 Part I. CHAPTERS 1–5. A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over. Allez-vous-en! Allez-vous-en! Sapristi! That's all right." He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mockingbird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his flutie notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence. Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow bridges which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday, the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grandile. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before. Mr. Pontellier wore eyeglasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build. He stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called The House, to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from Zompa upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow-sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. After down before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the pension had gone over to the Chénière Caminada in Beaudelet's Lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there, sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadru nurse followed them about with a faraway meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water oaks and across the stretch of yellow chamomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. With its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. What folly! to bay that such an hour in such heat! exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. You are burnt beyond recognition. He added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers. Then, clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile. What is it? asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense, some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. Come go along, LeBron," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was, and talked to Mrs. Pontellier. Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head, descended the steps, and walked away. Coming back to dinner, his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know. Perhaps he would return for the early dinner, and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's, and the size of the game. He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-bye to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them, and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. 2 Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright. They were a yellowish-brown about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression, and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. He seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the summer day. Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly about the things around them, their amusing adventure out in the water. It had again assumed its entertaining aspect—about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the chanier, about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the farravel twins, who were now performing the overture to the poet and the peasant. Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French, and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. He was spending his summer vacation as he always did with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, the house had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the Cartier-Français, it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation, and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead. When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the early dinner. I see Leons isn't coming back, she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was not, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Clines. When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended the steps and strolled over toward the croquet-players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the little Pontellier children, who were very fond of him. 3. It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Clines Hotel. He was in an excellent humour, in high spirits, and very talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the day. From his trousers pocket he took a fistful of crumpled banknotes and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half utterances. He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of his existence, even so little interest in things which concerned him, and valued so little his conversation. Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick, and talk about a basket full of crabs. Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar, and went and sat near the open door to smoke it. Mr. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever's symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose unearth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places at once, making a living for his family on the street and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep. Ms. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her penoir. Blowing out the candle which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed, and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro. It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of water-roak, and the everlasting voice of the sea that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her penoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand. Her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness, and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar. It was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at fate which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rock away which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the island until the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat in pair the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Caron-Delay Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half the money which she had brought away from client's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet, she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one. Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed as he prepared to kiss her good-bye. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favourite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses were always on hand to say good-bye to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting as he disappeared in the old rock-away down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with free-and-dees, with luscious and toothsome bits, the finest of fruits, pâté, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons and abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box. She was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The pâté and fruit were brought to the dining-room, the bonbons were passed around, and the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. 4. It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction, or anyone else's, wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort. He would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots, as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother tots. The quadru nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up wastes and panties, and to brush and part hair, since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother woman. The mother women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended protecting wings, when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolised their children, worshipped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels. Many of them were delicious in the role. One of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adèle Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms. Her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent, the spun gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain, the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires, two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a might less full, or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle, or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger, as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers. She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out, a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body so effectually, that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like in Eskimos. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came down chimneys in insidious currents of deadly cold found their way through keyholes. Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating in making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's directions she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment. Burt was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle. That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich, whether it could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years. About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always talking about her condition. Her condition was in no way apparent, and no one would have known a thing about it but for her persistence in making it the subject of conversation. Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted upon nougats during the entire—but seeing the color mounted to Mrs. Pontellier's face, he checked himself and changed the subject. Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a creole, was not thoroughly at home in the society of creoles. Never before had she been thrown so intimately among them. There were only creoles that summer at Lebruns. They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly was their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the creole woman seems to be inborn and unmistakable. Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she had heard Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Faravall, the harrowing story of one of her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting color back from her cheeks. Even earlier than once her coming had interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group of married women. A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read it, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done so, to hide it from view with the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openly criticized and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished and concluded that wonders would never cease. 5. They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoon. Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a story or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands. Robert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, glances, or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie. He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought anything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Diehl had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it was a young girl, again a widow, but as often as not it was some interesting married woman. For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Manoiselle Dubignier's presence. But she died between summers. Then Robert posed as an inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased about safe. Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a faultless Madonna. Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior? murmured Robert. She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was, Robert, come, go, stand up, sit down, do this, do that, see if the baby sleeps, my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and read Dode to me while I sew. Par exemple, I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet like a troublesome cat. You mean like an adoring dog, and just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene, then it was like a dog. Passez, adieu, allez-vous-en? Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous. She interjoined with excessive naiveté. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of the left, the heart jealous of the soul. But for that matter the creole husband is never jealous. With him the gangrene passion is one which has become dwarfed by disuse. Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs. Pontellier, continued to tell of his one-time hopeless passion from Madame Ratignolle, of sleepless nights, of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge, while the lady at the needle kept up a little running contemptuous comment. Blagueur, fasseur, gros bête va! He never assumed this serial comic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. She never knew precisely what to make of it. At that moment it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love to Madame Ratignolle without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying. Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling. She felt in its satisfaction of a kind, which no other employment afforded her. She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that lady seemed a more tempting subject than at the moment, seated there like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching her splendid colour. Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. Pontellier that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with a certain ease and freedom, which came not from long and close acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed her work with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle. Mais ce n'est pas mal. Elle c'est conner. Elle a de la force, oui. During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against Mrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he repeated the offence. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his part, yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but firmly. He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects satisfying. Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch critically, she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface and crumpled the paper between her hands. The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadrune following at the respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like in the vain hope that they might be filled, and then away they went. The sun was low in the west, and the breeze, soft and languorous that came up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea. Children freshly befurbelowed were gathering for their games under the oaks. Their voices were high and penetrating. Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors and thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne, while Robert plied the fan with unnecessary vigor. The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the rose tint had never faded from her friend's face. She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse, and with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond and circling arms. Though, as everybody well know, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a pin. Are you going bathing? asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so much a question, as a reminder. Oh, no! she answered with a tone of indecision. I'm tired. I think not. Her glance wandered from his face away toward the gulf, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. Oh, come! he insisted. You mustn't miss your bath. Come on! The water must be delicious. It will not hurt you. Come! He reached up for her big rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door and put it on her head. They descended the steps and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west, and the breeze was soft and warm. End of Part 1 Part 2 of The Awakening This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Part 2 Chapter 6 to 10 Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the second place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory impulses which impelled her. A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her. The light which, showing the way, forbids it. At that early period, it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight. Perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouch safe to any woman. But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning? How many souls perish in its tumult? The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell and abysses of solitude, to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. 7. Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic hitherto contrary to her nature, even as a child she had lived her own small life all within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life, the outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions. That summer at Grand Diehl she began to loosen a little the mantle of reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been—there must have been—influences, both subtle and apparent, working in their several ways to induce her to do this, but the most obvious was the influence of Adèle Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of the creole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility to beauty. Then the candor of the woman's whole existence, which everyone might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve, this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love. The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm under the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratignolle to leave the children behind, though she could not induce her to relinquish a diminutive role of needlework, which Adèle begged to be allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some unaccountable way they had escaped from Robert. The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a long sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There were acres of yellow chamomile reaching out on either hand. Further away still, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of orange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened from afar in the sun. The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier's physique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long, clean, and symmetrical. It was a body which occasionally fell into splendid poses. There was no suggestion of the trims' stereotyped fashion plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in passing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more feeling and discernment, he would have recognized the noble beauty of its modelling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement which made Edna Pontellier different from the crowd. She wore a cool muslin that morning, white, with a waving vertical line of brown running through it, also a white linen collar and the big straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat rested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was heavy, and clung close to her head. Madame Ratagnolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze veil about her head. She wore dog-skin gloves, with gauntlets that protected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness of ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which she wore suited her rich luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of line could not have done. There are a number of bathhouses along the beach, of rough but solid construction, built with small protecting galleries facing the water. Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Le Bruns possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential paraphernalia of the bath, and whatever other conveniences the owners might desire. The two women had no intention of bathing. They had just strolled down to the beach for a walk, and to be alone and near the water. The Pontellier and Ratagnolle compartments adjoined one another under the same roof. This Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit. Unlocking the door of her bathroom, she went inside, and soon emerged bringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two huge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the front of the building. The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch side by side, with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended. Madame Ratagnolle removed her veil, wiped her face with rather a delicate handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried suspended somewhere about her person, by a long, narrow ribbon. Edna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan from Madame Ratagnolle and began to fan both herself and her companion. It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks about the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered the skirts of the two women, and kept them for a while engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hairpins and hatpins. A few persons were sporting some distance away in the water. The beach was very still of human sound at that hour. The lady in black was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighbouring bathhouse. Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts' yearnings beneath the children's tent, which they had found unoccupied. Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the blue sky went. There were a few white clouds suspended idly over the horizon. A Latine sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and others to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance. "'Of whom? Of what are you thinking?' asked Adelle of her companion, whose countenance she had been watching with a little amused attention, arrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized and fixed every feature into a statuesque repose. "'Nothing,' returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once, "'How stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to such a question. Let me see,' she went on, throwing back her head and narrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. "'Let me see. I was not really conscious of thinking of anything, but perhaps I can retrace my thoughts.' "'Oh, never mind,' laughed Madame Ratignoll, "'I am not quite so exacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think, especially to think about thinking.' "'But for the fun of it,' persisted Edna. "'First of all, the sight of the water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the blue sky, made a delicious picture that I wanted to sit and look at. The hot wind beating in my face made me think, without any connection that I can trace, of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as the ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I see the connection now.' "'Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?' "'I don't remember now. I was walking diagonally across a big field. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever without coming to the end of it. I don't remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I must have been entertained.' "'Likely as not, it was Sunday,' she laughed, and I was running away from prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by my father that chills me yet to think of.' "'And have you been running away from prayers ever since, my cher?' asked Madame Rataniole, amused. "'No! Oh no!' Edna hastened to say. I was a little unthinking child in those days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On the contrary, during one period of my life, religion took a firm hold upon me, after I was twelve, and until—until—why, I suppose until now, though I never thought much about it, just driven along by habit. "'But do you know?' she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Rataniole and leaning forward a little, so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion. Sometimes I feel this summer, as if I were walking through the green meadow again, idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.' Madame Rataniole laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly and warmly. She even stroked it a little fondly, with the other hand, murmuring in an undertone. Pauvre chérie. The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent herself readily to the Creole's gentle caress. She was not accustomed to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in others. She and her younger sister Janet had quarreled a good deal through force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister Margaret was matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly in-house-wifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having died when they were quite young. Margaret was not effusive. She was practical. Edna had had an occasional girlfriend, but whether accidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type, the self-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own character had much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional intellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate, and with her she talked and glowed over the English classics, and sometimes held religious and political controversies. Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly disturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her part. At a very early age, perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean of waving grass, she remembered that she had been passionately enamored of a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in Kentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor remove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon's, with a lock of black hair falling across the forehead, but the cavalry officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence. At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman who visited a lady on a neighbouring plantation. It was after they went to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the young lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of afternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her teens, and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing, nothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But he too went the way of dreams. She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness of it coloured it with the lofty tones of a great passion. The picture of the tragedian stood inframed upon her desk. Any one may possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or comment. This was a sinister reflection which she cherished. In the presence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts as she handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the likeness. Then alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold glass passionately. Her marriage to Léon Spontelier was purely an accident, in this respect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees of fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met him. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his suit with an earnestness and an ardour which left nothing to be desired. He pleased her. His absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her sister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontelier for her husband. The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with a tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who worshipped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm of romance and dreams. But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry officer and the engaged young man, and a few others, and Edna found herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby threatening its dissolution. She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would sometimes gather them passionately to her heart. She would sometimes forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with their grandmother Pontelier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them, except with an occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though she did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a responsibility which she had blindly assumed, and for which fate had not fitted her. Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer day when they sat with faces turned to the sea, but a good part of it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder. She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice, and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a first breath of freedom. There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by a troupe of children, searching for them. The two little Ponteliers were with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little girl in his arms. There were other children beside, and two nurse-mates followed, looking disagreeable and resigned. The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax their muscles. Mrs. Pontelier threw the cushions and rug into the bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging their vows and sighs. The lovers got up with only a silent protest, and walked slowly away somewhere else. The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontelier went over to join them. Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house. She complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked. 8. Can do me a favour, Robert?" Spoke the pretty woman at his side. Almost as soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way, she looked up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the umbrella which he had lifted. Granted, as many as you like, he returned, glancing down into her eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation. I only ask for one. Let Mrs. Pontelier alone. Tiens! he exclaimed, with a sudden boyish laugh. Voilà, que Madame Ratignolle j'alluse! Nonsense! I'm in earnest. I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontelier alone. Why? he asked, himself growing serious at his companion's solicitation. She is not one of us. She is not like us. She might make the unfortunate blunder of taking you seriously. His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began to beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. Why shouldn't she take me seriously? He demanded sharply. Am I a comedian, a clown, a jack in the box? Why shouldn't she? You creoles, I have no patience with you. Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme? I hope Mrs. Pontelier does take me seriously. I hope she has discernment enough to find in me something besides the blogueur. If I thought there was any doubt. Oh, enough, Robert! She broken his heated outburst. You are not thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you. Madame Ratagnolle had spoken what she believed to be the law in the gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Oh, well, that isn't it! Slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head. You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a fellow. Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you—he went on unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly. Now, if I were like Araban, you remember Elsay Araban and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi? And he related the story of Elsay Araban and the consul's wife, and another about the tenor of the French opera, who received letters which had never been written, and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier in her possible propensity for taking young men seriously, was apparently forgotten. Madame Ratagnolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience, he called it rudeness, with which she had received her well-meant caution. You make one mistake, Adèle," he said with a light smile,—there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight, and given me subject for some reflection. Au revoir. But you look tired," he added solicitously,—would you like a cup of bullion? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostora." She acceded to the suggestion of bullion, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house, and he himself brought her the golden brown bullion in a dainty sev cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon garçon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away towards the house. The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier in the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner-hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which might be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket, and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room. It was of a ponderous bygone make. In the lulls Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. Where is Mrs. Pontellier? Down at the beach with her children. I promise to lend her the concours. Don't forget to take it down when you go. It's there on the bookshelf over the small table. Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang, for the next five or eight minutes. Where is Victor going with the rock away? The rock away? Victor? Yes, down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere. Call him. Clatter, clatter. Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. He won't look up. Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called, Victor? She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse-off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother, a tetmolde, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no axe could break. Whenever you say the word, I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold. Ah! If your father had only lived! Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not, M. Lebrun, been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. What do you hear from Montel? Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which M. Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! I have a letter somewhere. Plants are lying in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the work-basket. He says to tell you he'll be in Veracruz the beginning of next month. Clatter, clatter! And if you still have the intention of joining him— Bang! Clatter, clatter, bang! Why don't you tell me so before, Mother? You know I wanted. Clatter, clatter, clatter. Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute. Clatter, clatter. Where are you going? 9. Every light in the hall was ablaze. Every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Someone had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratagnolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday, and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say in exchange its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax, to widen the circle of confidences, and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor, looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the program, no appearance of pre-arrangement, or even pre-meditation. At an early hour in the evening the fervol twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the blessed virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from Zampa, and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to the poet and the peasant. Allez-vous-en, sapristille! shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Fereval, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected, and his decrees were as immutable as those of fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment. The whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up, and hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which everyone present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments, and at the same time watched her daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair artificially crimped stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of grace, and her little black shod toes twinkled as they shot out and upward, with a rapidity in suddenness which were bewildering. But there was no reason why everyone should not dance. Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music on account of the children, she said, because she and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home, and making it attractive. Almost everyone danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling around the room in the arms of the man, they might have danced together, but they did not think of it. The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively, others with shrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted to sit up till after the ice-cream which naturally marked the limit of human indulgence. The ice-cream was passed around with cake. Gold and silver cake arranged on platters in alternate slices. It had been made and frozen during the afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women under the supervision of Victor. It was pronounced a great success—excellent if it had contained only a little less vanilla or a little more sugar—if it had been frozen a degree harder and if the salt might have been kept out of portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about recommending it and urging every one to partake of it, to excess. After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with Robert, and once with Monsieur Retiniot, who was thin and tall and swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the gallery and seated herself on the low window sill, where she commanded a view of all that went on in the hall, and could look out toward the gulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up, and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, restless water. "'Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Rise play?' asked Robert, coming out on the porch where she was. Of course, Edna would like to hear Mademoiselle Rise play, but she feared it would be useless to entreat her. "'I'll ask her,' he said. "'I'll tell her that you want to hear her. She likes you. She will come.' He turned and hurried away to one of the far cottages, where Mademoiselle Rise was shuffling away. She was dragging a chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavouring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had quarreled with almost everyone, owing to a temper which was self-assertive, and a disposition to trample upon the rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty. She entered the room with him during a lull in the dance. She made an awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman, with a small, wizened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair. "'Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,' she requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one when they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus signalled out for the imperious little woman's favour. She would not dare to choose, and beg that man was el-rise would please herself in her selections. Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains, well rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratagnoll played or practised. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled Solitude. It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the piece was something else, but she called it Solitude. When she heard it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging its flight away from him. Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an empire gown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue between tall hedges. Again another reminded her of children at play, and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat. The very first chords which mademoiselle Ries struck upon the pianos and a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It was not the first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the first time she was ready. Perhaps the first time her being was tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth. She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing or of despair. But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her. Mademoiselle had finished. She rose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder. "'Well, how did you like my music?' she asked. The young woman was unable to answer. She pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle Ries perceived her agitation, and even her tears. She patted her again upon the shoulder, as she said. You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!' and she went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. But she was mistaken about those others. Her playing had aroused a fever of enthusiasm. What passion! What an artist! I have always said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Ries. That last prelude! Bondure! It shakes a man! It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and under that mystic moon. X At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice. There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did not lead the way, however, he directed the way, and he himself loitered behind with the lovers, who would be traded as position to linger and hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. The Pontelliers and Ratagnolles walked ahead, the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them, and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him the days when some protect served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining. The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed, some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Cline's Hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odours abroad, a tangle of the sea-smell and of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness, there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled back like slow white serpents. Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women, in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily, and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain, ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand nearby that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child who of a sudden realizes its powers and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with overconfidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end. How easy it is! she thought. It is nothing! she said aloud. Why did I not discover before that it was nothing? Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby. She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance—that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer—but to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, I thought I should have perished out there alone. You were not so very far, my dear. I was watching you," he told her. Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her. Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely, and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier, sometimes, not often. Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert. Did you think I was afraid? She asked him, without a shade of annoyance. No, I knew you weren't afraid. Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others? I never thought of it. Thought of what? Of anything. What difference does it make? I'm very tired," she uttered complainingly. I know you are. You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life. But it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions have swept through me to-night. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mind what I'm saying, I'm just thinking out loud. I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again as Mademoiselle Ries' playing moved me to-night. I wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night. There are, whispered Robert. Didn't you know this was the twenty-eighth of August? The twenty-eighth of August? Yes, on the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shining—the moon must be shining—a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the gulf. With its own penetrating vision, the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back disheartened into the sea. But tonight, he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her divine presence. Don't banter me, she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain. He could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for by her own admission she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirt's trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier? he asked. I'll stay out here. Good night. Shall I get you a pillow? There's one here, she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. It must be soiled, the children have been tumbling it about. No matter. And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes? asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock-rope which was fastened to the post. If you wish, don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house? Are you chilly? No, but I shall be presently. Presently? he laughed. Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here? I don't know. Will you get the shawl? Of course I will, he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back? I said, you might, if you wished to. He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence or more pregnant with the first felt throbbing of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. CHAPTER XI What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. Are you asleep? He asked, bending down close to look at her. No. Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows as they looked into his. Do you know what is past one o'clock? Come on! And he mounted the steps and went into their room. Edna! called Mr. Pontellier from within after a few moments had gone by. Don't wait for me, she answered. He thrust his head through the door. You will take cold out there, he said irritably. What folly is this? Why don't you come in? It isn't cold. I have my shawl. The mosquitoes will devour you. There are no mosquitoes. She heard him moving about the room, every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire, not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon? He asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. No. I am going to stay out here. This is more than folly, he blurted out. I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly. With arriving motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had. She remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. Lay on, scot a bed, she said. I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, I don't attend to. Don't speak to me like that again. I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply and a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine, and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars. Then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once again seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream—a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream—to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her. The exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. The stillest hour of the night had come—the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. Edna arose, crammed from lying so long and still in the hammock. She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the house. "'Are you coming in, Léonce?' she asked, turning her face toward her husband. "'Yes, dear,' he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. "'Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.'" XII. She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating, and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility. Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who intended to go over to the chenille for a mass were moving about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, velvet and gold clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Faravall was up, and was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her. The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebron's sewing-machine was sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert. Tell him I am going to the chenille. The boat is ready. Tell him to hurry. He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything extraordinary in the situation, but his face was suffused with a quiet glow when he met her. They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window, and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and ate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good. She had not thought of coffee, nor of anything. He told her he had often noticed that she lacked forethought. Wasn't it enough to think of going to the chenille and waking you up? She laughed. Do I have to think of everything? Has Leand says when he's in a bad humour? I don't blame him. He'd never be in a bad humour if it weren't for me. They took a shortcut across the sands. At a distance they could see the curious procession moving toward the wharf, the lovers, shoulder to shoulder, creeping, the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them, old Mr. Faravall, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm, bringing up the rear. Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one present understood what they said. Her name was Mariaquita. She had a round, sly, pecan face, and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes. Baudelaire grumbled because Mariaquita was there, taking up so much room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Mr. Faravall, who considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel with so old a man as Mr. Faravall, so he quarreled with Mariaquita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making eyes at Robert, and making mouths at Baudelaire. The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing. They heard nothing. The lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Mr. Faravall talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of what Baudelaire did not know on the same subject. Edna liked it all. She looked Mariaquita up and down, from her ugly brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. Why does she look at me like that? inquired the girl of Robert. Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her? No. Is she your sweetheart? She's a married lady, and has two children. Oh, well! Francisco ran away with Sylvan, whose wife, who had four children. They took all his money, and one of the children, and stole his boat. Shut up! Does she understand? Oh, hush! Are those two married over there, leaning on each other? Of course not! laughed Robert. Of course not! echoed Mariaquita, with a serious confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Mr. Faravall laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Baudelaire swore at the old man under his breath. Sailing across the bay to the chenille caminada, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening, had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift with her so ever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly. He no longer noticed Mariaquita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself suddenly. Let us go to Grand Tear to-morrow, said Robert in a low voice. What shall we do there? Climb up to the hill to the old fort, and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizard sun themselves. She gazed away towards Grand Tear, and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar, and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. As the next day or the next we can sail to the bayou Brulow, he went on. What shall we do there? Anything? Cast bait for fish. No. We'll go back to Grand Tear. Let the fish alone. We'll go wherever you like, he said. I'll have Tony come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need boat-lain or any one. Are you afraid of the parogue? Oh, no! Then I'll take you some night in the parogue when the moon shines. Maybe your gulf's spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are hidden, direct you to the very spot, perhaps. And in a day we should be rich, she laughed. I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly. We'd share it and scatter it together," he said. His face flushed. They all went together up to the quaint little gothic church of Our Lady of Lordus, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare. Only Baudelaire remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Maria Chita walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill-humour and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure, but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church, and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert's feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Faravall, flurry, curious, stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier he sank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the Lady in Black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon the pages of her velvet prayer-book. "'I felt giddy, and almost overcome,' Edna said, lifting her hands instinctively to her head, and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead. I couldn't have stayed through the service. They were outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude. It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone staying. Come over to Madame Antoine's. You can rest there.' He took her arm and let her away, looking anxiously and continuously down at her face. How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the reeds that grew in the salt-water pools. The long line of little grey, weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must always have been God's day on that low drowsy island, Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water. A youth, a mild face to Cadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to them in the tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her. Madame Antoine's cottage was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home, and to dispose of her comfortably. The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big four-posted bed, snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a disabled boat lying keel upward. Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tony had, but she supposed he would be back soon, and she invited Robert to be seated and wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace. Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck, and arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and stockings, and stretched herself in the very centre of the high white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange quaint bed, with its sweet country odour of laurel lingering about the sheets and mattress. She stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She looked at her round arms as she held them straight up, and rubbed them one after the other, observing closely as if it were something she saw for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep. She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine's heavy scraping tread as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tony talking under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on. Tony's slow, Akkadian drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the other drowsy muffled sounds lulling her senses. When Edna awoke, it was with the conviction that she had slept long and soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito-bar was drawn over her. The old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book. Tony was no longer with him. She wondered what would become of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. Madame Antoine had laid some coarse-clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box of poudreuse within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake, and her face glowed. When she had completed her toilet, she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking in orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, through it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her, and joined her under the orange tree. "'How many years have I slept?' she inquired. The whole island seemed changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tony die, and when did our people from Grand Diehl disappear from the earth?' He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "'You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers, and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up. If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it?' said Edna, moving with him into the house. "'But really, what has become of Mr. Faravall and the others?' "'Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Anyway, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?' "'I wonder if they aunts will be uneasy?' she speculated as she seated herself at table. "'Of course not. He knows you are with me,' Robert replied as he busied himself among sundry pans, and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "'Where, Madame Antoine and her son?' asked Edna. "'Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tony's boat whenever you are ready to go.' He stirred the smouldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had forged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food she had procured for her. "'Shall we go right away?' she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "'The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours,' he answered. "'The sun will be gone in two hours.' "'Well, let it go. Who cares?' They waited a good while under the orange trees till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tony did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground. That is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch—and what story, she told them. But twice in her life she had left the chanier caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men, and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tony's boat, with the red Latine sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships speeding to cover. 14. The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed, and had made a scene, whereupon she had taken charge of him, and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humour. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. Léonce had been very uneasy at first, madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the chénierre. But Monsieur Ferreval had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tony would bring her safely back later in the day, and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cottonbroker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort. Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep, Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito-bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadrune had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage, Robert bade Edna good night. Do you know we have been together the whole live-long day, Robert, since early this morning, she said at parting. All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good night. He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire, nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun, and a group whose animated voices reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Diele, and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been very different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself, her present self, was in some way different from the other self—that she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the live long day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to leave her. As Edna waited for her husband, she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with, ah, si tu savai, and every verse ended with, si tu savai. Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. 15. When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table between Old Monsieur Vareval and Madame Ratignolle. As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her all the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She had not seen him during the afternoon. She had heard someone say he was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in the afternoon when she went down to the beach. She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided. Edna's face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she never thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the protect of a smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. When is he going? She asked of everybody in general, as if Robert were not there to answer for himself. Tonight, this very evening, did you ever—what possesses him? Were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French and English. Impossible! she exclaimed. How can a person start off from Grand Deal to Mexico at a moment's notice, as if you were going over to Clines, or to the Wharf, or down to the beach? I said all along I was going to Mexico. I've been saying so for years," cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects. Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife-handle. Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going to-night, she called out. Really, this table is getting to be more and more like bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes, I hope God will forgive me, but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would lose the power of speech. Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, of which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself. Monsieur Ferreval thought that Victor should have been taken out in mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would be more logic and thus disposing of old people with an established claim for making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a trifle hysterical. Robert called his brothers from sharp, hard names. There is nothing much to explain, mother," he said, though he explained, nevertheless, looking chiefly at Edna, that he could only meet the gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such-and-such a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day, that Baudelaire was going after this lugger load of vegetables that night, which gave him an opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time. But when did you make up your mind to do all this? demanded Monsieur Ferreval. This afternoon, returned Robert with a shade of annoyance. At what time this afternoon? persisted the old gentleman with nagging determination as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a court of justice. At four o'clock this afternoon, Monsieur Ferreval, Robert replied, in a high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentleman on the stage. She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking the flaky bits of a court boolean with her fork. The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speak in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were interesting to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico with very special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been able to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. Father Focal of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it, but he had not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert would interest himself and discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to the indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads. Madame Ratagnoll hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were treacherous people, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no injustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally but one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she would have trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was arrested for stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not. Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote about a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in Dauphin Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Faravall, who went into convulsions over the droll's story. Edna wondered if they had all gone mad to be talking and clamouring at that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the Mexicans. At what time do you leave? she asked Robert. At ten, he told her, Baudelaire wants to wait for the moon. Are you all ready to go? Quite ready. I shall only take a handbag, and shall pack my trunk in the city. He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna, having finished her black coffee, left the table. She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy after leaving the outer air, but she did not mind. There appeared to be a hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began to set the toilet stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the quadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed. She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of chairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She changed her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She rearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then she went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed. They were very playful and inclined to talk, to do anything but lie quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper, and told her she did not return. Then she sat and told the children a story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their wakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating about the conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the following night. The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to have Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr. Robert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, that she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the house later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to remove her penoir, but changing her mind once more, she resumed the penoir, and went outside and sat down before her door. She was overheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while. Madame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter. All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me, replied Edna, and moreover I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way, as if it were a matter of life and death, never saying a word about it all morning when he was with me. Yes—agreed, Madame Ratignolle. I think it was showing us all—you especially—very little consideration. It wouldn't have surprised me in any of the others. Those lebras are all given to aroics. But I must say I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not coming down? Come on, dear. It doesn't look friendly. No—said Edna, a little sullenly—I can't go to the trouble of dressing again. I don't feel like it. You needn't dress. You look all right. Fasten a belt around your waist. Just look at me. No—persisted Edna. But you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended if we both stayed away. Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good night, and went away, being in truth rather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation which was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans. Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his handbag. Aren't you feeling well? he asked. Oh, well enough. Are you going right away? He lit a match and looked at his watch. In twenty minutes, he said. The sudden and brief flair of the match emphasized the darkness for a while. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the porch. Get a chair, said Edna. This will do, he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took it off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of the heat. Take the fan, said Edna, offering it to him. Oh no, thank you. It does no good. You have to stop fanning some time, and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward. That's one of the ridiculous things which men always say, I have never known one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone? Forever, perhaps. I don't know. It depends upon a good many things. Well, in case it shouldn't be forever, how long will it be? I don't know. This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don't like it. I don't understand your motive for silence and mystery, never saying a word to me about it this morning. He remained silent, not offering to defend himself. He said only, after a moment, Don't part from me in any ill-humour. I never knew you to be out of patience with me before. I don't want to part in any ill-humour, she said. But can't you understand? I've grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all the time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don't even offer an excuse for it. Well, I was planning to be together, thinking of how pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter. So was I, he blurted. Perhaps that's the— He stood up suddenly and held out his hand. Good-bye, my dear Mrs. Pontellier. Good-bye. You won't—I hope you won't completely forget me. She clung to his hand, striving to detain him. Right to me when you get there. Won't you, Robert? she entreated. I will. Thank you. Good-bye. How unlike Robert. The merest acquaintance would have said something more emphatic than, I will thank you, good-bye, to such a request. He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, for he descended the steps and went to join Baudelaix, who was out there with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked away in the darkness. She could only hear Baudelaix's voice. Robert had apparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion. Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to hide, even from herself if she would have hidden from another, the emotion which was troubling, tearing her. Her eyes were brimming with tears. For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation, which she had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and later as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the poignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability. The past was nothing to her, offered no lessen what she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant. Was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened, being demanded.