' "'I believe he's paralyzed,' laughed Mrs. Merriman, and leaning over the youth's chair she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little hand. "'Yes. I'll sing for you,' he said, turning in his chair towards Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing. "'Ah, si tu servais.' "'Stop!' She cried, "'Don't sing that. I don't want you to sing it.' And she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to spin spilled over Aruba's legs, and some of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp's black-gauze gown. Victor had lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not in earnest, for he laughed and went on, "'Ah, si tu servais.' "'Ce que tes yeux me dissont.' "'Oh, you mustn't, you mustn't!' exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her chair she got up and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that was on his lips. "'No, no, I won't, Mrs. Ponteville. I didn't know you meant it.' Looking up at her with caressing eyes the touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it across the room. "'Come, Victor, you've posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.' Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss Mablant and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it was time to say good night, and Mr. and Mrs. Merrimant wondered how it could be so late. Before parting from Victor Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Arobin were growing his way. Arobin was not. Arobin had been stolen away. A profound stillness had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna's disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night. End of CHAPTERS XXVI THROUGH THIRTY. Well, questioned Arobin, who'd remained with Edna after the others had departed. Well, she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms and feeling the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. What next? He asked. The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I've just seen them. I've just seen them. I've just seen them. I've just seen them. They left when the musicians did. I've just missed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning to straighten things up. He looked around and began to turn out some of the lights. What about upstairs? He inquired. I think it's all right, but there may be a window or two unlatched. We'd better look. You might take a candle and see, but he looked up with the light, and Edna began closing the doors and windows. She hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Erobein found her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on. When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through the front door, Erobein locking it and taking the key which he carried for Edna. He helped her down the steps. Will you have a spray of jessamine? He asked, breaking off a few blossoms as he passed. She seemed disheartened and had nothing to say. She took his arm which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one on their short walk. The pigeon-house stood behind a locked gate and a shallow parterre that had been somewhat neglected. A small front porch upon which a long window in the front door opened. The door opened directly into the parlor. There was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants in which old Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and home-like. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting covered with a rug or two, and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobine had sent them and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. Are you tired? he asked. Yes, and chilled and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch, too tight, and something inside of me had snapped. She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. You want to rest, he said, and to be quiet. I'll go. I'll leave you and let you rest. Yes, she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with a soft magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. I hope you will feel happier in the morning, he said. You've tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw. You might have dispensed with it. Yes, she admitted. It was stupid. No, it was delightful, but it has worn you out. His hands strayed to her beautiful shoulders and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her shoulder. I thought you were going away, she said, in an uneven voice. I am, after I've said good night. Good night, she murmured. He did not answer except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle seductive entreaties. CHAPTER 32 When Mr. Pontelier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home to take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse and he begged her to consider, first, foremost, and above all else what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning. That was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name he was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noise about that the Ponteliers had met with reverses and were forced to conduct their menage on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and firmness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions, the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home changes which he had long contemplated and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures, everything movable in short to places of security and in an incredibly short time this was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition, a small snuggery. There was to be frescoing and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily papers, appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous alterations and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances. Edna admired the skill of his manoeuvre and avoided any occasion to bulk his intentions. When the situation is set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted and taken for granted she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. The pigeon-house pleased her. Edna once assumed the intimate character of a home while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the social scale with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look with her own eyes to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content to feed upon opinion when her own soul had invited her. After a little while, a few days in fact, Edna went up and spent a week with her children in Eberville. Delicious February days with all the summer's promise hovering in the air. How glad she was to see the children. She wept for very pleasure when she felt their little arms clasping her, their hard, ready cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to tell their mother about the pigs, the cows, the mules, about riding to the mill behind Goo-Goo, fishing back in the lake with little jasper, picking pecans with Liddy's little black brood and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street. She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the darkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees and catch fish in the back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of herself and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They listened breathless while she told them the house in Esplanade Street was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling the place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed was, what had been done with the rocking-horse, where did Joe sleep and where had Ellen gone and the cook. But above all, they were fired with the desire to see the little house around the block. Was there any place to play? Were there any boys next door? Well, with pessimistic foreboding was convinced that there were only girls next door. Where would they sleep and where would Papa sleep? She told them the fairies would fix it all right. The old madam was charmed with Edna's visit and showered all manner of delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the Esplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her promise and a pretext to keep the children indefinitely. It was with a wrench and a pang for the children. She carried away with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks. All along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her like the memory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city the song no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone. 33 It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Ries that the little musician was absent giving a lesson or making some small household purchase. The key was always left in a secret hiding place in the entry which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to be away Edna would usually enter and wait for her return. When she knocked at Mademoiselle Ries's door one afternoon there was no response so unlocking the door as usual she entered and found the apartment deserted as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled up and it was for a rest, for a refuge and to talk about Robert that she had worked at a canvas, a young Italian character study, all the morning completing the work without the model but there had been many interruptions some incident to her modest housekeeping and others of a social nature. Mademoiselle Ries had dragged herself over avoiding the two public thoroughfares she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her much of late. Besides she was consumed with curiosity to see the little house and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear all about the dinner party. Monsieur Ratignoll had left so early. What had happened after he left? The champagne and grapes which Edna sent over were too delicious. She had so little appetite they'd refreshed and toned her stomach. Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in that little house and the boys? And then she made Edna promise to go with her when her hour of trial overtook her. At any time, any time of the night or day, dear, Edna assured her. Before leaving, Madame Ratignoll said, In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without a certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That's the reason I want to say you mustn't mind if I advise you to be a little careful while you're living here alone. Why don't you have someone come and stay with you? Wouldn't Mademoiselle Ries come? No, she wouldn't wish to come and I shouldn't want her always with me. Well, the reason, you know how evil-minded the world is. Someone was talking of Elsie Ereben visiting you. Of course it wouldn't matter if Mr. Ereben had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignoll was telling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a woman's name. Does he boast of his successes? asked Edna indifferently, squinting at her picture. No, I think not. I believe he's a decent fellow as far as that goes. But his character is so well known among the men. I shan't be able to come back and see you. It was very, very imprudent to-day. Mind the step, cried Edna. Don't neglect me, entreated Madame Ratignoll, and don't mind what I said about Ereben or having someone stay with you. Of course not, Edna laughed. You may say anything you like to me. They kissed each other goodbye. Madame Ratignoll had not far to go and Edna stood on the porch while watching her walk down the street. Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp made their party call. Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the formality. They had also come to invite her to play Van Aon one evening at Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early to dinner and Mr. Merriman or Mr. Ereben would take her home. Edna accepted in a half-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman. In the afternoon she sought refuge with mademoiselle Ries and stayed there alone waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose and veiled her with the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room. Edna sat at the window which looked out over the housetops and across the river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers and she sat and picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm and the breeze which blew from the river she went on picking the leaves and digging around the plants with her hatpin. Once she thought she heard mademoiselle Ries approaching but it was a young black girl who came in bringing a bundle of laundry which she deposited in the adjoining room and went away. Edna seated herself at the piano and softly picked out with one hand the bars of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half hour went by. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in the lower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking out the area when there was a second wrap at the door. She vaguely wondered what these people did when they found mademoiselle's door locked. Come in! she called turning her face towards the door and this time it was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise. She could not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered her at the sight of him so she fell back upon the stool only exclaiming, Why Robert? what he was saying or doing? Mrs. Pontellier how do you happen to oh how well you look is mademoiselle's not here I never expected to see you. When did you come back? asked Edna in an unsteady voice wiping her face with a handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool and he begged her to take the chair by the window. She did so mechanically while he seated himself on the stool. I returned the day before yesterday he answered while he leaned his arm on the keys in the crash of discordant sound. Day before yesterday she repeated aloud and went on thinking to herself day before yesterday in a sort of an uncomprehending way. She had pictured him seeking her out at the very first hour and he had lived under the same sky since the day before yesterday while only by accident he'd stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she said poor fool he loves you. Day before yesterday she repeated breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle's geranium then if you had not met me here today you wouldn't... when? That is, didn't you mean to come and see me? Of course I should have gone to see you there have been so many things he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle's music nervously. I started in at once yesterday with the old firm after all there's as much chance for me here as there was there that is I might find it profitable someday the Mexicans were not very congenial so he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial because business was as profitable here as there because of any reason and not because he cared to be near her she remembered the day she sat on the floor turning the pages of his letter seeking the reason which was left untold she had not noticed how he looked only feeling his presence but she turned deliberately and observed him after all he had been absent but a few months and was not changed his hair, the colour of hers waved back from his temples in the same way as before his skin was not more burned than it had been at Grand Isle she found in his eyes when he looked at her for one silent moment the same tender caress with an added warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and awakened them a hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return and imagined their first meeting it was usually at her home whether he had sought her out at once she always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his love for her and here the reality was that they sat ten feet apart she at the window crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them he, twirling around on the piano stool saying, I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence it's a wonder Mademoiselle Vise did not tell me and you're moving mother told me yesterday I should think you would have gone to New York with him to deal with the children rather than be bothered here with housekeeping and you're going abroad too, I hear we shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer it won't seem do you see much of Mademoiselle Vise she often spoke of you in the few letters she wrote do you remember that you promised to write me when you went away a flush overspread his whole face I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you that's an excuse it isn't the truth Edna reached for her hat on the piano she adjusted it sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Vise asked Robert no, I found when she's absent this long she's not liable to come back too late she drew on her gloves and Robert picked up his hat won't you wait for her asked Edna not if you think she will not be back too late adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you Edna locked the door and put the key back in a tidying place they went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with a cheap display of small tradesmen part of the distance they rode in the car and after disembarking passed the Pontellier mansion which looked broken and half torn asunder Robert had never known the house and looked at it with interest I never knew you in your home he remarked I'm glad you did not she did not answer they went on around the corner and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all when he followed her into the little house you must stay and dine with me Robert you see I'm all alone and it's so long since I've seen you there's so much I want to ask you she took off her hat and gloves he stood irresolute making some excuse about his mother who expected him he even muttered something about an engagement she struck a match and lit the lamp on the table it was growing dusk when he saw her face in the lamp light looking pained with all the soft lines gone out of it he threw his hat aside and seated himself oh you know I want to stay if you will let me he exclaimed all the softness came back she laughed and went and put her hand on his shoulder this is the first moment you've seen like the old Robert I'll go tell Celestine she hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra place she even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she'd not thought of for herself and she recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn when she re-entered Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder he picked up a photograph and exclaimed Alci Arabin what on earth is his picture doing here I tried to make a sketch of his head one day answered Edna and he thought the photograph might help me I was at the other house, I thought it had been left there I must have been packed up with my drawing materials I should think you would give it back to him if you finished with it oh I had a great many such photographs I never think of returning them they don't amount to anything Robert kept on looking at the picture it seems to me do you think is Ed worth drawing is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's you never said you knew him he isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's he's a friend of mine that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well but I'd rather talk about you and know what you've been seeing and doing and feeling out there in Mexico Robert threw aside the picture I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle the quiet grassy street of the chenille the old fort at Grand Terre I've been working like a machine and feeling like a lost soul it was nothing interesting she leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light and what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days? he asked I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle the quiet grassy street of the chenille the old sunny fort at Grand Terre I've been working with a little more comprehension than a machine and still feeling like a lost soul there was nothing interesting Mrs. Pontellier you are cruel he said with feeling closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair they remained in silence till old Celestine announced dinner 34 the dining room was very small Edna's round mahogany table would have almost filled it as it was there was but a step or two from the little table to the kitchen to the mantel, the small buffet and the side door that opened out on the narrow brick paved yard a certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of dinner there was no return to personalities sojourn in Mexico and Edna talked of events likely to interest him which had occurred during his absence the dinner was of ordinary quality except for the few delicacies which she'd sent out to purchase old Celestine, with a bandana Tignan, twisted about her head hobbled in and out taking a personal interest in everything and she lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert whom she'd known as a boy he went out to a neighbouring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black coffee in the parlour perhaps I shouldn't have come back he said, when you're tired of me tell me to go he never tired me you must have forgotten the hours and hours at Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being together I forgot nothing at Grand Isle he said, not looking at her but rolling a cigarette his tobacco pouch which he laid upon the table was a fantastic embroidered silk affair evidently the handiwork of a woman he used to carry her tobacco in a rubber pouch said Edna, picking up the pouch and examining the needlework yes, it was lost where did you buy this one in Mexico? it was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl they're very generous, he replied striking a match and lighting a cigarette they are very handsome I suppose those Mexican women, very picturesque with their black eyes and their lace scarves some are, others are hideous just as you find women everywhere what was she like, the one who gave you the pouch you must have known her very well she was very ordinary she wasn't of the slightest importance I knew her well enough did you visit at her house? was it interesting, I should like to know and hear about the people you met and the impressions they made on you there are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an orb upon the water was she such a one? it would be ungenerous for me what she was of that order and kind he thrust the pouch back in his pocket as if to put away the subject with the trifle the head brought it up Arabin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman to say that the card party was postponed on account of the illness of one of her children how do you do, Arabin said Robert, rising from obscurity oh, Lebrun, to be sure I heard yesterday you were back how'd they treat you down in Mexico? fairly well but not well enough to keep you there stunning girls though in Mexico I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was down there a couple of years ago did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat bands and things for you? asked Edna oh my no, I didn't get so deep in their regard I fear they made more impression on me than I made on them you were less fortunate than Robert then I'm always less fortunate than Robert has he been imparting tender confidences I've been imposing myself long enough said Robert, rising and shaking hands with Edna please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier when you write and he shook hands with Arabin and went away fine fellow that Lebrun said Arabin when Robert had gone I never heard you speak of him I knew him last summer at Grand Isle she replied here's that photograph of yours, don't you want it? what do I want with it throw it away she threw it back on the table I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's if you see her tell her so but perhaps I'd better write I think I shall write now and say that I'm sorry her child is sick and tell her not to count on me it would be a good scheme I don't blame you stupid lot Edna opened the blotter and having procured paper and pen began to write the note Arabin lit a cigar and read the evening paper which he had in his pocket what is the date? she asked will you mail this for me when you go out? certainly he read to her little bits out of the newspaper while she straightened things on the table what do you want to do? he asked throwing aside the paper do you want to go for a walk or a drive or anything it would be a fine night for a drive no I don't want to do anything but just to be quiet you go away and amuse yourself don't stay I'll go away if I must but I shan't amuse myself you know that I only live when I'm near you good night is that one of the things you always say to women? I've said it before but I don't think I ever came so near meaning it he answered with a smile there were no warm lights in her eyes only a dreamy, absent look good night I adore you, sleep well he said and he kissed her hand and went away she stayed alone in a kind of reverie a sort of stupor step by step she lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after he entered Mademoiselle Visa's door she recalled his words, his looks how few and meager they had been for her hungry heart a vision, a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before her she writhed with a jealous pang she wondered when he would come back he had not said he would come back she had been with him, had heard his voice and touched his hand but some way he'd seem nearer to her off there in Mexico 35 the morning was full of sunlight and hope Edna could see before her no denial only the promise of excessive joy she lay in bed awake with bright eyes full of speculation he loves you, poor fool she could butt get that conviction fixed firmly in her mind what mattered about the rest she felt she'd been childish and unwise the night before and giving herself over to despondency she recapitulated the motives which no doubt explained Robert's reserve they were not insurmountable they would not hold if he really loved her they could not hold against her own passion which he must come to realize in time she pictured him going to his business that morning she even saw how he was dressed how he walked down one street and turned the corner of another saw him bending over his desk talking to people who entered the office going to lunch and perhaps watching for her on the street he would come to her in the afternoon or evening sit and roll his cigarette talk a little and go away as he had done the night before but how delicious it would be to have him there with her she would have no regrets nor seek to penetrate his reserve if he still chose to wear it Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed the maid brought her a delicious printed scroll from Raoul expressing his love asking her to send him some bonbons and telling her that they had found that morning ten tiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Liddy's big white pig a letter also came from her husband saying he hoped to be back in early March and then they would get ready for that journey abroad which he'd promised her so long which he now felt fully able to afford he felt able to travel as people should without any thought of small economies thanks to his recent speculations in Wall Street much to her surprise she received a note from Erebin written at midnight from the club it was to say good morning to her to hope she had slept well to assure her of his devotion which he trusted she in some faintest manner returned all these letters were pleasing to her she answered the children in a cheerful frame of mind promising them bonbons and congratulating them upon their happy find of the little pigs she answered her husband with friendly evasiveness not with any fixed design to mislead him only because all sense of reality had gone out of her life she had abandoned herself to fate and awaited the consequences with indifference to Erebin's note she made no reply she put it under Celestine's stove lid Edna worked several hours with much spirit she saw no one but a picture dealer who asked her if it were true that she were going abroad to study in Paris she said possibly she might and he negotiated with her for some Parisian studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in December Robert did not come that day she was keenly disappointed he did not come the following day nor the next each morning she woke with hope and each night she was a prey to despondency she was tempted to seek him out but far from yielding to the impulse she avoided any occasion which might throw her in his way she did not go to Mademoiselle Rises nor pass by Madame Lebrun's as she might have done if he'd still been in Mexico when Erebin one night urged her to drive with him she went out to the lake on the Shell Road his horses were full of metal and even a little unmanageable she liked the rapid gait at which they spun along and the quick sharp sound of the horses' hooves on the hard road they did not stop anywhere to eat or drink Erebin was not needlessly imprudent but they ate and they drank when they regained Edna's little dining room which was comparatively early in the evening it was late when he left her it was getting to be more than a passing whim with Erebin to see her and be with her he had detected the latent sensuality which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature's requirements like a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom there was no despondency when she fell asleep that night nor was there hope when she awoke in the morning End of chapters 31 through 35