 CHAPTER 16 Do you miss your friend greatly?" asked Mademoiselle Rise one morning as she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on the way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water, since she had finally acquired the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Diehl drew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to a diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she knew. When Mademoiselle Rise came and touched her upon the shoulder and spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever in Edna's mind, or better, the feeling which constantly possessed her. What's going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way changed, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems to be no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere, in others whom she induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun's room, braving the clatter of the old sewing machine. She sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed round the room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, and discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined with the keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment concerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its pages. There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in her lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone in the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts at the age of five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers, while another interested her, taken when he left for college, looking thin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition, and great intentions. But there is no recent picture—none which suggested the Robert who had gone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him. Oh! Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for them himself. He found wiser use for his money, he says," explained Madame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New Orleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to look for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on the mantelpiece. The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and attraction for Edna—the envelope, its size and shape, the postmark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening it. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to all. There was no special message to Edna, except a post script, saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the book which she had been reading to her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his mother, rather than to her. Everyone seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's departure, expressed regret that he had gone. "'How do you get on without him, Edna?' he asked. "'It's very dull without him,' she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where had they met? On Carrandallet Street in the morning. They had gone in and had a drink and cigar together. What had they talked about? Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought for promising. How did he look? How did he seem, grave or gay or how? Quite cheerful, and totally taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune and adventure in a strange queer country. Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadruan for not being more attentive. It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making of Robert the object of conversation, and leading her husband to speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harbour thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them, and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratagnale that she would never sacrifice herself for her children or for any one. Edna had followed a rather heated argument. The two women did not appear to understand one another, or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain, I would give up the unessential, I would give my money, I would give my life for my children, but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear. It's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me. I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the unessential, said Madame Ratagnale cheerfully, but a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than that. Your Bible tells you so. I am sure I couldn't do more than that. Oh, yes you could," laughed Edna. She was not surprised if Mademoiselle rises questioned the morning that lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder, and asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend. Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle! Is it you? Why, of course, I miss Robert. Are you going down to Bave? Why should I go down to Bave at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the Sir Falls summer?" replied the woman, disagreeably. I beg your pardon," offered Edna in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that Mademoiselle rises avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates and a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality. They contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible, and no one, save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun, could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. She must feel very lonely without her son," said Edna, desiring to change the subject. Her favourite son, too, it must have been quite hard to let him go. Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. Her favourite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is all very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favourite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I like to see him and to hear him about the place, the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! Hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago. I thought he had great patience with his brother. Offered Edna. Glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. Oh! He thrashed him well enough a year or two ago, said Mademoiselle. It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket—I don't remember what—and became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while. It's about time he was getting another. Was her name Mariaquita? asked Edna. Mariaquita! Yes, that was it. Mariaquita! I had forgotten. Oh! She's a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariaquita! Edna looked down at Mademoiselle's eyes, and wondered how she could have listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water, but she donned her bathing suit and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle's eyes would not wait for her. Not Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote her a dress with a stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in her pocket. When do you leave? asked Edna. Next Monday—and you? The following week—answered Edna, adding, It has been a pleasant summer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle? Well—agreed Mademoiselle rise with a shrug—rather pleasant, if it hadn't been for the mosquitos and the farruful twins. 17. The Pontellier's possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. It was a large double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was painted a dazzling white. The outside shutters, or jalousie, were green. And the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in south Louisiana. Within doors the appointments were perfect, after the conventional type. The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors. Rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table, were the envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier. Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house, examining its various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace curtain, no matter what, after he had bought it and placed it among his household gods. On Tuesday afternoon, Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's reception day, there was a constant stream of callers. Women who came in carriages or in the street-cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance permitted. A light-colored mulatto-boy, in dress-coat and bearing a diminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A maid in white fluted cap offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their wives. This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed since her marriage six years before. Certain evenings during the week she and her husband attended the opera, or sometimes a play. Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten o'clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the evening, dinner being served at half-past seven. He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few weeks after their return from Grand Dieu. They were alone together. The boys were being put to bed. The patter of their bare escaping feet could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the quadrone, lifted in mild protest and in treaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not wear her usual Tuesday reception gown. She was in ordinary house-dress. Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he served the soup, and handed it to the boy in waiting. "'Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many collars,' he asked. He tasted his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar, mustard, everything within reach. "'There were a good many,' replied Edna, who was eating her soup with evident satisfaction. I found their cards when I got home. I was out.' "'Out?' exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation in his voice, as he laid down the vinegar-cruet and looked at her through his glasses. Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What did you have to do?' "'Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.' "'Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,' said her husband, somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup. "'No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.' "'Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people don't do such things. We've got to observe les convenances, if we ever expect to get on, and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable explanation for your absence.' "'This soup is really impossible. It's strange that woman hasn't learned yet to make a decent soup. Any free lunch stand in town serves a better one. Was Mrs. Belthorpe here?' "'Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don't remember who was here.' The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver tray, which was covered with ladies' visiting cards. He handed it to Mrs. Pontellier. "'Give it to Mr. Pontellier,' she said. Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup. Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers, reading some of them aloud, with comments as he read. "'The Mrs. de Lisidus. I worked a big deal in futures for their father this morning. Nice girls! It's time they were getting married. Mrs. Belthorpe. I tell you what it is, Edna, you can't afford to snub Mrs. Belthorpe. Why, Belthorpe could buy and sell us ten times over. His business is worth a good round sum to me. You'd better write her a note." "'Mrs. James Highcamp—' Huh! The less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the better. Madame La Force came all the way from Carrollton to poor old soul. Miss Wiggs, Mrs. Eleanor Bolton's,' he pushed the cards aside. "'Mercy,' exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming, "'why are you taking the things so seriously, and making such a fuss over it? I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's just such seeming trifles that we've got to take seriously. Such things count.'" The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were served. "'It seems to me,' he said, "'we spend money enough in this house to procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his self-respect. You used to think the cook was a treasure,' returned Edna indifferently. Perhaps she was when she first came, but cooks are only human. They need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ. Suppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office—just let them run things their own way. They'd soon make a nice mess of me and my business. "'Where are you going?' asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from the table without having eaten a morsel, except a taste of the highly seasoned soup. "'I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.'" He went into the hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house. She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after all, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name. But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced deliberation. Her face was flushed, and her eyes flamed with some inward fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was indisposed. It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window, and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and torturous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself, and finding herself, in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness, and the sky above and the stars. They jeered, and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding-ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot-heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little glittering circlet. In a sweeping passion she seized a glass face from the table, and flung it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear. A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to discover what was the matter. A vase fell upon the hearth, said Edna. Never mind. Leave it till morning. Oh! You might get some of the glass in your feet, ma'am!" insisted the young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered upon the carpet. And here's your ring, ma'am, under the chair. Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger. 18 The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some new fixtures for the library. I hardly think we need new fixtures, layoffs. Don't let us get anything new. You are too extravagant. I don't believe you ever think of saving or putting by. The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it," he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him and select new fixtures. He kissed her good-bye, and told her she was not looking well, and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale, and very quiet. She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew on a trellis nearby. She inhaled the odor of the blossoms, and thrust them into the bosom of her white morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small express wagon, which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The quadrune was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a fictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit-vendor was crying his wares in the street. Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit-vendor, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic. She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook concerning her blunders of the previous night, but Mr. Pontellier had saved her that disagreeable mission for which she was so poorly fitted. Mr. Pontellier's arguments were usually convincing with those whom he employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sit down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner deserving of the name. Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She could see their shortcomings and defects which were glaring in her eyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humour. Suddenly she gathered together a few of the sketches, those which she considered the least discreditable, and she carried them with her when a little later she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and distinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her face, and her forehead with smooth, white, and polished beneath her heavy yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a small dark mole near the upper lip, and one on the temple, half hidden in her hair. As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realising the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or peculiar way his personality, it was his being, his existence which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled her with an incomprehensible longing. Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's. Their intimacy, begun at Grand Diele, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some frequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no great distance from Edna's home, on the corner of a side street, where Monsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug-store, which enjoyed a steady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before him, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community, and bore an enviable reputation for integrity and clear-headedness. His family lived in commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side within the porte-cauchere. There was something which Edna thought very French, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large and pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the Ratignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soiree musicale, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend who played upon the cello. One brought his flute, and another his violin, while there was some who sang, and a number who performed upon the piano, with various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles' soiree musicale were widely known, and it was considered a privilege to be invited to them. Edna found her friend engaged in sorting the clothes which had returned that morning from the laundry. She had once abandoned her occupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into her presence. See take and do it as well as I! It is really her business," she explained to Edna, who apologised for interrupting her, and she summoned a young black woman, whom she instructed in French to be very careful in checking off the list which she handed her. She told her to notice particularly if a fine linen handkerchief Monsieur Ratignolles, which was missing last week, had been returned, and to be sure to set to one side such pieces as required mending and darning. Then placing an arm around Edna's waist, she led her to the front of the house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odour of great roses that stood upon the hearth and jars. Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in an eglige which left her arms almost wholly bare, and exposed the rich melting curves of her white throat. "'Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,' said Edna with a smile when they were seated. She produced the role of sketches and started to unfold them. "'I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I wanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you think it worth while to take it up again and study some more? I might study for a while with laid-poor.' She knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion in such a matter would be next to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined, but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help her to put heart into her venture. "'Your talent is immense, dear!' "'Nonsense,' protested Edna, well-pleased. "'Immense, I tell you,' persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the sketches one by one at close range, then holding them at arm's length, narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. Surely this Bavarian peasant is worthy of framing, and this basket of apples! Never have I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reach out a hand and take one.' Edna could not control the feeling which bordered upon complacency at her friend's praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value, and proudly exhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a little later for his midday dinner. Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who were called the salt of the earth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his goodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife spoke English with an accent which was only discernible through its un-English emphasis, and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna's husband spoke English with no accent, whatever. The Ratignolles understood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings into one had been accomplished on this sphere, it was surely in their union. As Edna seated herself at a table with them, she thought, better a dinner of herbs. Though it did not take her long to discover that it was no dinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every way satisfying. Mr. Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her looking not so well as at Grand Diehl, and he advised a tonic. He talked a good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news, and neighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that gave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife was keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the better to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth. Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her gave her no regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by a kind of commiseration from Madame Ratignolle, a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium. Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by life's delirium. It had crossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression. 19. Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to have stamped upon her wedding-ring and smashed the crystal vase upon the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile expedience. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not return the visits of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectual efforts to conduct her household en bombe ménagère, going and coming as it suited her fancy, and so far she was able, lending herself to any passing caprice. Mr. Pontillier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a certain tacit submissiveness in his wife, but her new and unexpected line of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontillier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to take another step backward. It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household and the mother of children to spend in an atelier days which would be better employed contriving for the comfort of her family. I feel like painting," answered Edna. Perhaps I shan't always feel like it. Then in God's name paint, but don't let the family go to the devil. There is Madame Ratagnolle, because she keeps up her music, she doesn't let everything else go to chaos, and she's more of a musician than you are a painter. She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter. It isn't on account of painting that I let things go. On account of what, then? Oh, I don't know. Let me alone, you bother me." It sometimes entered Mr. Pontillier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself, and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world. Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office. Anna went up to her atelier, a bright room in the top of the house. She was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation soon lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the housemaid took charge of the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But the housemaid too served her term as model, when Edna perceived that the young woman's back and shoulders were moulded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While Edna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, ah, si tu savais. It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold upon the brushes, and making her eyes burn. There were days when she was very happy, without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the colour, the odours, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashion to dream in, and she found it good to dream, and to be alone and unmolested. There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, when it did not seem worthwhile to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead, when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium, and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses, and warm her blood. 20. It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Manwazel Rise. She had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by their last interview, but she nevertheless felt a desire to see her, above all to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist. Suddenly she had mislaid or lost Manwazel Rise's cart, and looking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell into her hands was a year more old, however, and upon reaching the number indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes, who had Shombra Garni to let. They had been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a Manwazel Rise. In fact, they knew nothing of any of their neighbours. Their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction, they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions with Madame Poupon, but hastened to a neighbouring grocery store, feeling sure that Manwazel would have left her address with the proprietor. He knew Manwazel Rise a good deal better than he wanted to know her, he informed his questioner. In truth he did not want to know her at all, or anything concerning her—the most disagreeable and unpopular woman who had ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had left the neighbourhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know where she had gone. Edna's desire to see Manwazel Rise had increased tenfold since these unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering who could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurred to her that Madame Le Brun would be the one most likely to do so. She knew it was useless to ask Madame Ratagnolle, who was on the most distant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing concerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing herself upon the subject as the corner grosser. Edna knew that Madame Le Brun had returned to the city, for it was the middle of November, and she also knew where the Le Bruns lived, on Sharpe Street. Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before the door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old regime, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side was a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the street was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and stood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted. It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her hands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them, Edna could hear them in altercation. The woman, plainly an anomaly, claiming the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to answer the bell. Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made no attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier desired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty, when she had not been permitted to do all, and started back to her interrupted task of weeding the garden, whereupon Victor administered a rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which owing to its rapidity and incoherence was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was, the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went mumbling into the house. Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side porch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She seated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp, and she began to rock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew up his chair beside her. He had once explained that the black woman's offensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not there to take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the morning before, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter at the island. He lived there, and kept the place in order, and got things ready for the summer visitors. But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, and every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the city. My! But he had had a time of it the evening before. He wouldn't want his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillant with recollections. Of course he couldn't think of telling Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending such things. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through the shutters as he passed by. Oh! But she was a beauty. Certainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not know him if she supposed he was one to let an opportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the youngster amused her. She must have betrayed in her look some degree of interest or entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself in a little while listening to a highly-coloured story but for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun. That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the summer. Her eyes beamed in effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier go inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier, and how were those sweet children? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November? Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother's chair, where he commanded a view of Edna's face. He had taken her parasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and now he lifted it and twirled it above him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that it was so dull coming back to the city, that she saw so few people now, that even Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, had so much to occupy him and engage his time, then it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and winked mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severe and disapproving. There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they told her. Victor said it was really not worthwhile to go inside for the letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when put to the test. One letter was written from Vera Cruz, and the other from the city of Mexico. He had met Montell, who was doing everything toward his advancement. So far the financial situation was no improvement over the one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly better. He wrote of the city of Mexico, the buildings, the people and their habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent his love to the family. He enclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she would affectionately remember him to all his friends. That was about the substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a message for her, she would have received it. The despondent frame of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake her, and she remembered that she had wished to find Mademoiselle Rise. Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Rise lived. She gave Edna the address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Rise some other day. The afternoon was already well advanced. Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should have been dignified and reserved. How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked, said Madame Lebrun to her son. Ravishing, he admitted, the city atmosphere has improved her. Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman. CHAPTER XXI. Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Rise 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 little gasoline stove, on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use. When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Rise's front room door, and entered, she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or patching an old pronelligator. The little musician laughed all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head. "'So you remembered me at last,' said Mademoiselle. "'I had said to myself, ah, bah, she will never come.' "'Did you want me to come?' asked Edna with a smile. "'I had not thought much about it,' answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "'I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is Labelle Dom? Always handsome, always healthy, always contented?' She took Edna's hand in her strong, wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "'Yes,' she went on. "'I sometimes thought. She will never come. She promised, as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come. "'For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier.' "'I don't know whether I like you or not,' replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candour of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle's rise. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove, and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's, and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "'I have had a letter from your friend,' she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "'My friend?' "'Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the city of Mexico.' "'Rote to you?' repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "'Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee. Drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you, it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.' "'Let me see it,' requested the young woman entreatingly.' "'No. A letter concerned 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 show-pans, 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 is growing late. What time do you have to be home?' "'Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the impromptu.' "'But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?' "'Painting,' laughed Edna. "'I am becoming an artist. Think of it.' "'Aha! 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 Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee-cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settle into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft, opening minor chords of the Chopin impromptu. Edna did not know when the impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner, reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love-notes of his old 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 Diehl when strange new voices awoke in her. She rose in some agitation to take her to Parcher. May I come again, Mademoiselle? She asked at the threshold. Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful! The stairs and landings are dark. Don't stumble. Mademoiselle 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. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII. One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, 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 centre 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 perfusion 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 fibre, 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. Madam Pontellier, not well! marveled the doctor. Why, I saw her—I think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street. The picture of health, it seemed, to me. Yes, yes, she seems quite well, said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands. But she doesn't act well. She's odd. She's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me. How does she act? inquired the doctor. Well, it isn't easy to explain, said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. She lets the housekeeping go to the Dickens. Well, well, women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider. I know that. I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife. Yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me. He went on nervously. She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women. And—you understand—we meet in the morning at the breakfast table. The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. What have you been doing to her, Pontellier? Doing? Parble. As she— asked the doctor with a smile—as she'd been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women, super-spiritual superior beings—my wife has been telling me about them. That's the trouble—broke in Mr. Pontellier. She hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar—I don't like it. I feel a little worried over it. This was a new aspect for the doctor. Nothing hereditary—he asked seriously—nothing peculiar about her family antecedence is there. Oh, no, indeed. She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman—her father, I have heard—used to atone for his weak day's 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 for seeing 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. Pontelier, fuming anew at the recollection. Pontelier—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. Pontelier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies, the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will happily pass over—especially if you let her alone. Send her round to see me. Oh! I couldn't do that. There'd be no reason for it—objected Mr. Pontelier. Then I'll go round to see her—said the doctor. I'll drop into dinner some evening on Bonamie. Do—by all means—urged Mr. Pontelier. 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. Pontelier turned before leaving to say, I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. I'll let you in on the inside, if you say so, doctor. He laughed. No, I thank you, my dear sir. Return to 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. Pontelier with his hand on the knob. I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along? By all means, if she wishes to. 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. À je d'y. Said Mr. Pontelier as he let himself out. The doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, Is there any man in the case? But he knew his crail 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. 23. Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance. It seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions. He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontelier had selected the bridal gift, as everyone immediately concerned 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 an estimable 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. At 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 germs of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed towards 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, loathe to disturb the fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Ries to meet him, having promised him a treat in her piano playing, but Mademoiselle declined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale at the Ratagnolles. Monsieur and Madame Ratagnolle 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 any day which he might select. Madame coquettet him in the most captivating and naïve manner, with eyes, gestures, and a perfusion of compliments, till the Colonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of coquettery. 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 the soiree musicale. He considered them bourgeois, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame Ratagnolle 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 he would be more—well, if you don't mind my saying it—more united if he did. Oh dear no! said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. What should I do if he stayed home? We shouldn'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, administering 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 lecompte stables flourished, and he drew upon this fund of memory so that he might not be left out, and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon the colonel, and was even far from impressing him with this trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on this 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 Alcee Araban, had joined them and had enlivened the hours in a fashion that warmed him to think of. Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning towards 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 and company with some friendly darky, thrashed the pecan trees, shot the grovec, and roamed the woods and fields in mischievous idleness. The kernel, with little sense of humour and of the fitness of things, related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days in which he had acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new, and curious story of the waning of a woman's love, seeking strange new channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce unrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been unfolded to him, during his long career as a physician. The story did not seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of a woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a parogue, 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 from 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 parogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds' wings, rising 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 Edna's memory that night. Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the night was chill and murky. The doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his fellow-creatures better than most men, knew that inner life which so seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes, he was sorry he had accepted Pontelier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest in an imperturbed spirit, he did not want the secrets of other lives thrust upon him. I hope it isn't Araban," he muttered to himself as he walked. I hope to heaven it isn't al-say Araban. 24. Edna and her father had a warm and almost violent dispute upon the subject of her refusal to attend her sister's wedding. Mr. Pontelier 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, for want of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His arguments were laboured and unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would accept any excuse, forgetting that Edna had offered none. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure Margaret would not. Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off, with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders, his Bible reading, his toddies and ponderous oaths. Mr. Pontelier 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 Edna's incomprehensible action. You are too lenient. Too lenient by far, Léonce," asserted the Colonel. Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good and hard—the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it." The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into her grave. Mr. Pontelier had a vague suspicion of it, which he thought it needless to mention at that late day. Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband's leaving home, as she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration, and his repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratagnolle 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 Pontelier had come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadrune. The old Madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected during Lyons'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 a space. She wished them to know the country, with its streams, its fields, 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 side 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 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 begged her to take all thought and responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders. That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the 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 à point. The wine tasted good, the marron-glacé seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a comfortable penoir. She thought a little sentimentally about layants and the children, and wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable advances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick snappy barks and a lively agitation. Then Edna sat in the library after dinner, and read Emerson until she grew sleepy. She 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. As she snuggled comfortably beneath the iderdown, a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had not known before. XXV. When the weather was dark and cloudy, Edna could not work. She needed the sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, when in the humour, with sureness and ease, and being devoid of ambition and striving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work in itself. On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors, and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was not to spare. But it seemed to her as if her 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. I'll say Araban and Mrs. Highcamp called for her one bright afternoon in Araban'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. Else Araban 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 track men out there who knew the race-horse as well as Edna, but there certainly was none who knew it better. She sat between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed at Araban's pretensions and applauded Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. The race-horse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the bluegrass paddock revived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that she was talking like her father has the sleek geldings 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, hoping thereby to secure the elusive but ever-desired tip. Araban 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. Araban also remained and sent away his drag. The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of Araban 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 non-committal. 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 drop-light, 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 Araban who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was late when they reached Esplanade Street. Araban 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 vagantly hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth, and munched a cracker. She wanted something to happen—something—anything! She did not know what. She regretted that she had not made Araban stay a half hour to talk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But there is nothing else to do. So she went to bed, and tossed there for hours in a sort of monotonous agitation. In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to write her regular letter to her husband, and she decided to do so next day, and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide awake composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote next day. When the maid awoke her in the morning, Edna was streaming of Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music-store on Canal Street, while his wife was saying to Alsay Araban, as they boarded an Esplanade Street car, What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! But I must go! When, a few days later, Alsay Araban called again for Edna and 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. Araban appeared nonplussed, 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 Ratanyol, but knew that her fair friend did not leave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with her husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reyes 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 Araban. 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 Araban. His manner invited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging woman was concerned. He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. They laughed and talked, and before it was time to go he was telling her how different life might have been if he had known her years before. With an ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber-cut which he had received in a duel outside of Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was come what spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails and the flesh of his palm. She arose hastily and walked toward the mantle. The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me, she said. I shouldn't have looked at it. I beg your pardon, he entreated following her. It never occurred to me that it might be repulsive. He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said his lingering good-night. Will you go to the races again? he asked. No, she said. I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all the money I've won, and I've got to work when the weather is bright instead of— Yes, work, to be sure. You promise 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? That he bent and pressed his lips upon her hand, as if he wished never more to withdraw them. Mr. Araban, she complained, I'm greatly upset by the excitement of the afternoon. I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in some way. I wish you to go, please." She spoke in a monotonous dull tone. He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive silence. Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier. He said finally. My own emotions have done that. I couldn't help it. When I'm near you, how could I help it? Don't think anything of it. Don't bother, please. You see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. If you let me come back, I—oh, you will let me come back." He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. We'll say Aroban'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 she 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. I'll say Aroban 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 part five. Part six of The Awakening. I'll say Aroban wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. It embarrassed her. For in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her, absurd that she should have taken his action so seriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she replied to it in a serious spirit, it would still leave in his mind the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed. She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination, and his business gave him the opportunity. He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his disarming 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 Rise. It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. It was misty, with heavy lowering atmosphere one afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little, and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavouring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. Ah! here comes the sunlight! exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. Now it will be warm and bright enough. I can let the fire alone. She closed the stove-door with a bang, and, approaching, assisted in removing Edna's dripping macintosh. You are cold! You look miserable! The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold. A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat. A stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side. I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa, she said, Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street. Ah! ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Everything 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 customed place. Aren't you astonished? Passively. Where are you going? To New York? To Iberville? To your father's in Mississippi? Where? Just two steps away," laughed Edna. In a little four-room house round the corner, it looked so cosy, so inviting and restful whenever I passed by, and its for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway, like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I'm tired bothering with them. That is not your true reason, Mabel. 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? They are your husbands," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug in the malicious elevation of the eyebrows. Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you, it is a caprice. I have a little money of my own for my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets I want a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Led Porre 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 Led Porre. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says that she will come and stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence. What does your husband say? I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so. Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. Your reason is not yet clear to me," she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself, but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Edna 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 seat 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 effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. Oh! she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. Why did you not tell me? She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. Oh! Unkind! Malicious! Why did you not tell me? That he was coming back. No great news, ma foie. I wonder he did not come long ago. But when? When? Edna cried impatiently. He does not say when. He says, very soon, you know as much about it as I do, it is all in the letter. But why? Why is he coming? Oh! If I thought! And she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason which was left untold. If I were young, and in love with a man, said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, it seems to me he would have to be some grand esprit, a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them, one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow men. It seems to me, if I were young and in love, I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion. Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle, or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why? went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face. Do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself, Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities, I shall proceed to fall in love with him. Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue, or this financier who controls the world's money markets. You are purposely misunderstanding me, Marene. Are you in love with Robert? Yes, said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and to glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. Why? asked her companion. Why do you love him, when you want not to? Edna, with emotion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle rise, who took the glowing face between her two hands. Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples, because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing. Because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because—because you do, in short, laughed Mademoiselle. What will you do when he comes back? She asked. Do? Nothing. Except feel glad and happy to be alive. She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a convectioners and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message, and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu, and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant, and brimming with cheerfulness. 27. What is the matter with you? asked Aroband 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-profit has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon? Well, that ought to be reason enough, he acquiesced. You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low-tab beret, 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 am going to pull myself together for a while and think, try to determine what character of a woman I am. Or candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it. Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are? His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable, everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort. No, I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did. Do you know Mademoiselle Ries? She asked irrelevantly. The pianist—I know her by sight—I've heard her play. She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time, and you find yourself thinking about afterward. For instance— Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder-blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. Whither would you soar? I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half-comprehend her. I've heard she's partially demented," said Araban. She seems to me wonderfully sane. Edna replied, I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you? Oh, talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head. But let me think of something else while you do. I'm jealous of your thoughts 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 to look silently 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. 28 Edna cried a little that night after Araban left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach, making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. 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 fulfilment. Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Araban 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 was entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple, in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Araban 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 step ladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. "'Come down,' he said, "'do you want to kill yourself?' She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which confronted him. "'Please come down,' he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her. "'No,' she answered. "'Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the pigeon-house—that's the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon-house—and someone has to do this!' Araban 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 he found it impossible to control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it in 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 tabaret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet, when he came in again. "'Is there anything more you will let me do?' he asked. "'That is all,' she answered. "'Ellen can manage the rest.' She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with Arabam. "'What about the dinner?' he asked. "'The grand event, the coup d'état. It will be the day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the coup d'état? Oh, it will be very fine, all my best of everything—crystal, silver and gold, sev, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let Léon's pay the bills. I wonder what I'll say when he sees the bills. And you ask me why I call it a coup d'état?' Arabam 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 to-morrow, after the dinner, I shall sleep there.' "'Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?' asked Arabam. "'The dust and the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has partred 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?' asked Arabam, seeking to detain her, with the maid having left the room. "'At the dinner, of course, you are invited.' "'Not before. Not to-night, or to-morrow morning, or to-morrow noon or night, or the day after morning or noon. Can't you see yourself without my telling you what an eternity it is?' He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. "'Not an instant, sooner,' she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that had once gave him courage to wait, and made it torture to wait." 30 Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair, and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratagnolle was to the last to Greece souffrant and un-presentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cosy, comfortable number. There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties, her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alsayarabin, and Mademoiselle Reyes had consented to come. Ratagnolle had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratagnolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lourniette and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual, it was suspected of her that she wrote under a norm de guerre. She had come with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernay, 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, Arabin and Monsieur Ratagnolle, on either side of their hostess. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arabin and Victor Lebrun, then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernay, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reyes next to Monsieur Ratagnolle. There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an effect of splendour 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 and gold, as she had said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which the women wore. The ordinary stiff dining-chairs had been discarded for the occasion, and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected throughout the house. Man was El Reyes, being exceedingly diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. "'Something new, Edna?' exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with Lorne yet directed toward 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 Mayblunt—composed by my father in honour of Sister Janet's wedding. Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a garnished gem. Then all things considered, spoke Araban. It might not be amiss to start out by drinking the Colonel's health and the cocktail which he composed, on the birthday of the most charming of women—the daughter whom he invented. Mr. Merriman's laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst, and so contagious, that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never slackened. Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before her, just to look at. The colour was marvellous. She could compare it to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which had emitted were unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it. Monsieur Ratagnolle was prepared to take things seriously—the May, the Entremet, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked up from his pompano and inquired of Araban if he were related to the gentleman of that name, who formed one of the firm of Leitner and Araban, lawyers. The young man admitted that Leitner was a warm personal friend, who permitted Araban's name to decorate the firm's letter-heads, and to appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street. There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding, said Araban, 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 Ratagnolle stared a little, and turned to ask mademoiselle Reyes if she considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set the previous year. Mademoiselle Reyes answered Monsieur Ratagnolle in French, which Edna thought a little rude under the circumstances, but characteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians of New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interests seemed to be centered upon the delicacies placed before her. Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Araban's remark about inquisitive people reminded him of a man from Waco, the other day at the St. Charles Hotel. Not as Mr. Merriman's stories were always lame and lacking point, his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to ask if he remembered the name of the author, whose book she had bought the week before, to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking books with Mr. Gouverneur, and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused, and to think it extremely clever. Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm and impetuous volubility of her left-hand 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 mandolins, sufficiently removed to be in agreeable accompaniment, rather than an interruption to the conversation. Outside the soft monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard, the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through the open windows. The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the 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-backed chair, and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone. But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking her, the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something which announced itself, a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable. The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around the circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people together with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratagnolle was the first to break the pleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excused himself. Madame Ratagnolle 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. Then was ill rise a rose of Monsieur Ratagnolle, who offered to a squatter to the car. She had eaten well, she had tasted the good rich wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed pleasantly to wall as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and whispered, Bonne nuit, Marene, soyes-age! She had been a little bewildered upon rising, or rather descending from her cushions, and Monsieur Ratagnolle gallantly took her arm and led her away. Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she had finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor's black curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of champagne to the light. As if a magician's wand had touched him, the garland of roses transformed him into a vision of oriental beauty. His cheeks were the colour of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire. Sopristie! exclaimed Araban. But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took from the back of her chair a white, silken scarf, with which she had covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black conventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of champagne. Oh! to be able to paint in colour rather than in words! exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him. There was a graven image of desire painted with red blood on a ground of gold, murmured Guvernay, 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!—and treated Mrs. Highcamp. Won't you sing to us? Let him alone! said Araban. He's posing! offered Mr. Merriman. Let him have it out! I believe he's paralyzed! laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the youth's chair she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy handkerchief. Yes, I'll sing for you! he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing. Ah! See too survey! Stop! she cried. Don't sing that! I don't want you to sing it! And she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to shatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Araban's legs, 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 an earnest, for he laughed, and went on. Ah! See too survey! See could taste ye medis! Oh! You mustn't! You mustn't! exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her chair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips. No! No! I won't, Mrs. Pontellier! I didn't know you meant it! Looking up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it across the room. Come, Victor, you've posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf. Mrs. Highcamp underraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Goobernay suddenly conceived the notion that it was time to say good night, and Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it could be so late. Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Araban were going his way. Araban was not. The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna's disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night.