THE AWAKENING

AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES

by Kate Chopin

With an Introduction by Marilynne Robinson

Contents:

 The Awakening Beyond The Bayou Ma'ame Pelagie Desiree's Baby A Respectable Woman The Kiss A Pair Of Silk Stockings The Locket A Reflection

THE AWAKENING

I

A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, keptrepeating 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 nobodyunderstood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the otherside of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze withmaddening 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" whichconnected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seatedbefore the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird werethe property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all thenoise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting theirsociety when they ceased to be entertaining. 

He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth onefrom the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wickerrocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task ofreading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. TheSunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquaintedwith the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorialsand bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting NewOrleans the day before. 

Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium heightand rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown andstraight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. 

Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and lookedabout him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The mainbuilding was called "the house, " to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to ayard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equallyhigh voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She wasa fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Herstarched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, beforeone 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 tothe Cheniere Caminada in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some youngpeople were out under the wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier'stwo children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. Aquadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. 

Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paperdrag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade thatwas advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainlybetween the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch ofyellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blueof the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath itspink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young RobertLebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves withsome appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing eachother, each leaning against a supporting post. 

"What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why themorning seemed long to him. 

"You are burnt beyond recognition, " he added, looking at his wife as onelooks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered somedamage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed themcritically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking atthem reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husbandbefore leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped theminto her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then claspingher knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The ringssparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile. 

"What is it?" asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one tothe other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in thewater, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem halfso amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. Heyawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mindto go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. 

"Come go along, Lebrun, " he proposed to Robert. But Robert admittedquite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. 

"Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna, " instructedher husband as he prepared to leave. 

"Here, take the umbrella, " she exclaimed, holding it out to him. Heaccepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the stepsand walked away. 

"Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a momentand shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was aten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for theearly dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the companywhich he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game. " He did notsay this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. 

Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him startingout. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. 

II

Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowishbrown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning themswiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inwardmaze of contemplation or thought. 

Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick andalmost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was ratherhandsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certainfrankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Hermanner was engaging. 

Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he couldnot afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for hisafter-dinner smoke. 

This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he wasnot unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance morepronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow ofcare upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected thelight and languor of the summer day. 

Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porchand began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffsfrom his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things aroundthem; their amusing adventure out in the water-it had again assumed itsentertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had goneto the Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, andthe Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet andthe Peasant. "

Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did notknow any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for thesame reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke ofhis 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 inNew Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanishgave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. 

He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his motherat Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, "thehouse" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by itsdozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitorsfrom the "Quartier Francais, " it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain theeasy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. 

Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and hergirlhood home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was an Americanwoman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost indilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, andwanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the fatherwas like, and how long the mother had been dead. 

When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress forthe early dinner. 

"I see Leonce isn't coming back, " she said, with a glance in thedirection whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he wasnot, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein's. 

When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descendedthe steps and strolled over toward the croquet players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the littlePontellier children, who were very fond of him. 

III

It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned fromKlein's hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and verytalkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleepwhen he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling heranecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during theday. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled banknotes and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureauindiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever elsehappened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answeredhim with little half utterances. 

He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole objectof his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concernedhim, 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 adjoiningroom where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that theywere resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far fromsatisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One ofthem began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs. 

Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul hada high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went andsat near the open door to smoke it. 

Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone tobed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. 

He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of thechildren. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whoseon earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokeragebusiness. He could not be in two places at once; making a living forhis family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befellthem. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. 

Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She sooncame back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on thepillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when hequestioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and inhalf a minute he was fast asleep. 

Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry alittle, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing outthe candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her barefeet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went outon the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rockgently to and fro. 

It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faintlight gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no soundabroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, andthe everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that softhour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. 

The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve ofher peignoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the backof her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to theshoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming andwet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caringany longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have toldwhy she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommonin her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed muchagainst the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotionwhich had come to be tacit and self-understood. 

An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliarpart 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 thereinwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directedher footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having agood cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting herfirm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. 

The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood whichmight have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. 

The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take therockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He wasreturning to the city to his business, and they would not see him againat the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He waseager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in CarondeletStreet. 

Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought awayfrom Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as mostwomen, and, accepted it with no little satisfaction. 

"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!" sheexclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one. 

"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear, " he laughed, ashe prepared to kiss her good-by. 

The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring thatnumerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a greatfavorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand tosay goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. 

A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. Itwas from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with lusciousand toothsome bits--the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. 

Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such abox; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. Thepates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passedaround. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingersand a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the besthusband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knewof none better. 

IV

It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define tohis own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in herduty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather thanperceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret andample atonement. 

If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, hewas not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he wouldmore likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and thesand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulledtogether and stood their ground in childish battles with doubledfists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the othermother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair;since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted andbrushed. 

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The motherwomenseemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real orimaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolizedtheir children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holyprivilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings asministering angels. 

Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodimentof 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 AdeleRatignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones thathave served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and thefair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about hercharms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-goldhair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that werelike nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red onecould only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit inlooking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem todetract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One wouldnot have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful armsmore slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was ajoy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her goldthimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the littlenight-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. 

Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she tookher sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She wassitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewingupon a diminutive pair of night-drawers. 

She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cutout--a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body soeffectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherousdrafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold foundtheir way through key-holes. 

Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present materialneeds of her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating andmaking winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so shehad brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of thegallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's directions she had cut a patternof the impervious garment. 

Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaninglistlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which sheheld out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle. 

That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upona stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it couldpossibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years. Aboutevery two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, andwas beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always talking about her"condition. " Her "condition" was in no way apparent, and no one wouldhave known a thing about it but for her persistence in making it thesubject of conversation. 

Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady whohad subsisted upon nougat during the entire--but seeing the color mountinto Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself and changed the subject. 

Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughlyat home in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown sointimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun's. They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, amongwhom existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic whichdistinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forciblywas their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression wasat first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty inreconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems tobe inborn and unmistakable. 

Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard MadameRatignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of oneof her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was growingaccustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting colorback from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had interrupted thedroll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group ofmarried women. 

A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to readit, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read thebook in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done so, --tohide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openlycriticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave overbeing astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease. 

V

They formed a congenial group sitting there that summerafternoon--Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate astory 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 intimacyand camaraderie. 

He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thoughtanything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself toMrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which waseleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constitutedhimself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimesit was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was someinteresting married woman. 

For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of MademoiselleDuvigne's presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed asan inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignollefor whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased tovouchsafe. 

Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she mightlook upon a faultless Madonna. 

"Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?" murmuredRobert. "She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. Itwas 'Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if thebaby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come andread Daudet to me while I sew. '"

"Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet, like a troublesome cat. "

"You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appearedon the scene, then it WAS like a dog. 'Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!'"

"Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous, " she interjoined, withexcessive naivete. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous ofthe left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the Creolehusband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which hasbecome dwarfed by disuse. 

Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of hisone time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights, of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took hisdaily plunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running, contemptuous comment:

"Blagueur--farceur--gros bete, va!"

He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it wasimpossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportionwas earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of loveto Madame Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. Itwould have been unacceptable and annoying. 

Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimesdabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling. She feltin it satisfaction of a kind which no other employment afforded her. 

She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had thatlady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated therelike some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enrichingher splendid color. 

Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. Pontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes witha certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and closeacquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed herwork with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory expressionsof appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle. 

"Mais ce n'est pas mal! Elle s'y connait, elle a de la force, oui. "

During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head againstMrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again herepeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessnesson his part; yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did notremonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but firmly. Heoffered no apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance to MadameRatignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not looklike her. But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respectssatisfying. 

Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketchcritically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, andcrumpled the paper between her hands. 

The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at therespectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. Pontelliermade them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought todetain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatlyin earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbonbox. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, eachholding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that theymight be filled; and then away they went. 

The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous thatcame up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea. Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under theoaks. Their voices were high and penetrating. 

Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, andthread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. Shecomplained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water anda fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne, while Robertplied the fan with unnecessary vigor. 

The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering ifthere were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for therose tint had never faded from her friend's face. 

She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of gallerieswith the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed topossess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about herwhite skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousandendearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, aseverybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as apin!

"Are you going bathing?" asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not somuch a question as a reminder. 

"Oh, no, " she answered, with a tone of indecision. "I'm tired; I thinknot. " Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whosesonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. 

"Oh, come!" he insisted. "You mustn't miss your bath. Come on. The watermust be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come. "

He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outsidethe door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walkedaway together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and thebreeze was soft and warm. 

VI

Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach withRobert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the secondplace have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictoryimpulses which impelled her. 

A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her, --the lightwhich, showing the way, forbids it. 

At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her todreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome herthe midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears. 

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position inthe universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as anindividual to the world within and about her. This may seem like aponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman oftwenty-eight--perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleasedto vouchsafe to any woman. 

But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarilyvague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us everemerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!

The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses ofsolitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. 

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea issensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. 

VII

Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristichitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived herown small life all within herself. At a very early period she hadapprehended instinctively the dual life--that outward existence whichconforms, the inward life which questions. 

That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle ofreserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been--theremust have been--influences, both subtle and apparent, working in theirseveral ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was theinfluence of Adele Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of theCreole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibilityto beauty. Then the candor of the woman's whole existence, which everyone might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her ownhabitual reserve--this might have furnished a link. Who can tell whatmetals 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 Ratignolleto leave the children behind, though she could not induce her torelinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele begged to beallowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some unaccountable waythey had escaped from Robert. 

The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it didof a long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth thatbordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. Therewere acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further awaystill, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations oforange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistenedfrom afar in the sun. 

The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessingthe more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier'sphysique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long, clean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell intosplendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotypedfashion-plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, inpassing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with morefeeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of itsmodeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which madeEdna Pontellier different from the crowd. 

She wore a cool muslin that morning--white, with a waving vertical lineof brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big strawhat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat restedany way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was heavy, andclung close to her head. 

Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauzeveil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets thatprotected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffinessof ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things whichshe wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of linecould not have done. 

There were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solidconstruction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water. Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun'spossessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essentialparaphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the ownersmight desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had juststrolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near thewater. The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one anotherunder the same roof. 

Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit. Unlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged, bringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and twohuge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the frontof 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. MadameRatignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicatehandkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carriedsuspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon. Ednaremoved her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fanfrom Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her companion. It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarksabout the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, achoppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered theskirts of the two women and kept them for a while engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and hat-pins. A few personswere sporting some distance away in the water. The beach was very stillof human sound at that hour. The lady in black was reading her morningdevotions on the porch of a neighboring bathhouse. Two young lovers wereexchanging their hearts' yearnings beneath the children's tent, whichthey had found unoccupied. 

Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at restupon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as theblue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over thehorizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, andothers to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance. 

"Of whom--of what are you thinking?" asked Adele of her companion, whose countenance she had been watching with a little amused attention, arrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized andfixed every feature into a statuesque repose. 

"Nothing, " returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: "Howstupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively tosuch a question. Let me see, " she went on, throwing back her head andnarrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. "Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; butperhaps I can retrace my thoughts. "

"Oh! never mind!" laughed Madame Ratignolle. "I am not quite soexacting. 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 thewater stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the bluesky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. Thehot wind beating in my face made me think--without any connection that Ican trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big asthe ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which washigher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when shewalked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, Isee the connection now!"

"Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?"

"I don't remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big field. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch of greenbefore me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without coming tothe end of it. I don't remember whether I was frightened or pleased. Imust have been entertained. 

"Likely as not it was Sunday, " she laughed; "and I was running away fromprayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by myfather that chills me yet to think of. "

"And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma chere?"asked Madame Ratignolle, amused. 

"No! oh, no!" Edna hastened to say. "I was a little unthinking child inthose days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On thecontrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold uponme; after I was twelve and until-until--why, I suppose until now, thoughI never thought much about it--just driven along by habit. But do youknow, " she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle andleaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to thatof her companion, "sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walkingthrough the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking andunguided. "

Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which wasnear her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmlyand warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand, murmuring in an undertone, "Pauvre cherie. "

The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lentherself readily to the Creole's gentle caress. She was not accustomed toan outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or inothers. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good dealthrough force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, wasmatronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly andhousewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother havingdied when they were quite young, Margaret was not effusive; shewas practical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whetheraccidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type--theself-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own characterhad much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friendat school had been one of rather exceptional intellectual gifts, whowrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate;and with her she talked and glowed over the English classics, andsometimes held religious and political controversies. 

Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardlydisturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on herpart. At a very early age--perhaps it was when she traversed the oceanof waving grass--she remembered that she had been passionately enamoredof a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father inKentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor removeher eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon's, with alock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry officermelted imperceptibly out of her existence. 

At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentlemanwho visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they wentto Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to theyoung lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over ofafternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into herteens; 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 supposedto be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of agreat tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. Thepersistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. Thehopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion. 

The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any onemay possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion orcomment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished. ) In thepresence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, asshe handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of thelikeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the coldglass passionately. 

Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in thisrespect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decreesof Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she methim. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed hissuit with an earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired. He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied therewas a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy shewas mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and hersister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek nofurther for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier forher husband. 

The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man whoworshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignityin the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon therealm of romance and dreams. 

But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalryofficer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna foundherself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passionor excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, therebythreatening its dissolution. 

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She wouldsometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimesforget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer withtheir grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regardingtheir happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with anoccasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, thoughshe did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of aresponsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had notfitted her. 

Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summerday when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of itescaped 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 andthe unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like afirst breath of freedom. 

There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded bya troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers werewith him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little girl in his arms. There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, lookingdisagreeable and resigned. 

The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relaxtheir muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into thebath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stoodthere in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchangingtheir vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, andwalked slowly away somewhere else. 

The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier wentover to join them. 

Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; shecomplained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaneddraggingly upon his arm as they walked. 

VIII

"Do me a favor, Robert, " spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost assoon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She lookedup in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of theumbrella which he had lifted. 

"Granted; as many as you like, " he returned, glancing down into her eyesthat were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation. 

"I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone. "

"Tiens!" he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. "Voila que MadameRatignolle est jalouse!"

"Nonsense! I'm in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellieralone. "

"Why?" he asked; himself growing serious at his companion'ssolicitation. 

"She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make theunfortunate blunder of taking you seriously. "

His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he beganto beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. "Why shouldn't shetake me seriously?" he demanded sharply. "Am I a comedian, a clown, ajack-in-the-box? Why shouldn't she? You Creoles! I have no patience withyou! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme? Ihope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she has discernmentenough to find in me something besides the blagueur. If I thought therewas any doubt--"

"Oh, enough, Robert!" she broke into his heated outburst. "You arenot thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as littlereflection as we might expect from one of those children down thereplaying in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here wereever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not bethe gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associatewith the wives and daughters of the people who trust you. "

Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and thegospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

"Oh! well! That isn't it, " slamming his hat down vehemently upon hishead. "You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to afellow. "

"Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? Mafoi!"

"It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you--" he went on, unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: "Now if I were like Arobin-you remember AlceeArobin and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?" And he relatedthe story of Alcee Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about thetenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should neverhave been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriouslywas apparently forgotten. 

Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to takethe hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robertbegged her pardon for the impatience--he called it rudeness--with whichhe had received her well-meant caution. 

"You made one mistake, Adele, " he said, with a light smile; "there isno earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. Youshould have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice mightthen have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. Au revoir. But you look tired, " he added, solicitously. "Would you likea cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy witha drop of Angostura. "

She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful andacceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apartfrom the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himselfbrought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with aflaky cracker or two on the saucer. 

She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her opendoor, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bongarcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "thehouse. "

The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They wereleaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the sea. There wasnot a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have beenturned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. Thelady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and morejaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They woulddoubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended tohis mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up ofodd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows lookedout 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 blackgirl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of themachine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoidedof imperiling her health. 

Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of thedormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energeticallyto read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turnedthe leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room;it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his motherexchanged bits of desultory conversation. 

"Where is Mrs. Pontellier?"

"Down at the beach with the children. "

"I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down whenyou go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table. " Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. 

"Where is Victor going with the rockaway?"

"The rockaway? Victor?"

"Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive awaysomewhere. "

"Call him. " Clatter, clatter!

Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heardback at the wharf. 

"He won't look up. "

Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved ahandkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into thevehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. 

Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victorwas the younger son and brother--a tete montee, with a temper whichinvited violence and a will which no ax could break. 

"Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason intohim that he's able to hold. "

"If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of theuniverse and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly ofa more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removedto other spheres during the early years of their married life. 

"What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whosevain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fillthe void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrunhousehold. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!

"I have a letter somewhere, " looking in the machine drawer and findingthe letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he willbe in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month, "--clatter, clatter!--"andif you still have the intention of joining him"--bang! clatter, clatter, bang!

"Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted--" Clatter, clatter, clatter!

"Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She willbe in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheontill the last minute. " Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?"

"Where did you say the Goncourt was?"

IX

Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as itcould be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lampswere fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with thesefashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branchesstood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which drapedthe windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capriciouswill of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. 

It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation heldbetween Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. Anunusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stayover Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all beenremoved to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows andin clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchangedits domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparentdisposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a moregeneral tone to the conversation. 

Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usualbedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floorlooking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellierhad brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to doso, and making their authority felt. 

Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainmentsfurnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic aboutthe programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. 

At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon toplay the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin'scolors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virginat their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa, " and at the earnestsolicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "ThePoet and the Peasant. "

"Allez vous-en! Sapristi!" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He wasthe only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that hewas not listening to these gracious performances for the first time thatsummer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignantover the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed andconsigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and hisdecrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunatelyoffered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venomof his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against thetwins in that one impetuous outburst. 

Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every onepresent had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in thecity. 

A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched herdaughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need havehad no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She hadbeen properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silktights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificiallycrimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poseswere full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they shotout and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering. 

But there was no reason why every one should not dance. MadameRatignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for theothers. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusingan expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She waskeeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because sheand her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home andmaking it attractive. 

Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced toseparate during the brief period when one or the other should bewhirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have dancedtogether, but they did not think of it. 

The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others withshrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permittedto sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit ofhuman indulgence. 

The ice-cream was passed around with cake--gold and silver cake arrangedon platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during theafternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervisionof Victor. It was pronounced a great success--excellent if it had onlycontained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had beenfrozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out ofportions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went aboutrecommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess. 

After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once withRobert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall andswayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on thegallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded aview 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 itsmystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, restlesswater. 

"Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?" asked Robert, comingout on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hearMademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreather. 

"I'll ask her, " he said. "I'll tell her that you want to hear her. Shelikes you. She will come. " He turned and hurried away to one of the farcottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragginga chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the cryingof a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavoring to putto sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, whohad quarreled with almost every one, owing to a temper which wasself-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty. 

She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made anawkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman, with a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She hadabsolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace witha bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair. 

"Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play, " she requestedof Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching thekeys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A generalair of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one as they sawthe pianist enter. There was a settling down, and a prevailing airof expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thussignaled out for the imperious little woman's favor. She would not dareto choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz would please herself inher 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 sometimesliked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle playedor practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled"Solitude. " It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of thepiece was something else, but she called it "Solitude. " When she heardit there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing besidea desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was oneof hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging itsflight away from him. 

Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empiregown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenuebetween tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play, and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat. 

The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the pianosent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It was notthe first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was thefirst time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was temperedto take an impress of the abiding truth. 

She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather andblaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no picturesof solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passionsthemselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as thewaves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her. 

Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away, stopping for neither, thanks nor applause. As she passedalong the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder. 

"Well, how did you like my music?" she asked. The young woman wasunable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. Shepatted her again upon the shoulder as she said:

"You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!" and shewent shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. 

But she was mistaken about "those others. " Her playing had aroused afever of enthusiasm. "What passion!" "What an artist!" "I have alwayssaid no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!" "That lastprelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!"

It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. Butsome one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hourand 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 didnot lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loiteredbehind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger andhold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious ormischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. 

The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon thearms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them, and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not jointhem. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away fromher for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and thenext, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed himthe days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as onemisses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sunwhen it was shining. 

The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked andlaughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein'shotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odors abroad--a tangle of the sea smell and ofweeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of afield of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly uponthe sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were noshadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like themystery and the softness of sleep. 

Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. Thesea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted intoone another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamycrests that coiled back like slow, white serpents. 

Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had receivedinstructions from both the men and women; in some instances from thechildren. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and hewas nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility ofhis efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in thewater, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassureher. 

But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutchingchild, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first timealone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted herbody to the surface of the water. 

A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significantimport had been given her to control the working of her body and hersoul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. Shewanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. 

Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, andadmiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachingshad accomplished this desired end. 

"How easy it is!" she thought. "It is nothing, " she said aloud; "why didI not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lostsplashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in theirsports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, sheswam out alone. 

She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space andsolitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with themoonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to bereaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. 

Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she hadleft there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what wouldhave been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to herunaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspectof 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 timeappalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied herstaggering 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 outthere 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 clothesand was ready to return home before the others had left the water. Shestarted 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 totheir 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 thatEdna'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 beforeshe was overtaken by Robert. 

"Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him, without a shade ofannoyance. 

"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 soexhausted in my life. But it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions haveswept through me to-night. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mindwhat I'm saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall everbe stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz's playing moved me to-night. Iwonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It islike 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 thetwenty-eighth of August?"

"The twenty-eighth of August?"

"Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and ifthe moon is shining--the moon must be shining--a spirit that has hauntedthese shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetratingvision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold himcompany, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of thesemi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and hehas sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walkin the shadow of her divine presence. "

"Don't banter me, " she said, wounded at what appeared to be hisflippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicatenote of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could nottell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He saidnothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, shewas exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as thoughher thoughts were elsewhere--somewhere in advance of her body, and shewas striving to overtake them. 

Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post beforeher 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 theshadow. 

"It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about. "

"No matter. " And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneathher head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath ofrelief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was notmuch given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was withno cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent reposewhich seemed to invade her whole body. 

"Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seatinghimself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of thehammock rope which was fastened to the post. 

"If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl whichI 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 yougoing 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, walkingalong the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips ofmoonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. 

When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. Shedid 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 insilence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of wordscould have been more significant than those moments of silence, or morepregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. 

When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert saidgood-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Againshe watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as hewalked away. 

XI

"What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed, "said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked upwith 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, asthey looked into his. 

"Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on, " and he mounted the stepsand went into their room. 

"Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had goneby. 

"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 impatienceand irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. Shewould, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense ofsubmission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, aswe walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the lifewhich has been portioned out to us. 

"Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this timefondly, 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 stayout there all night. You must come in the house instantly. "

With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. Shecould not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. Shewondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and ifshe had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered thatshe had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. 

"Leonce, go to bed, " she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish togo in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shallnot 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 supplyin a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on thegallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drewup the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceededto smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drankanother glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glasswhen it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself withelevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some morecigars. 

Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, adelicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realitiespressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtakeher; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left herhelpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. 

The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when theworld seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned fromsilver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, andthe water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. 

Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. Shetottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing intothe house. 

"Are you coming in, Leonce?" she asked, turning her face toward herhusband. 

"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, leavingonly an impression upon her half-awakened senses of somethingunattainable. 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 externalor from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed hersoul 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 Cheniere for mass, were movingabout. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, werealready strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sundayprayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, wasfollowing them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, andwas more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. Heput on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in thehall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her. 

The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine wassweeping 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 Cheniere. The boat is ready; tell him tohurry. "

He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had neverasked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did notappear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commandinghis presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anythingextraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quietglow when he met her. 

They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was notime to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the windowand the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank andate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good. 

She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had oftennoticed that she lacked forethought. 

"Wasn't it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you up?"she laughed. "Do I have to think of everything?--as Leonce says whenhe's in a bad humor. I don't blame him; he'd never be in a bad humor ifit weren't for me. "

They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could seethe curious procession moving toward the wharf--the lovers, shoulder toshoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; oldMonsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefootedSpanish 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 onepresent understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had around, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet werebroad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at herfeet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes. 

Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who consideredhimself the better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel withso old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. Thegirl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucythe next, moving her head up and down, making "eyes" at Robert andmaking "mouths" at Beaudelet. 

The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. Thelady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old MonsieurFarival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and ofwhat Beaudelet did not know on the same subject. 

Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her uglybrown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. 

"Why does she look at me like that?" inquired the girl of Robert. 

"Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?"

"No. Is she your sweetheart?"

"She's a married lady, and has two children. "

"Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who had fourchildren. They took all his money and one of the children and stole hisboat. "

"Shut up!"

"Does she understand?"

"Oh, hush!"

"Are those two married over there--leaning on each other?"

"Of course not, " laughed Robert. 

"Of course not, " echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob ofthe head. 

The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemedto 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 throughthe water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowingthem. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as helooked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under hisbreath. 

Sailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if shewere being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whosechains had been loosening--had snapped the night before when the mysticspirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she choseto set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticedMariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were coveredwith Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered toherself sullenly. 

"Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice. 

"What shall we do there?"

"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling goldsnakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves. "

She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to bealone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar andwatching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the oldfort. 

"And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow, " he wenton. 

"What shall we do there?"

"Anything--cast bait for fish. "

"No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone. "

"We'll go wherever you like, " he said. "I'll have Tonie come over andhelp me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?"

"Oh, no. "

"Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands thetreasures 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 youwould know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded orutilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, forthe 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 Ladyof Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare. 

Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequitawalked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish illhumor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. 

XIII

A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed beforeher eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain hercomposure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere ofthe church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert'sfeet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, hesank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady inblack, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened uponthe pages of her velvet prayer-book. 

"I felt giddy and almost overcome, " Edna said, lifting her handsinstinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from herforehead. "I couldn't have stayed through the service. " They wereoutside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude. 

"It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alonestaying. Come over to Madame Antoine's; you can rest there. " He took herarm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into herface. 

How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through thereeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray, weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It mustalways have been God's day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to askfor water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from thecistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening onone side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to themin a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her. 

Madame Antoine's cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomedthem with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her doorto let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsilyacross the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made herunderstand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired torest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose ofher 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 whichlooked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was adisabled boat lying keel upward. 

Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she supposedhe would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and wait forhim. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame Antoinebusied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boilingmullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace. 

Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removingthe greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms inthe basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes andstockings and stretched herself in the very center of the high, whitebed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the sheets andmattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ranher fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She looked at herround arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one after theother, observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the firsttime, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped herhands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep. 

She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to thethings about her. She could hear Madame Antoine's heavy, scraping treadas she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens wereclucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in thegrass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking underthe shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavilyover her sleepy eyes. The voices went on--Tonie's slow, Acadian drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectlyunless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the otherdrowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. 

When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long andsoundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's stepwas no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens hadgone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn overher; 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 thewindow, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon wasfar advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in theshade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was readingfrom a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had becomeof the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times asshe stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. 

Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and hadplaced a box of poudre de riz within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powderupon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the littledistorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes werebright 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 uponthe 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 bita 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 shewent softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hangingbough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake andup. 

An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined herunder the orange tree. 

"How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seemschanged. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you andme as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die?and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?"

He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. 

"You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guardyour slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shedreading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiledfowl from drying up. "

"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it, " said Edna, moving withhim into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival andthe others?"

"Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thoughtit best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was Ihere for?"

"I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seatedherself at table. 

"Of course not; he knows you are with me, " Robert replied, as hebusied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been leftstanding on the hearth. 

"Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. 

"Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take youback in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go. "

He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzleafresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anewand sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else thanthe mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He waschildishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relishwith which she ate the food which he had procured for her. 

"Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass andbrushing 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 Antoinecame back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explainher absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would notwillingly face any woman except his mother. 

It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sundipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper andgold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesquemonsters across the grass. 

Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground--that is, he lay upon theground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. 

Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench besidethe door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herselfup to the storytelling pitch. 

And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left theCheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years shehad squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of theBaratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lightenit. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click ofmuffled gold. 

When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, andupon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. 

XIV

The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignollesaid, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had beenunwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had takencharge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been inbed and asleep for two hours. 

The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping himup as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubbyfist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Ednatook him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddleand caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him tosleep. 

It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but thechildren. 

Leonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and hadwanted to start at once for the Cheniere. But Monsieur Farival hadassured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, thatTonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus beendissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, lookingup some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolledid not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. Sheherself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carrieda bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remainwith Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above allthings to be left alone. 

When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, andRobert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the childcomfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emergedfrom the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night. 

"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert--sinceearly this morning?" she said at parting. 

"All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Goodnight. "

He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He didnot join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. 

Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desireto sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with theRatignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voicesreached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let hermind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discoverwherein this summer had been different from any and every other summerof her life. She could only realize that she herself--her presentself--was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeingwith different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditionsin herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yetsuspect. 

She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur toher to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelongday. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted thathe had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he wasnot absolutely required to leave her. 

As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Roberthad sung as they crossed the bay. It began with "Ah! Si tu savais, " andevery verse ended with "si tu savais. "

Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. 

XV

When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was herhabit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Severalpersons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, haddressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off byher dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seatat table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle. 

As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, whichhad been served when she entered the room, several persons informed hersimultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon downand looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to herall the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say hewas at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothingof, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in theafternoon, when she went down to the beach. 

She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, whopresided. Edna's face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which shenever thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretextof 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 werenot there to answer for himself. 

"To-night!" "This very evening!" "Did you ever!" "What possesses him!"were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in Frenchand English. 

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "How can a person start off from Grand Isleto Mexico at a moment's notice, as if he were going over to Klein's orto 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 mandefending 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 goingto-night, " she called out. "Really, this table is getting to be more andmore like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes--Ihope God will forgive me--but positively, sometimes I wish Victor wouldlose 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 mightafford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself. 

Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out inmid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there wouldbe more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claimfor making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a triflehysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names. 

"There's nothing much to explain, mother, " he said; though he explained, nevertheless--looking chiefly at Edna--that he could only meet thegentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and sucha steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet wasgoing out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave himan opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time. 

"But when did you make up your mind to all this?" demanded MonsieurFarival. 

"This afternoon, " returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance. 

"At what time this afternoon?" persisted the old gentleman, with naggingdetermination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a court ofjustice. 

"At four o'clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival, " Robert replied, ina high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentlemanon the stage. 

She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was pickingthe flaky bits of a court bouillon with her fork. 

The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speakin whispers of matters which they rightly considered were interestingto no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a pairof prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico, with very specialindulgence attached to them, but she had never been able to ascertainwhether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. FatherFochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had notdone so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert would interesthimself, and discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to theindulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads. 

Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme cautionin dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherouspeople, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them noinjustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personallybut one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she wouldhave trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was arrestedfor stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not. 

Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdoteabout a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant inDauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival, who went into convulsions over the droll story. 

Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring atthat rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or theMexicans. 

"At what time do you leave?" she asked Robert. 

"At ten, " he told her. "Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon. "

"Are you all ready to go?"

"Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk inthe 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 stuffyafter leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to bea hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She beganto set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of thequadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed. She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs ofchairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. Shechanged her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. Sherearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Thenshe went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed. 

They were very playful and inclined to talk--to do anything but liequiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper andtold her she need not return. Then she sat and told the childrena story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to theirwakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating aboutthe conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish thefollowing night. 

The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like tohave 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 thehouse later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as toremove her peignoir. But changing her mind once more she resumedthe peignoir, and went outside and sat down before her door. She wasoverheated 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, " repliedEdna, "and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robertstarting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As ifit were a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it allmorning when he was with me. "

"Yes, " agreed Madame Ratignolle. "I think it was showing us all--youespecially--very little consideration. It wouldn't have surprised me inany of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I mustsay I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you notcoming down? Come on, dear; it doesn't look friendly. "

"No, " said Edna, a little sullenly. "I can't go to the trouble ofdressing 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 ifwe both stayed away. "

Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truthrather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversationwhich was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans. 

Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag. 

"Aren't you feeling well?" he asked. 

"Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?"

He lit a match and looked at his watch. "In twenty minutes, " he said. The sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for awhile. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on theporch. 

"Get a chair, " said Edna. 

"This will do, " he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took itoff again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of theheat. 

"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 neverknown 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 likeit. I don't understand your motive for silence and mystery, never sayinga word to me about it this morning. " He remained silent, not offering todefend himself. He only said, after a moment:

"Don't part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out ofpatience with me before. "

"I don't want to part in any ill humor, " she said. "But can't youunderstand? I've grown used to seeing you, to having you with me allthe time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don't evenoffer an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking ofhow pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter. "

"So was I, " he blurted. "Perhaps that's the--" He stood up suddenlyand held out his hand. "Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. Youwon't--I hope you won't completely forget me. " She clung to his hand, striving to detain him. 

"Write to me when you get there, won't you, Robert?" she entreated. 

"I will, thank you. Good-by. "

How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said somethingmore emphatic than "I will, thank you; good-by, " to such a request. 

He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, for he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out therewith an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked awayin the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet's voice; Robert hadapparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion. 

Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and tohide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, theemotion which was troubling--tearing--her. Her eyes were brimming withtears. 

For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which shehad felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, andlater as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, thepoignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability. The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing toheed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it wasdoing then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which shehad held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newlyawakened being demanded. 

XVI

"Do you miss your friend greatly?" asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morningas she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage onher way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since shehad acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isledrew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to adiversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that sheknew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulderand spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever inEdna's mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly possessed her. 

Robert's going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaningout of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way changed, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems tobe no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere--in others whomshe induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings to MadameLebrun's room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. She satthere and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed aroundthe room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, anddiscovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined withthe keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenmentconcerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between itspages. 

There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated inher lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alonein the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the ageof five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Ednalaugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers;while another interested her, taken when he left for college, lookingthin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions. But there was no recent picture, none which suggested the Robert who hadgone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him. 

"Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay forthem himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says, " explainedMadame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left NewOrleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her tolook for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on themantelpiece. 

The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest andattraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before openingit. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave thecity that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, thathe was well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionatelyremembered to all. There was no special message to Edna except apostscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the bookwhich he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in hisroom, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang ofjealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her. 

Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even herhusband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's departure, expressed regret that he had gone. 

"How do you get on without him, Edna?" he asked. 

"It's very dull without him, " she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seenRobert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Wherehad they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone"in" and had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about?Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thoughtwere promising. How did he look? How did he seem--grave, or gay, or how?Quite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, whichMr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seekfortune and adventure in a strange, queer country. 

Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the childrenpersisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. Shewent down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for notbeing more attentive. 

It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should bemaking of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband tospeak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no wayresembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or everexpected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harborthoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had nevertaken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, andshe entertained the conviction that she had a right to them and thatthey concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignollethat she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appearto understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna triedto appease her friend, to explain. 

"I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give mylife for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it moreclear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which isrevealing itself to me. "

"I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by theunessential, " said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who wouldgive her life for her children could do no more than that--your Bibletells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more than that. "

"Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna. 

She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning thatlady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and askedif she did not greatly miss her young friend. 

"Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I missRobert. Are you going down to bathe?"

"Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when Ihaven't been in the surf all summer, " replied the woman, disagreeably. 

"I beg your pardon, " offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she shouldhave remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water hadfurnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it wason account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimesbelieved to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offeredEdna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually atechocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutrimentin small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as MadameLebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent awoman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people andrequiring them to pay for it. 

"She must feel very lonely without her son, " said Edna, desiring tochange the subject. "Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hardto let him go. "

Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. 

"Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a taleupon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She hasspoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and theground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all themoney he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance forhimself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. Iliked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who isworth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I liketo play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's awonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago. "

"I thought he had great patience with his brother, " offered Edna, gladto be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. 

"Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago, " said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had somesort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, orwalking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket--I don'tremember what;--and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gavehim a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order fora good while. It's about time he was getting another. "

"Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna. 

"Mariequita--yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's asly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!"

Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could havelistened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but shedonned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under theshade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the seasonadvanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled andinvigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping thatMademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her. 

But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, andraved much over Edna's appearance in her bathing suit. She talked aboutmusic. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wroteher address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she foundin her pocket. 

"When do you leave?" asked Edna. 

"Next Monday; and you?"

"The following week, " answered Edna, adding, "It has been a pleasantsummer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, " agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, "rather pleasant, if ithadn't been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins. "

XVII

The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street inNew Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house waspainted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, weregreen. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers andplants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Withindoors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. Thesoftest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperieshung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected with judgmentand discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavydamask which daily appeared upon the table were the envy of many womenwhose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier. 

Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining itsvarious appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. Hegreatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, andderived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, arare lace curtain--no matter what--after he had bought it and placed itamong his household gods. 

On Tuesday afternoons--Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's receptionday--there was a constant stream of callers--women who came in carriagesor in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distancepermitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing adiminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. Amaid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, orchocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsomereception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoonreceiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with theirwives. 

This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiouslyfollowed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings duringthe week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play. 

Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and teno'clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in theevening--dinner being served at half-past seven. 

He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a fewweeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escapingfeet could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of thequadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did notwear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress. Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as heserved the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting. 

"Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?" he asked. Hetasted his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar, mustard--everything within reach. 

"There were a good many, " replied Edna, who was eating her soup withevident satisfaction. "I found their cards when I got home; I was out. "

"Out!" exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternationin his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her throughhis glasses. "Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What didyou have to do?"

"Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out. "

"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse, " said her husband, somewhatappeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup. 

"No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all. "

"Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that peopledon't do such things; we've got to observe les convenances if we everexpect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that youhad to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitableexplanation for your absence. 

"This soup is really impossible; it's strange that woman hasn't learnedyet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a betterone. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?"

"Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don't remember who was here. "

The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silvertray, which was covered with ladies' visiting cards. He handed it toMrs. Pontellier. 

"Give it to Mr. Pontellier, " she said. 

Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup. 

Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers, reading some ofthem aloud, with comments as he read. 

"'The Misses Delasidas. ' I worked a big deal in futures for their fatherthis morning; nice girls; it's time they were getting married. 'Mrs. Belthrop. ' I tell you what it is, Edna; you can't afford to snub Mrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. Hisbusiness is worth a good, round sum to me. You'd better write her anote. 'Mrs. James Highcamp. ' Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the better. 'Madame Laforce. ' Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor old soul. 'Miss Wiggs, ' 'Mrs. Eleanor Boltons. '" He pushed thecards aside. 

"Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. "Why are you taking thething so seriously and making such a fuss over it?"

"I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's just such seeming triflesthat we've got to take seriously; such things count. "

The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said shedid not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not tohis fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables wereserved. 

"It seems to me, " he said, "we spend money enough in this house toprocure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain hisself-respect. "

"You used to think the cook was a treasure, " returned Edna, indifferently. 

"Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. Theyneed looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ. Suppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office, just let themrun things their own way; they'd soon make a nice mess of me and mybusiness. "

"Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeing that her husband arosefrom table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of thehighly-seasoned soup. 

"I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Good night. " He went into thehall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house. 

She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her veryunhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived ofany desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchento administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room andstudied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing out amenu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, afterall, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name. 

But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forceddeliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inwardfire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to herroom, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she wasindisposed. 

It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dimlight which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an openwindow and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All themystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid theperfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothingthat came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. Theyjeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down itswhole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in herhands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into aball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her weddingring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there, she stampedher heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did notmake an indenture, not a mark upon the little glittering circlet. 

In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flungit upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. Thecrash and clatter were what she wanted to hear. 

A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room todiscover what was the matter. 

"A vase fell upon the hearth, " said Edna. "Never mind; leave it tillmorning. "

"Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma'am, " insisted theyoung woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered uponthe carpet. "And here's your ring, ma'am, under the chair. "

Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger. 

XVIII

The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, askedEdna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some newfixtures for the library. 

"I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce. Don't let us get anythingnew; you are too extravagant. I don't believe you ever think of savingor putting by. "

"The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it, "he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him andselect new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she was notlooking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale andvery quiet. 

She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absentlypicked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. Sheinhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of herwhite morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small"express wagon, " which they had filled with blocks and sticks. Thequadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed afictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender wascrying his wares in the street. 

Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression uponher face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, thechildren, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly becomeantagonistic. 

She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cookconcerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier hadsaved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly fitted. Mr. Pontellier's arguments were usually convincing with those whom heemployed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sitdown that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinnerdeserving of the name. 

Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in hereyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor. Finally she gathered together a few of the sketches--those which sheconsidered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when, a little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome anddistinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had lefther face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath herheavy, yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and asmall, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hiddenin her hair. 

As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She wasstill under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was likean obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dweltupon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special orpeculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, whichdominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into themist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled herwith an incomprehensible longing. 

Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's. Their intimacy, begun atGrand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with somefrequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at nogreat distance from Edna's home, on the corner of a side street, whereMonsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed asteady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business beforehim, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore anenviable reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family livedin commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the sidewithin the porte cochere. There was something which Edna thought veryFrench, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the largeand pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, theRatignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soireemusicale, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend whoplayed upon the 'cello. One brought his flute and another his violin, while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon the pianowith various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles' soireesmusicales were widely known, and it was considered a privilege to beinvited to them. 

Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which hadreturned that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned heroccupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony intoher presence. 

"'Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business, " she explainedto Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she summoned a youngblack woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very careful inchecking off the list which she handed her. She told her to noticeparticularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur Ratignolle's, which was missing last week, had been returned; and to be sure to set toone side such pieces as required mending and darning. 

Then placing an arm around Edna's waist, she led her to the front of thehouse, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of greatroses that stood upon the hearth in jars. 

Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in aneglige which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich, melting curves of her white throat. 

"Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day, " said Edna witha smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches andstarted to unfold them. "I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if Iwanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you think itworth while to take it up again and study some more? I might study for awhile with Laidpore. "

She knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion in such a matter would be nextto valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined;but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help herto put heart into her venture. 

"Your talent is immense, dear!"

"Nonsense!" protested Edna, well pleased. 

"Immense, I tell you, " persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying thesketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm's length, narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. "Surely, thisBavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! neverhave I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reachout a hand and take one. "

Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency ather friend's praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to MadameRatignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudlyexhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store alittle later for his midday dinner. 

Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of theearth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by hisgoodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wifespoke English with an accent which was only discernible through itsun-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna's husband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignollesunderstood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beingsinto one has been accomplished on this sphere it was surely in theirunion. 

As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, "Better a dinnerof herbs, " though it did not take her long to discover that it was nodinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in everyway satisfying. 

Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found herlooking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talkeda good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news andneighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness thatgave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wifewas keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork thebetter to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth. 

Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The littleglimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her noregret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, andshe could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was movedby a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle, --a pity for thatcolorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the regionof blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited hersoul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium. Ednavaguely wondered what she meant by "life's delirium. " It had crossed herthought like some unsought, extraneous impression. 

XIX

Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase uponthe tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to suchfutile expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as sheliked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not returnthe visits of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectualefforts to conduct her household en bonne menagere, going and coming asit suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending herself to anypassing caprice. 

Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he meta certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpectedline of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then herabsolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never totake another step backward. 

"It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household, and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days which would bebetter employed contriving for the comfort of her family. "

"I feel like painting, " answered Edna. "Perhaps I shan't always feellike it. "

"Then in God's name paint! but don't let the family go to the devil. There's Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn'tlet everything else go to chaos. And she's more of a musician than youare a painter. "

"She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter. It isn't on account ofpainting that I let things go. "

"On account of what, then?"

"Oh! I don't know. Let me alone; you bother me. "

It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife werenot growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that shewas not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herselfand daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like agarment with which to appear before the world. 

Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office. Edna went up to her atelier--a bright room in the top of the house. She was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishinganything, however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. Fora time she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art. Theboys posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupationsoon lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a gamearranged especially for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hoursbefore Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the house-maid tookcharge of the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But thehousemaid, too, served her term as model when Edna perceived that theyoung woman's back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and thather hair, loosened from its confining cap, became an inspiration. WhileEdna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, "Ah! si tu savais!"

It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of thewater, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon thebay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. Asubtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her holdupon the brushes and making her eyes burn. 

There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She washappy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be onewith the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of someperfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange andunfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashionedto dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone andunmolested. 

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, --when it didnot seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when lifeappeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like wormsstruggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work onsuch a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood. 

XX

It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. Shehad not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon herby their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to seeher--above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quiteearly in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, andlooking up her address in the city directory, she found that the womanlived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fellinto her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching thenumber indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by arespectable family of mulattoes who had chambres garnies to let. Theyhad been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing ofa Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing of any of theirneighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction, they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions withMadame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery store, feelingsure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the proprietor. 

He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to knowher, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know herat all, or anything concerning her--the most disagreeable and unpopularwoman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had leftthe neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know whereshe had gone. 

Edna's desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold sincethese unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wonderingwho could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurredto her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so. Sheknew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the mostdistant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothingconcerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressingherself upon the subject as the corner grocer. 

Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it wasthe middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, onChartres Street. 

Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars beforethe door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the oldregime, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the sidewas a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon thestreet was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, andstood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted. 

It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping herhands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Ednacould hear them in altercation, the woman--plainly an anomaly--claimingthe right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was toanswer the bell. 

Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he madeno attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was adark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resemblinghis mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed theblack woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellierdesired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her dutywhen she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to herinterrupted task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administereda rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidityand incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever itwas, the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and wentmumbling into the house. 

Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the sideporch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. Sheseated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began torock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drewup his chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman'soffensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not thereto take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the morningbefore, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter at theisland; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got things readyfor the summer visitors. 

But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, andevery now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the city. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn't want hismother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillantwith recollections. Of course, he couldn't think of telling Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending suchthings. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him throughthe shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty! Certainly hesmiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not knowhim if she supposed he was one to let an opportunity like that escapehim. Despite herself, the youngster amused her. She must have betrayedin her look some degree of interest or entertainment. The boy grew moredaring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored story but for the timely appearance ofMadame Lebrun. 

That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of thesummer. Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontelliergo inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not beenthere before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweetchildren? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November?

Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother's chair, where he commanded a view of Edna's face. He had taken her parasol fromher hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled itabove him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that itwas so dull coming back to the city; that she saw so few people now;that even Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, hadso much to occupy him and engage his time; then it was that the youthwent into contortions on the lounge and winked mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severeand disapproving. 

There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, theytold her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside forthe letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. Heremembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly whenput to the test. 

One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the Cityof Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward hisadvancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over theone he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastlybetter. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the people andtheir habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent hislove to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped shewould affectionately remember him to all his friends. That was about thesubstance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a messagefor her, she would have received it. The despondent frame of mind inwhich she had left home began again to overtake her, and she rememberedthat she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz. 

Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna theaddress, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend theremainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz someother day. The afternoon was already well advanced. 

Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and heldit over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated herto bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictlyconfidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering toolate that she should have been dignified and reserved. 

"How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!" said Madame Lebrun to her son. 

"Ravishing!" he admitted. "The city atmosphere has improved her. Someway she doesn't seem like the same woman. "

XXI

Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always choseapartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little frontroom. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly alwaysopen it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into theroom a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the lightand air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seenthe crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys ofthe Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored agasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descendto the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keepingher belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundredyears of use. 

When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's front room door and entered, she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged inmending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughedall over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of theface and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby laceand the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head. 

"So you remembered me at last, " said Mademoiselle. "I had said tomyself, 'Ah, bah! she will never come. '"

"Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. 

"I had not thought much about it, " answered Mademoiselle. The two hadseated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup withme. And how is la belle dame? Always handsome! always healthy! alwayscontented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double themeupon the back and palm. 

"Yes, " she went on; "I sometimes thought: 'She will never come. Shepromised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come. ' For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier. "

"I don't know whether I like you or not, " replied Edna, gazing down atthe little woman with a quizzical look. 

The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased MademoiselleReisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to theregion of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promisedcup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved veryacceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's andwas now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which shebrought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself onceagain on the lumpy sofa. 

"I have had a letter from your friend, " she remarked, as she poured alittle cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. 

"My friend?"

"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico. "

"Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffeeabsently. 

"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee;drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it wasnothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end. "

"Let me see it, " requested the young woman, entreatingly. 

"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the oneto whom it is written. "

"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"

"It was written about you, not to you. 'Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier?How is she looking?' he asks. 'As Mrs. Pontellier says, ' or 'as Mrs. Pontellier once said. ' 'If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, playfor her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a dayor two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affectsher, ' and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other'ssociety. "

"Let me see the letter. "

"Oh, no. "

"Have you answered it?"

"No. "

"Let me see the letter. "

"No, and again, no. "

"Then play the Impromptu for me. "

"It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?"

"Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play theImpromptu. "

"But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?"

"Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!"

"Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame. "

"Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?"

"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent oryour temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess manygifts--absolute gifts--which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul. "

"What do you mean by the courageous soul?"

"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies. "

"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I havepersistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?"

"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated, " repliedMademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. 

The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little tableupon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle openedthe drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it inEdna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. 

Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She satlow at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungracefulcurves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually andimperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords ofthe Chopin Impromptu. 

Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofacorner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle hadglided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. 

The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange andfantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. Theshadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon thenight, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself inthe silence of the upper air. 

Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle whenstrange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to takeher departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at thethreshold. 

"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings aredark; don't stumble. "

Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on thefloor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp withtears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to theenvelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. 

XXII

One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house ofhis old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was asemi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill--leaving the activepractice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries--andwas much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, unitedto him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required theservices of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. 

Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center ofa delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at theold gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared updisapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wonderingwho had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. 

"Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news doyou bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion ofgray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of theirbrightness but none of their penetration. 

"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber--ofthat old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult--no, not precisely to consult--to talk to you aboutEdna. I don't know what ails her. "

"Madame Pontellier not well, " marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her--Ithink it was a week ago--walking along Canal Street, the picture ofhealth, it seemed to me. "

"Yes, yes; she seems quite well, " said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forwardand whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thoughtperhaps you'd help me. "

"How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. 

"Well, it isn't easy to explain, " said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himselfback in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens. "

"Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got toconsider--"

"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude--towardme and everybody and everything--has changed. You know I have a quicktemper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially mywife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I'vemade a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable forme, " he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her headconcerning the eternal rights of women; and--you understand--we meet inthe morning at the breakfast table. "

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick netherlip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. 

"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?"

"Doing! Parbleu!"

"Has she, " asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associatingof late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritualsuperior beings? My wife has been telling me about them. "

"That's the trouble, " broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't beenassociating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, hasthrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she'speculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it. "

This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?"

"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. Theold gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekdaysins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horsesliterally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming landI ever laid eyes upon. Margaret--you know Margaret--she has all thePresbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. Bythe way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now. "

"Send your wife up to the wedding, " exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing ahappy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it willdo her good. "

"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She saysa wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thingfor a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuminganew at the recollection. 

"Pontellier, " said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let yourwife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her botheryou. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism--asensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier tobe, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist todeal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and meattempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Mostwomen are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. Butit will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send heraround to see me. "

"Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it, " objected Mr. Pontellier. 

"Then I'll go around and see her, " said the Doctor. "I'll drop in todinner some evening en bon ami. 

"Do! by all means, " urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come?Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?" he asked, rising to take hisleave. 

"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement forme Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you mayexpect me. "

Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:

"I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme onhand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handlethe ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor, " helaughed. 

"No, I thank you, my dear sir, " returned the Doctor. "I leave suchventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood. "

"What I wanted to say, " continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on theknob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to takeEdna along?"

"By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don'tcontradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months--possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience. "

"Well, good-by, a jeudi, " said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. 

The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too well to makesuch a blunder as that. 

He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditativelylooking out into the garden. 

XXIII

Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certaintastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His comingwas in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a newdirection for her emotions. 

He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and anoutfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance ather marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as everyone immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in suchmatters. And his suggestions on the question of dress--which toooften assumes the nature of a problem--were of inestimable value to hisfather-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been uponEdna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a newset of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, andstill maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had alwaysaccompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, emphasizingthe rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coatspadded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shouldersand chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, andexcited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon hisarrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketchof him. He took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had beenten-fold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convincedas he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of amasterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to bedirected toward successful achievement. 

Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced thecannon's mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of thechildren, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff upthere in their mother's bright atelier. When they drew near he motionedthem away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb thefixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. 

Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meethim, having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselledeclined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicaleat the Ratignolles'. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of theColonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him atonce to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he mightselect. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naivemanner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till theColonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid ofcoquetry. 

There were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale;but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attracttheir notice--to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself towardthem. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancyselected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave theman opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street theglance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes haddisturbed her. 

Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soirees musicales. He consideredthem bourgeois, and found more diversion at the club. To MadameRatignolle he said the music dispensed at her soirees was too "heavy, "too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier's club, and she was frank enoughto tell Edna so. 

"It's a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn't stay home more in the evenings. I think you would be more--well, if you don't mind my saying it--moreunited, if he did. "

"Oh! dear no!" said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. "What should Ido if he stayed home? We wouldn't have anything to say to each other. "

She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; buthe did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, thoughshe realized that he might not interest her long; and for the first timein her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. Hekept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It amused herto do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the children to doanything for him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed, andthought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment which he hadnever suspected. 

The Colonel drank numerous "toddies" during the course of the day, whichleft him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting strongdrinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantasticnames, and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that itdevolved upon Edna to procure for him. 

When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he coulddiscern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which herhusband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. She and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts whenthey seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events ofthe afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had notkept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racingin what he called "the good old times" when the Lecompte stablesflourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might notbe left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failedto impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him withthis trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her fatheron his last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them. Besides, they had met some very charming people, according to theColonel's impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, who were there with Alcee Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened thehours in a fashion that warmed him to think of. 

Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, andwas even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especiallywhen he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. Heendeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, andonly succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. A pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father'scause and the Doctor remained neutral. 

He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, andnoted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless womanhe had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant withthe forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was norepression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun. 

The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne wascold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantnessmelted and vanished with the fumes of the wine. 

Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusingplantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth, when he hunted 'possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashedthe pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields inmischievous idleness. 

The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things, related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he hadacted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor wasthe Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever newand curious story of the waning of a woman's love, seeking strange, newchannels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierceunrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had beenunfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did notseem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of awoman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and nevercame back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one everheard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was apure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. Butevery glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feelthe hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep ofthe pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds'wings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools;they could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt inoblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown. 

The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic trickswith Edna's memory that night. 

Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, thenight was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloakacross his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew hisfellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which soseldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had acceptedPontellier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need restand an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other livesthrust upon him. 

"I hope it isn't Arobin, " he muttered to himself as he walked. "I hopeto heaven it isn't Alcee Arobin. "

XXIV

Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon thesubject of her refusal to attend her sister's wedding. Mr. Pontellierdeclined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or hisauthority. He was following Doctor Mandelet's advice, and letting her doas she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack offilial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanlyconsideration. His arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubtedif Janet would accept any excuse--forgetting that Edna had offerednone. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sureMargaret would not. 

Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himselfoff with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his paddedshoulders, his Bible reading, his "toddies" and ponderous oaths. 

Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the weddingon his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and lovecould devise to atone somewhat for Edna's incomprehensible action. 

"You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce, " asserted the Colonel. "Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good andhard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it. "

The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife intoher grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thoughtit needless to mention at that late day. 

Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband's leaving home asshe had been over the departure of her father. As the day approachedwhen he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew meltingand affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and hisrepeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous abouthis health and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after hisclothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignollewould have done under similar circumstances. She cried when he wentaway, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was quite certain shewould grow lonely before very long and go to join him in New York. 

But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last foundherself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier hadcome herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. Theold madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglectedduring Leonce's absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She was hungryfor them--even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want themto be wholly "children of the pavement, " she always said when beggingto have them for a space. She wished them to know the country, with itsstreams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young. She wished them to taste something of the life their father had livedand known and loved when he, too, was a little child. 

When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. Shewalked all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspectingit for the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as ifshe had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she perambulatedaround the outside of the house, investigating, looking to see ifwindows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were likenew acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and madeherself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna calledto the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, andstooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead, dry leaves. The children's little dog came out, interfering, getting in her way. Shescolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so goodand looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all thebright flowers she could find, and went into the house with them, sheand the little dog. 

Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she hadnever before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, tosay that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they wouldrequire only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries. She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied duringMr. Pontellier's absence, and she begged her to take all thought andresponsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders. 

That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candies in thecenter of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circleof light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn andshadowy. The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast--aluscious tenderloin broiled a point. The wine tasted good; the marronglace seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, todine in a comfortable peignoir. 

She thought a little sentimentally about Leonce and the children, andwondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to thedoggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He wasbeside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionableadvances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barksand a lively agitation. 

Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until shegrew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, anddetermined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now thather time was completely her own to do with as she liked. 

After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggledcomfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had not known before. 

XXV

When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed thesun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reacheda stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, whenin the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, andstriving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the workin itself. 

On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society ofthe friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoorsand nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her owncomfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her asif life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived byfresh promises which her youth held out to her. 

She went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs. Highcampcalled for her one bright afternoon in Arobin's drag. Mrs. Highcamp wasa worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in theforties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She hada daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society ofyoung men of fashion. Alcee Arobin was one of them. He was a familiarfigure at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There wasa perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken acorresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listenedto his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a littleinsolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdenedwith depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of theconventional man of fashion. 

He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with herfather. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed tohim unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witnessthe turf event of the season. 

There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse aswell as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She satbetween her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughedat Arobin's pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. Therace horse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. Theatmosphere of the stables and the breath of the blue grass paddockrevived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceivethat she was talking like her father as the sleek geldings ambled inreview before them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favoredher. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes, and it gotinto her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. People turnedtheir heads to look at her, and more than one lent an attentive car toher utterances, hoping thereby to secure the elusive but ever-desired"tip. " Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which drew him toEdna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with herindifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows. 

Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so. Arobin also remained and sent away his drag. 

The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful effortsof Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of herdaughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missedby going to the "Dante reading" instead of joining them. The girl helda geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing andnoncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who onlytalked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full ofdelicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressedmost of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library afterdinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; whilethe younger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. MissHighcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed tohave apprehended all of the composer's coldness and none of his poetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had lost hertaste for music. 

When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offerto escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless concern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was latewhen they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to enter fora second to light his cigarette--his match safe was empty. He filled hismatch safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left her, after shehad expressed her willingness to go to the races with him again. 

Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for theHighcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. Sherummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and somecrackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. Edna felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed afantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and muncheda cracker. 

She wanted something to happen--something, anything; she did not knowwhat. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour totalk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. Butthere was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there forhours in a sort of monotonous agitation. 

In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten towrite her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so nextday and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wideawake composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrotenext day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming ofMr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on CanalStreet, while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded anEsplanade Street car:

"What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go. "

When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna in his drag, Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But asthat lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, shewas not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend themeeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could notaccompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there wereany one else she cared to ask. 

She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of thefashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. Shethought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did notleave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with herhusband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such arequest from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but forsome reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and Arobin. 

The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement cameback upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar andconfidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His mannerinvited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquaintedwas one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engagingwoman was concerned. 

He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was tellingher how different life might have been if he had known her years before. With ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boyhe had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wristthe scar from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside ofParis when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the redcicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that wassomewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutchupon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh ofhis palm. 

She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel. 

"The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me, " she said. "I shouldn't have looked at it. "

"I beg your pardon, " he entreated, following her; "it never occurred tome that it might be repulsive. "

He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He sawenough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while hesaid his lingering good night. 

"Will you go to the races again?" he asked. 

"No, " she said. "I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose allthe money I've won, and I've got to work when the weather is bright, instead of--"

"Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morningmay I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?"

"No!"

"Day after?"

"No, no. "

"Oh, please don't refuse me! I know something of such things. I mighthelp you with a stray suggestion or two. "

"No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? Idon't like you, " she went on in a high, excited pitch, attemptingto draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity andsincerity, and she knew that he felt it. 

"I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have Ioffended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me?" And he bent andpressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdrawthem. 

"Mr. Arobin, " she complained, "I'm greatly upset by the excitement ofthe afternoon; I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in someway. I wish you to go, please. " She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone. He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressivesilence. 

"Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier, " he said finally. "Myown emotions have done that. I couldn't help it. When I'm near you, howcould I help it? Don't think anything of it, don't bother, please. Yousee, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall doso. If you let me come back, I--oh! you will let me come back?"

He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. Alcee Arobin's manner was so genuine that it often deceived evenhimself. 

Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When shewas alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he hadkissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. Shefelt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed intoan act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act withoutbeing wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguelythrough her mind, "What would he think?"

She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Herhusband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married withoutlove as an excuse. 

She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin was absolutelynothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of hisglances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had actedlike a narcotic upon her. 

She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams. 

XXVI

Alcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant withsincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment itappeared to her, absurd that she should have taken his action soseriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of thewhole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignoredhis note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If shereplied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mindthe impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to hisinfluence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed. She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in aslight and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said shewould be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt theinclination and his business gave him the opportunity. 

He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all hisdisarming naivete. And then there was scarcely a day which followedthat she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific inpretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacitadoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which wereas often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They becameintimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. Hesometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought thecrimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing tothe animalism that stirred impatiently within her. 

There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses asa visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of thatpersonality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divineart, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free. 

It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, whenEdna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Herclothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as sheentered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked alittle and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heata pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy toEdna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. 

"Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from herknees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright enough; I canlet the fire alone. "

She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted inremoving Edna's dripping mackintosh. 

"You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. Butwould you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched thebottle which you brought me for my cold. " A piece of red flannel waswrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to holdher head on one side. 

"I will take some brandy, " said Edna, shivering as she removed hergloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man wouldhave done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on EsplanadeStreet. "

"Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especiallyinterested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She wasendeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose fromits fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and takinga pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in theiraccustomed place. 

"Aren't you astonished?"

"Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to yourfather in Mississippi? where?"

"Just two steps away, " laughed Edna, "in a little four-room house aroundthe corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I passby; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It neverseemed like mine, anyway--like home. It's too much trouble. I have tokeep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them. "

"That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling melies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth. "Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. 

"The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't thatenough reason?"

"They are your husband's, " returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and amalicious elevation of the eyebrows. 

"Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is acaprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, whichmy father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on theraces, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and morepleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. Icannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in easeand confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many throughLaidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with oneservant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she willcome stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like thefeeling of freedom and independence. "

"What does your husband say?"

"I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He willthink I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so. "

Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear tome, " she said. 

Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself asshe sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put awayher husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know howit would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt;but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to anotherthan herself. 

"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Ednaexclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give youeverything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laughand be merry for once. " And she uttered a sigh that came from the verydepths of her being. 

If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robertduring the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letterunsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as herhumor prompted her while the young woman read the letter. 

The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in thetin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethovenand handed it to Edna. 

"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tellme, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?"

"Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me againif he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send youa message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, andis trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or tobelong to him. "

"Why do you show me his letters, then?"

"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannotdeceive me, " and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument andbegan to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holdingit in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like aneffulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. Itprepared her for joy and exultation. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why didyou not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from thekeys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?"

"That he was coming back? No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did notcome long ago. "

"But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when. "

"He says 'very soon. ' You know as much about it as I do; it is all inthe letter. "

"But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought--" and she snatched theletter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. 

"If I were young and in love with a man, " said Mademoiselle, turning onthe stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she lookeddown at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to mehe would have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and abilityto reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of hisfellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should neverdeem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion. "

"Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothingabout it. Why, " went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up intoMademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why sheloves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: 'Go to! Here is adistinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceedto fall in love with him. ' Or, 'I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, 'This financier, who controls theworld's money markets?'

"You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you in love withRobert?"

"Yes, " said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glowoverspread her face, blotching it with red spots. 

"Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?"

Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees beforeMademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. 

"Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; becausehe opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing;because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which hecan't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in hisyouth. Because--"

"Because you do, in short, " laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do whenhe comes back?" she asked. 

"Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive. "

She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of hisreturn. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hoursbefore, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through thestreets on her way home. 

She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons forthe children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which shescribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. 

Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to herhusband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into thelittle house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner beforeleaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help outwith the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter wasbrilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. 

XXVII

"What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I neverfound you in such a happy mood. " Edna was tired by that time, and wasreclining on the lounge before the fire. 

"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sunpretty soon?"

"Well, that ought to be reason enough, " he acquiesced. "You wouldn'tgive me another if I sat here all night imploring you. " He sat close toher on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched thehair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of hisfingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. 

"One of these days, " she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for awhile and think--try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can'tconvince myself that I am. I must think about it. "

"Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it whenI can tell you what manner of woman you are. " His fingers strayedoccasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which wasgrowing a little full and double. 

"Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that iscaptivating. Spare yourself the effort. "

"No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lyingif I did. "

"Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly. 

"The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play. "

"She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don'tnotice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward. "

"For instance?"

"Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around meand felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, shesaid. 'The bird that would soar above the level plain of traditionand prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see theweaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. ' Whither wouldyou soar?"

"I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehendher. "

"I've heard she's partially demented, " said Arobin. 

"She seems to me wonderfully sane, " Edna replied. 

"I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have youintroduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?"

"Oh! talk of me if you like, " cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath herhead; "but let me think of something else while you do. "

"I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a littlekinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as ifthey were not here with me. " She only looked at him and smiled. His eyeswere very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended acrossher, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continuedsilently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward andkissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. 

It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had reallyresponded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. 

XXVIII

Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only onephase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There waswith her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was theshock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband'sreproach looking at her from the external things around her which he hadprovided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach makingitself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which hadawakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. Shefelt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to tookupon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made upof beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations whichassailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pangof regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. 

XXIX

Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding hisopinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations forquitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little housearound the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in thatdirection. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of reposebetween the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morningfollowing those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set aboutsecuring her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered andlingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousandmuffled voices bade her begone. 

Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquiredaside from her husband's bounty, she caused to be transported to theother house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her ownresources. 

Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with thehouse-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid androbust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, witha red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect herhair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking apicture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. 

"Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted himwith affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. 

If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging insentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. 

He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of theforegoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to thesituation which confronted him. 

"Please come down, " he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up ather. 

"No, " she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is workingover at the 'pigeon house'--that's the name Ellen gives it, because it'sso small and looks like a pigeon house--and some one has to do this. "

Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing totempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible tocontrol, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely ashe could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastenedit at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Ednadirected. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out towash his hands. 

Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a featherduster along the carpet when he came in again. 

"Is there anything more you will let me do?" he asked. 

"That is all, " she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest. " She kept theyoung woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alonewith Arobin. 

"What about the dinner?" he asked; "the grand event, the coup d'etat?"

"It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the 'coup d'etat?'Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything--crystal, silver andgold, Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let Leoncepay the bills. I wonder what he'll say when he sees the bills. 

"And you ask me why I call it a coup d'etat?" Arobin had put on hiscoat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. Shetold him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. 

"When do you go to the 'pigeon house?'--with all due acknowledgment toEllen. "

"Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there. "

"Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such athing, has parched my throat to a crisp. "

"While Ellen gets the water, " said Edna, rising, "I will say good-by andlet you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things todo and think of. "

"When shall I see you?" asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maidhaving left the room. 

"At the dinner, of course. You are invited. "

"Not before?--not to-night or to-morrow morning or tomorrow noon ornight? or the day after morning or noon? Can't you see yourself, withoutmy telling you, what an eternity it is?"

He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. 

"Not an instant sooner, " she said. But she laughed and looked at himwith eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture towait. 

XXX

Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it wasin truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guestsinvited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had countedupon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degreesouffrante and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrunwould send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were onlyten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number. 

There were Mr. And Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman inthe thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had therebymade himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Ofcourse, there was Alcee Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consentedto come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lacetrimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and hiswife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent uponrelaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, nolonger in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and withthe keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual;it was suspected of her that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She hadcome with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one ofthe daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except that hewas observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made thetenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobinand Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. 

Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and MademoiselleReisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle. 

There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of thetable, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satinunder strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brasscandelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrantroses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she hadsaid there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which thewomen wore. 

The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion andreplaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collectedthroughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted attable upon bulky volumes. 

"Something new, Edna?" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directedtoward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almostsputtered, in Edna's hair, just over the center of her forehead. 

"Quite new; 'brand' new, in fact; a present from my husband. Itarrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is mybirthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drinkmy health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, composed--would you say 'composed?'" with an appeal to MissMayblunt--"composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet's wedding. "

Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like agarnet gem. 

"Then, all things considered, " spoke Arobin, "it might not be amissto start out by drinking the Colonel's health in the cocktail which hecomposed, on the birthday of the most charming of women--the daughterwhom he invented. "

Mr. Merriman's laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and socontagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that neverslackened. 

Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched beforeher, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare it tonothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted wereunspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it. 

Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the mets, theentre-mets, the service, the decorations, even the people. He lookedup from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to thegentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and Arobin, lawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm personal friend, who permitted Arobin's name to decorate the firm's letterheads and toappear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street. 

"There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding, " saidArobin, "that one is really forced as a matter of convenience thesedays to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not. " MonsieurRatignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if sheconsidered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been setthe previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle inFrench, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, butcharacteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of thesymphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musiciansof New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to becentered upon the delicacies placed before her. 

Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin's remark about inquisitive peoplereminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. CharlesHotel--but as Mr. Merriman's stories were always lame and lacking point, his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him toask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had boughtthe week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking "books"with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon currentliterary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privatelyto Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to think itextremely clever. 

Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warmand impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seatingherself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettierand more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy indifferencefor an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the occasionalsound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeableaccompaniment rather than an interruption to the conversation. Outsidethe soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the soundpenetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that camethrough the open windows. 

The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on eitherside of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tintsthat one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something inher attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head againstthe high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regalwoman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone. 

But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtakingher; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon herlike an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed toissue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over herthe acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision thepresence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense ofthe unattainable. 

The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed aroundthe circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people togetherwith jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break thepleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignollewas waiting for him at home. She was bien souffrante, and she was filledwith vague dread, which only her husband's presence could allay. 

Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to escorther to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good, rich wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed pleasantly to allas she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, andwhispered: "Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage. " She had been a littlebewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her cushions, andMonsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her away. 

Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When shehad finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor's black curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass ofchampagne to the light. 

As if a magician's wand had touched him, the garland of rosestransformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were thecolor of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishingfire. 

"Sapristi!" exclaimed Arobin. 

But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She tookfrom the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she hadcovered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped itacross the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, conventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued togaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of champagne. 

"Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!" exclaimed MissMayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him. 

"'There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a groundof gold. '" murmured Gouvernail, under his breath. 

The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomedvolubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to areverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead. 

"Sing, " entreated Mrs. Highcamp. "Won't you sing to us?"

"Let him alone, " said Arobin. 

"He's posing, " offered Mr. Merriman; "let him have it out. "

"I believe he's paralyzed, " laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over theyouth's chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid itupon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy handkerchief. 

"Yes, I'll sing for you, " he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at theceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuningan instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing:

 "Ah! si tu savais!"

"Stop!" she cried, "don't sing that. I don't want you to sing it, "and she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as toshatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin's legs andsome of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp's black gauze gown. Victorhad lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not inearnest, for he laughed and went on:

 "Ah! si tu savais

 Ce que tes yeux me disent"--

"Oh! you mustn't! you mustn't, " exclaimed Edna, and pushing back herchair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips. 

"No, no, I won't, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn't know you meant it, " lookingup at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasingsting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head andflung it across the room. 

"Come, Victor; you've posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf. "

Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. MissMayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it wastime to say good night. And Mr. And Mrs. Merriman wondered how it couldbe so late. 

Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon herdaughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French andsing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention tocall upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. 

The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillnesshad fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna'sdisbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmonyof the night. 

XXXI

"Well?" questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the othershad departed. 

"Well, " she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feelingthe need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. 

"What next?" he asked. 

"The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I havedismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trotaround to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morningto straighten things up. "

He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights. 

"What about upstairs?" he inquired. 

"I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. Wehad better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my wrapand hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room. "

He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. Shehated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found hercape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on. 

When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left throughthe front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carriedfor Edna. He helped her down the steps. 

"Will you have a spray of jessamine?" he asked, breaking off a fewblossoms as he passed. 

"No; I don't want anything. "

She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, whichhe offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the otherhand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in andout so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. Therewas the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and themidnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. 

The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow parterrethat had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, uponwhich a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directlyinto the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a roomfor servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. 

Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded inmaking the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books onthe table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tastefulpictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise toher. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them duringEdna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passagewere the diningroom and kitchen. 

Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. 

"Are you tired?" he asked. 

"Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to acertain pitch--too tight--and something inside of me had snapped. " Sherested her head against the table upon her bare arm. 

"You want to rest, " he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave youand let you rest. "

"Yes, " she replied. 

He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetichand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She couldhave fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his handover her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. 

"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning, " he said. "Youhave tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the laststraw; you might have dispensed with it. "

"Yes, " she admitted; "it was stupid. "

"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out. " His hand had strayedto her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her fleshto his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly uponthe shoulder. 

"I thought you were going away, " she said, in an uneven voice. 

"I am, after I have said good night. "

"Good night, " she murmured. 

He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say goodnight until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. 

XXXII

When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her homeand take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letterof unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons whichhe was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not actedupon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming ofscandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would neverhave entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife'sname or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. Itmight get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, andwere forced to conduct their menage on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. 

But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeingthat she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, hegrasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with hiswell-known business tact and cleverness. 

The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carriedinstructions--the most minute instructions--to a well-known architectconcerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had longcontemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporaryabsence. 

Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey thefurniture, carpets, pictures--everything movable, in short--to placesof security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier housewas turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition--a smallsnuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be putinto such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. 

Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to theeffect that Mr. And Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojournabroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street wasundergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancyuntil their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances!

Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balkhis intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier wasaccepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that itshould be so. 

The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate characterof a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflectedlike a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended inthe social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in thespiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving herself fromobligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. Shebegan to look with her own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeperundercurrents of life. No longer was she content to "feed upon opinion"when her own soul had invited her. 

After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a weekwith her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, withall the summer's promise hovering in the air. 

How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure whenshe felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheekspressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces withhungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what storiesthey had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the mules!About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake withtheir Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie's little black brood, andhauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more funto haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag paintedblocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street!

She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at thedarkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish inthe back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all ofherself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They listened, breathless, when she told them the house in EsplanadeStreet was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and fillingthe place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed was; whathad been done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe sleep, andwhere had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they were fired witha desire to see the little house around the block. Was there anyplace to play? Were there any boys next door? Raoul, with pessimisticforeboding, was convinced that there were only girls next door. Wherewould they sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them the fairieswould fix it all right. 

The old Madame was charmed with Edna's visit, and showered all mannerof delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that theEsplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her thepromise and pretext to keep the children indefinitely. 

It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She carriedaway with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks. All along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her like thememory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the citythe song no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone. 

XXXIII

It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz thatthe little musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some smallnecessary household purchase. The key was always left in a secrethiding-place in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened tobe away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her return. 

When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's door one afternoon there wasno response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found theapartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filledup, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, thatshe sought out her friend. 

She had worked at her canvas--a young Italian character study--all themorning, completing the work without the model; but there had been manyinterruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others of asocial nature. 

Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too publicthoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected hermuch of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the littlehouse and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear allabout the dinner party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left so early. What hadhappened after he left? The champagne and grapes which Edna sent overwere TOO delicious. She had so little appetite; they had refreshed andtoned her stomach. Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier inthat little house, and the boys? And then she made Edna promise to go toher when her hour of trial overtook her. 

"At any time--any time of the day or night, dear, " Edna assured her. 

Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said:

"In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act withouta certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That isthe reason I want to say you mustn't mind if I advise you to be a littlecareful while you are living here alone. Why don't you have some onecome and stay with you? Wouldn't Mademoiselle Reisz come?"

"No; she wouldn't wish to come, and I shouldn't want her always withme. "

"Well, the reason--you know how evil-minded the world is--some one wastalking of Alcee Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn't matter ifMr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle wastelling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin awoman s name. "

"Does he boast of his successes?" asked Edna, indifferently, squintingat her picture. 

"No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes. But his character is so well known among the men. I shan't be able tocome back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day. "

"Mind the step!" cried Edna. 

"Don't neglect me, " entreated Madame Ratignolle; "and don't mind what Isaid about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you. 

"Of course not, " Edna laughed. "You may say anything you like to me. "They kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to go, andEdna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the street. 

Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their"party call. " Edna felt that they might have dispensed with theformality. They had also come to invite her to play vingt-et-un oneevening at Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early, to dinner, andMr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in ahalf-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp andMrs. Merriman. 

Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, andstayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade herwith the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room. 

Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops and acrossthe river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers, and she satand picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm, andthe breeze which blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed herhat and laid it on the piano. She went on picking the leaves anddigging around the plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heardMademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, whocame in, bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she deposited in theadjoining room, and went away. 

Edna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one handthe bars of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half-hour wentby. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in thelower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking outthe aria, when there was a second rap at the door. She vaguely wonderedwhat these people did when they found Mademoiselle's door locked. 

"Come in, " she called, turning her face toward the door. And this timeit was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise; shecould not have done so without betraying the agitation which masteredher at sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming, "Why, Robert!"

He came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he wassaying or doing. 

"Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen--oh! how well you look! IsMademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you. "

"When did you come back?" asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping herface with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool, and he begged her to take the chair by the window. 

She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool. 

"I returned day before yesterday, " he answered, while he leaned his armon the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound. 

"Day before yesterday!" she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking toherself, "day before yesterday, " in a sort of an uncomprehending way. She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he hadlived under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only byaccident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when shesaid, "Poor fool, he loves you. "

"Day before yesterday, " she repeated, breaking off a spray ofMademoiselle's geranium; "then if you had not met me here to-day youwouldn't--when--that is, didn't you mean to come and see me?"

"Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so manythings--" he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle's music nervously. "Istarted in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is asmuch chance for me here as there was there--that is, I might find itprofitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial. "

So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; becausebusiness was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and notbecause he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on thefloor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which wasleft untold. 

She had not noticed how he looked--only feeling his presence; but sheturned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent buta few months, and was not changed. His hair--the color of hers--wavedback from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not moreburned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when helooked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with anadded warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the sameglance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul andawakened them. 

A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined theirfirst meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her outat once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way hislove for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smellingthem, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying:

"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's awonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving--mother toldme yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here withhousekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't haveyou at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem--do you see much ofMademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters shewrote. "

"Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" Aflush overspread his whole face. 

"I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you. "

"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth. " Edna reached for her hat on thepiano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil ofhair with some deliberation. 

"Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert. 

"No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not tocome back till late. " She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up hishat. 

"Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna. 

"Not if you think she will not be back till late, " adding, as ifsuddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss thepleasure of walking home with you. " Edna locked the door and put the keyback in its hiding-place. 

They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalksencumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of thedistance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed thePontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Roberthad never known the house, and looked at it with interest. 

"I never knew you in your home, " he remarked. 

"I am glad you did not. "

"Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemedas if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her intothe little house. 

"You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and itis so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you. "

She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuseabout his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about anengagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it wasgrowing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside andseated himself. 

"Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. Allthe softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on hisshoulder. 

"This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'llgo tell Celestine. " She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extraplace. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy whichshe had not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care indripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn. 

When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up aphotograph, and exclaimed:

"Alcee Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?"

"I tried to make a sketch of his head one day, " answered Edna, "andhe thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. Ithought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawingmaterials. "

"I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished withit. "

"Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returningthem. They don't amount to anything. " Robert kept on looking at thepicture. 

"It seems to me--do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend ofMr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him. "

"He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I alwaysknew him--that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. ButI'd rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doingand feeling out there in Mexico. " Robert threw aside the picture. 

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; thequiet, grassy street of the Cheniere; the old fort at Grande Terre. I'vebeen working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There wasnothing interesting. "

She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light. 

"And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days?" heasked. 

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; thequiet, grassy street of the Cheniere Caminada; the old sunny fort atGrande Terre. I've been working with a little more comprehension thana machine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothinginteresting. "

"Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel, " he said, with feeling, closing hiseyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silencetill old Celestine announced dinner. 

XXXIV

The dining-room was very small. Edna's round mahogany would have almostfilled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little tableto the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door thatopened out on the narrow brick-paved yard. 

A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement ofdinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidentsof his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interesthim, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinaryquality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out topurchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana tignon twisted about her head, hobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and shelingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had known asa boy. 

He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the blackcoffee in the parlor. 

"Perhaps I shouldn't have come back, " he said. "When you are tired ofme, tell me to go. "

"You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours atGrand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to beingtogether. "

"I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle, " he said, not looking at her, but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon thetable, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiworkof a woman. 

"You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch, " said Edna, pickingup the pouch and examining the needlework. 

"Yes; it was lost. "

"Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?"

"It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous, " hereplied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette. 

"They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; verypicturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs. "

"Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere. "

"What was she like--the one who gave you the pouch? You must have knownher very well. "

"She was very ordinary. She wasn't of the slightest importance. I knewher well enough. "

"Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to knowand hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made onyou. "

"There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as theimprint of an oar upon the water. "

"Was she such a one?"

"It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order andkind. " He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away thesubject with the trifle which had brought it up. 

Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say thatthe card party was postponed on account of the illness of one of herchildren. 

"How do you do, Arobin?" said Robert, rising from the obscurity. 

"Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did theytreat you down in Mexique?"

"Fairly well. "

"But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, inMexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was downthere a couple of years ago. "

"Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands andthings for you?" asked Edna. 

"Oh! my! no! I didn't get so deep in their regard. I fear they made moreimpression on me than I made on them. "

"You were less fortunate than Robert, then. "

"I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tenderconfidences?"

"I've been imposing myself long enough, " said Robert, rising, andshaking hands with Edna. "Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellierwhen you write. "

He shook hands with Arobin and went away. 

"Fine fellow, that Lebrun, " said Arobin when Robert had gone. "I neverheard you speak of him. "

"I knew him last summer at Grand Isle, " she replied. "Here is thatphotograph of yours. Don't you want it?"

"What do I want with it? Throw it away. " She threw it back on the table. 

"I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's, " she said. "If you see her, tell herso. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and saythat I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me. "

"It would be a good scheme, " acquiesced Arobin. "I don't blame you;stupid lot!"

Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began towrite the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which hehad in his pocket. 

"What is the date?" she asked. He told her. 

"Will you mail this for me when you go out?"

"Certainly. " He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while shestraightened things on the table. 

"What do you want to do?" he asked, throwing aside the paper. "Do youwant to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a finenight to drive. "

"No; I don't want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away andamuse yourself. Don't stay. "

"I'll go away if I must; but I shan't amuse myself. You know that I onlylive when I am near you. "

He stood up to bid her good night. 

"Is that one of the things you always say to women?"

"I have said it before, but I don't think I ever came so near meaningit, " he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;only a dreamy, absent look. 

"Good night. I adore you. Sleep well, " he said, and he kissed her handand went away. 

She stayed alone in a kind of reverie--a sort of stupor. Step by stepshe lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert afterhe had entered Mademoiselle Reisz's door. She recalled his words, his looks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! Avision--a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose beforeher. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would comeback. He had not said he would come back. She had been with him, hadheard his voice and touched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearerto her off there in Mexico. 

XXXV

The morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her nodenial--only the promise of excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, withbright eyes full of speculation. "He loves you, poor fool. " If she couldbut get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered aboutthe rest? She felt she had been childish and unwise the night before ingiving herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the motives whichno doubt explained Robert's reserve. They were not insurmountable; theywould not hold if he really loved her; they could not hold against herown passion, which he must come to realize in time. She pictured himgoing to his business that morning. She even saw how he was dressed;how he walked down one street, and turned the corner of another; saw himbending over his desk, talking to people who entered the office, goingto his lunch, and perhaps watching for her on the street. He would cometo her in the afternoon or evening, sit and roll his cigarette, talk alittle, and go away as he had done the night before. But how deliciousit would be to have him there with her! She would have no regrets, norseek to penetrate his reserve if he still chose to wear it. 

Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her adelicious printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her tosend him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning tentiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Lidie's big white pig. 

A letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back earlyin March, and then they would get ready for that journey abroad whichhe had promised her so long, which he felt now fully able to afford;he felt able to travel as people should, without any thought of smalleconomies--thanks to his recent speculations in Wall Street. 

Much to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written atmidnight from the club. It was to say good morning to her, to hope shehad slept well, to assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she insome faintest manner returned. 

All these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in acheerful frame of mind, promising them bonbons, and congratulating themupon their happy find of the little pigs. 

She answered her husband with friendly evasiveness, --not with any fixeddesign to mislead him, only because all sense of reality had gone outof her life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited theconsequences with indifference. 

To Arobin's note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine'sstove-lid. 

Edna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a picturedealer, who asked her if it were true that she was going abroad to studyin Paris. 

She said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for someParisian studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in December. 

Robert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did notcome the following day, nor the next. Each morning she awoke with hope, and each night she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seekhim out. But far from yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasionwhich might throw her in his way. She did not go to Mademoiselle Reisz'snor pass by Madame Lebrun's, as she might have done if he had still beenin Mexico. 

When Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went--out tothe lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, and even alittle unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along, and the quick, sharp sound of the horses' hoofs on the hard road. Theydid not stop anywhere to eat or to drink. Arobin was not needlesslyimprudent. But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna's littledining-room--which was comparatively early in the evening. 

It was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passingwhim with Arobin to see her and be with her. He had detected the latentsensuality, which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature'srequirements like a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom. 

There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was therehope when she awoke in the morning. 

XXXVI

There was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with afew green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on thestone step in the sun, and an old mulatresse slept her idle hours awayin her chair at the open window, till, some one happened to knock on oneof the green tables. She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and breadand butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee or frya chicken so golden brown as she. 

The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion, and so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search ofpleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one daywhen the high-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little greentable, blotched with the checkered sunlight that filtered throughthe quivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumberingmulatresse, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her ofthe milk she had tasted in Iberville. 

She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking abook with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she foundthe place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there alone, having instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at home. Itwas the last place in the city where she would have expected to meet anyone she knew. 

Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modestdinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking thecat, which had made friends with her--she was not greatly astonished tosee Robert come in at the tall garden gate. 

"I am destined to see you only by accident, " she said, shoving thecat off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almostembarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly. 

"Do you come here often?" he asked. 

"I almost live here, " she said. 

"I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche's good coffee. Thisis the first time since I came back. "

"She'll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There's alwaysenough for two--even three. " Edna had intended to be indifferent and asreserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by alaborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods. But her resolve melted when she saw him before designing Providence hadled him into her path. 

"Why have you kept away from me, Robert?" she asked, closing the bookthat lay open upon the table. 

"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me toidiotic subterfuges?" he exclaimed with sudden warmth. "I supposethere's no use telling you I've been very busy, or that I've been sick, or that I've been to see you and not found you at home. Please let meoff with any one of these excuses. "

"You are the embodiment of selfishness, " she said. "You save yourselfsomething--I don't know what--but there is some selfish motive, and insparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I think, or howI feel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you wouldcall unwomanly; but I have got into a habit of expressing myself. Itdoesn't matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like. "

"No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe notintentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into disclosureswhich can result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound forthe pleasure of looking at it, without the intention or power of healingit. "

"I'm spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven'teaten a morsel. "

"I only came in for a cup of coffee. " His sensitive face was alldisfigured with excitement. 

"Isn't this a delightful place?" she remarked. "I am so glad it hasnever actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Do younotice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It's so out of the way;and a good walk from the car. However, I don't mind walking. I alwaysfeel so sorry for women who don't like to walk; they miss so much--somany rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of lifeon the whole. 

"Catiche's coffee is always hot. I don't know how she manages it, herein the open air. Celestine's coffee gets cold bringing it from thekitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet?Take some of the cress with your chop; it's so biting and crisp. Thenthere's the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here. Now, in the city--aren't you going to smoke?"

"After a while, " he said, laying a cigar on the table. 

"Who gave it to you?" she laughed. 

"I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a whole box. " Shewas determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable. 

The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smokedhis cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. Helooked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he told her the end, tosave her the trouble of wading through it, he said. 

Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk whenthey reached the little "pigeon-house. " She did not ask him to remain, which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without thediscomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intentionof considering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into herroom to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands. 

When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazinesas before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chairas if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arrangingthe books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bentover the arm of his chair and called his name. 

"Robert, " she said, "are you asleep?"

"No, " he answered, looking up at her. 

She leaned over and kissed him--a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whosevoluptuous sting penetrated his whole being-then she moved away fromhim. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close tohim. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against herown. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lipsagain. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her handin both of his. 

"Now you know, " he said, "now you know what I have been fighting againstsince last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove me backagain. "

"Why have you been fighting against it?" she asked. Her face glowed withsoft lights. 

"Why? Because you were not free; you were Leonce Pontellier's wife. Icouldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long asI went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so. " She puther free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing itsoftly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. 

"There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing foryou. "

"But not writing to me, " she interrupted. 

"Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife. "

"Your wife!"

"Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared. "

"Then you must have forgotten that I was Leonce Pontellier's wife. "

"Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling menwho had set their wives free, we have heard of such things. "

"Yes, we have heard of such things. "

"I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here--"

"When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing hischeek. 

"I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you hadbeen willing. "

She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she wouldnever withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. 

"You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming ofimpossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! Iam no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, 'Here, Robert, take herand be happy; she is yours, ' I should laugh at you both. "

His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. 

There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that MadameRatignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message thatMadame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to herimmediately. 

"Yes, yes, " said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes--to wait forme. I'll go back with her. "

"Let me walk over with you, " offered Robert. 

"No, " she said; "I will go with the servant. She went into her room toput on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon thesofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. 

"Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by. " He kissed her with a degreeof passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strainedher to him. 

"I love you, " she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you whoawoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have mademe so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Nowyou are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everythingto each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I mustgo to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you willwait for me, Robert?"

"Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me, " he pleaded. "Why shouldyou go? Stay with me, stay with me. "

"I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here. " She buriedher face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, haddeprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. 

XXXVII

Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting upa mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tinyglass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would bea comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always beenwith her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from theplantation, and Adele had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier sokindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at nightfor the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelethad been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking forhim any moment. 

Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear ofthe store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in aback room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayedin her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an amplewhite peignoir, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a nervousclutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard andunnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and plaited. Itlay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white apron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom. 

"There is no use, there is no use, " she said at once to Edna. "We mustget rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said hewould be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time itis, Josephine. "

The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take anysituation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was sofamiliar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame onlyset her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gatherin beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she uttered aprofound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled in aball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water. 

"This is too much!" she cried. "Mandelet ought to be killed! Where isAlphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this-neglected byevery one?"

"Neglected, indeed!" exclaimed the nurse. Wasn't she there? And here wasMrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to devoteto her? And wasn't Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant throughthe hall? And Josephine was quite sure she had heard Doctor Mandelet'scoupe. Yes, there it was, down at the door. 

Adele consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a littlelow couch next to her bed. 

Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle's upbraidings. Hewas accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of herloyalty to doubt it. 

He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salonand entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Ednashould leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatteda little, and said it took her mind off her sufferings. 

Edna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her ownlike experiences seemed far away, unreal, and only half remembered. Sherecalled faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, astupor which had deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a littlenew life to which she had given being, added to the great unnumberedmultitude of souls that come and go. 

She began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. Shemight have invented a pretext for staying away; she might even invent apretext now for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony, with aflaming, outspoken revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed thescene of torture. 

She was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leanedover her friend to kiss her and softly say good-by. Adele, pressing hercheek, whispered in an exhausted voice: "Think of the children, Edna. Ohthink of the children! Remember them!"

XXXVIII

Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The Doctor'scoupe had returned for him and stood before the porte cochere. She didnot wish to enter the coupe, and told Doctor Mandelet she would walk;she was not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his carriage to meethim at Mrs. Pontellier's, and he started to walk home with her. 

Up--away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the starswere blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool with the breathof spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy, measured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absent-minded way, as she had walked one night at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had goneahead of her and she was striving to overtake them. 

"You shouldn't have been there, Mrs. Pontellier, " he said. "That was noplace for you. Adele is full of whims at such times. There were a dozenwomen she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt thatit was cruel, cruel. You shouldn't have gone. "

"Oh, well!" she answered, indifferently. "I don't know that it mattersafter all. One has to think of the children some time or other; thesooner the better. "

"When is Leonce coming back?"

"Quite soon. Some time in March. "

"And you are going abroad?"

"Perhaps--no, I am not going. I'm not going to be forced into doingthings. I don't want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody hasany right--except children, perhaps--and even then, it seems to me--orit did seem--" She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency ofher thoughts, and stopped abruptly. 

"The trouble is, " sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning intuitively, "that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be a provision ofNature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes noaccount of moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create, and which we feel obliged to maintain at any cost. "

"Yes, " she said. "The years that are gone seem like dreams--if one mightgo on sleeping and dreaming--but to wake up and find--oh! well! perhapsit is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remaina dupe to illusions all one's life. "

"It seems to me, my dear child, " said the Doctor at parting, holding herhand, "you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going to ask for yourconfidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it tome, perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand, And I tell youthere are not many who would--not many, my dear. "

"Some way I don't feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. Don'tthink I am ungrateful or that I don't appreciate your sympathy. Thereare periods of despondency and suffering which take possession of me. But I don't want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, theprejudices of others--but no matter-still, I shouldn't want to trampleupon the little lives. Oh! I don't know what I'm saying, Doctor. Goodnight. Don't blame me for anything. "

"Yes, I will blame you if you don't come and see me soon. We will talkof things you never have dreamt of talking about before. It will dous both good. I don't want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Goodnight, my child. "

She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat uponthe step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. All the tearingemotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away from her like asomber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid of. She went back to that hour before Adele had sent for her; and her senseskindled afresh in thinking of Robert's words, the pressure of his arms, and the feeling of his lips upon her own. She could picture at thatmoment no greater bliss on earth than possession of the beloved one. His expression of love had already given him to her in part. When shethought that he was there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb withthe intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleepperhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleepthat she might arouse him with her caresses. 

Still, she remembered Adele's voice whispering, "Think of the children;think of them. " She meant to think of them; that determination haddriven into her soul like a death wound--but not to-night. To-morrowwould be time to think of everything. 

Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere athand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a piece of paper thatlay in the lamplight:

"I love you. Good-by--because I love you. "

Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa. Then she stretched herself out there, never uttering a sound. She didnot sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. Shewas still awake in the morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen doorand came in to light the fire. 

XXXIX

Victor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching acorner of one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling herlegs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. Thesun was beating down upon them. The girl had covered her head with herapron folded into a square pad. They had been talking for an hour ormore. She was never tired of hearing Victor describe the dinner at Mrs. Pontellier's. He exaggerated every detail, making it appear a veritableLucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, he said. The champagne wasquaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from the foam could havepresented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazingwith beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other womenwere all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable charms. Shegot it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs. Pontellier, andhe gave her evasive answers, framed so as to confirm her belief. Shegrew sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off and leave him tohis fine ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about her at the Cheniere;and since it was the fashion to be in love with married people, why, shecould run away any time she liked to New Orleans with Celina's husband. 

Celina's husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it toher, Victor intended to hammer his head into a jelly the next time heencountered him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. Shedried her eyes, and grew cheerful at the prospect. 

They were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city lifewhen Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped around the corner of the house. Thetwo youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they consideredto be an apparition. But it was really she in flesh and blood, lookingtired and a little travel-stained. 

"I walked up from the wharf", she said, "and heard the hammering. Isupposed it was you, mending the porch. It's a good thing. I was alwaystripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and desertedeverything looks!"

It took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come inBeaudelet's lugger, that she had come alone, and for no purpose but torest. 

"There's nothing fixed up yet, you see. I'll give you my room; it's theonly place. "

"Any corner will do, " she assured him. 

"And if you can stand Philomel's cooking, " he went on, "though I mighttry to get her mother while you are here. Do you think she would come?"turning to Mariequita. 

Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel's mother might come for a fewdays, and money enough. 

Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at oncesuspected a lovers' rendezvous. But Victor's astonishment was sogenuine, and Mrs. Pontellier's indifference so apparent, that thedisturbing notion did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated withthe greatest interest this woman who gave the most sumptuous dinners inAmerica, and who had all the men in New Orleans at her feet. 

"What time will you have dinner?" asked Edna. "I'm very hungry; butdon't get anything extra. "

"I'll have it ready in little or no time, " he said, bustling and packingaway his tools. "You may go to my room to brush up and rest yourself. Mariequita will show you. "

"Thank you", said Edna. "But, do you know, I have a notion to go down tothe beach and take a good wash and even a little swim, before dinner?"

"The water is too cold!" they both exclaimed. "Don't think of it. "

"Well, I might go down and try--dip my toes in. Why, it seems to me thesun is hot enough to have warmed the very depths of the ocean. Could youget me a couple of towels? I'd better go right away, so as to be back intime. It would be a little too chilly if I waited till this afternoon. "

Mariequita ran over to Victor's room, and returned with some towels, which she gave to Edna. 

"I hope you have fish for dinner, " said Edna, as she started to walkaway; "but don't do anything extra if you haven't. "

"Run and find Philomel's mother, " Victor instructed the girl. "I'llgo to the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women have noconsideration! She might have sent me word. "

Edna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticinganything special except that the sun was hot. She was not dwelling uponany particular train of thought. She had done all the thinking which wasnecessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa tillmorning. 

She had said over and over to herself: "To-day it is Arobin; to-morrowit will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn'tmatter about Leonce Pontellier--but Raoul and Etienne!" She understoodnow clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to AdeleRatignolle that she would give up the unessential, but she would neversacrifice herself for her children. 

Despondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had neverlifted. There was no one thing in the world that she desired. Therewas no human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she evenrealized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought ofhim would melt out of her existence, leaving her alone. The childrenappeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who hadoverpowered and sought to drag her into the soul's slavery for the restof her days. But she knew a way to elude them. She was not thinking ofthese things when she walked down to the beach. 

The water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with themillion lights of the sun. The voice of the sea is seductive, neverceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wanderin abysses of solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, therewas no living thing in sight. A bird with a broken wing was beatingthe air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to thewater. 

Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon itsaccustomed peg. 

She put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when shewas there beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant, pricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she stoodnaked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beatupon her, and the waves that invited her. 

How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! howdelicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in afamiliar world that it had never known. 

The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpentsabout her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walkedon. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and reachedout with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. 

She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, andrecalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable toregain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on, thinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed when a littlechild, believing that it had no beginning and no end. 

Her arms and legs were growing tired. 

She thought of Leonce and the children. They were a part of her life. But they need not have thought that they could possess her, body andsoul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if sheknew! "And you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame! Theartist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies. "

Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her. 

"Good-by--because I love you. " He did not know; he did not understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have understoodif she had seen him--but it was too late; the shore was far behind her, and her strength was gone. 

She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for aninstant, then sank again. Edna heard her father's voice and her sisterMargaret's. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to thesycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walkedacross the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinksfilled the air. 

*****

BEYOND THE BAYOU

The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which LaFolle's cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandonedfield, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them withwater enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regionsthe woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she neverstepped. This was the form of her only mania. 

She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real namewas Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle, because in childhood she had been frightened literally "out of hersenses, " and had never wholly regained them. 

It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in thewoods. Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with powder and crimsonwith blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline's mother, hispursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason. 

She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters hadlong since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had morephysical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and cornand tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou shehad long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived. 

People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thoughtnothing of it. Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did not wonder that LaFolle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, wailing and lamenting. 

P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom LaFolle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Cheri, and so didevery one else because she did. 

None of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They had eachand all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories ofthings that always happened "yonda, beyon' de bayou. "

But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri did, norrested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep inher arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did such things now, sincehe had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curlscut off. 

That summer--the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls tied witha knot of red ribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou that even thelittle children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and thecattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry whenthey were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked tofeel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to herown enclosure. 

It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men hadflocked to a neighboring village to do their week's trading, and thewomen were occupied with household affairs, --La Folle as well as theothers. It was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did her baking. 

In this last employment she never forgot Cheri. To-day she had fashionedcroquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for him. So whenshe saw the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaminglittle new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, "Cheri!Cheri!"

But Cheri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her. His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange thathe had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been giventhat day up at his father's house. 

He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on herapron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakesin his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, anddisappeared into the wood. 

He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there. 

"You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?" he had inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter. 

"Non, non!" the woman laughed. "Don't you look fo' no deer, Cheri. Dat'stoo big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo' her dinnerto-morrow, an' she goin' be satisfi'. "

"One squirrel ain't a bite. I'll bring you mo' 'an one, La Folle, " hehad boasted pompously as he went away. 

When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy's rifle closeto the wood's edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a sharp cryof distress had not followed the sound. 

She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had beenplunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her tremblinglimbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report hadcome. 

It was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon the ground, with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:--

"I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!"

"Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. "Put you'arm 'roun' La Folle's nake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin'; dat goin' be nuttin'. "She lifted him in her powerful arms. 

Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled, --he did notknow how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon thewoman's shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright. 

"Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can' stan' it, La Folle!"

"Don't cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!" the woman spoke soothinglyas she covered the ground with long strides. "La Folle goin' mine you;Doctor Bonfils goin' come make mon Cheri well agin. "

She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her preciousburden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to side. Aterrible fear was upon her, --the fear of the world beyond the bayou, themorbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood. 

When she was at the bayou's edge she stood there, and shouted for helpas if a life depended upon it:--

"Oh, P'tit Maitre! P'tit Maitre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!"

No voice responded. Cheri's hot tears were scalding her neck. She calledfor each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came. 

She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard orunheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Cherimoaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother. 

La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was uponher. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could feelher heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ransuddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till shehad climbed the opposite shore. 

She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then sheplunged into the footpath through the trees. 

She spoke no more to Cheri, but muttered constantly, "Bon Dieu, ayezpitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!"

Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smoothenough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sightof that unknown and terrifying world. 

A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared thequarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay. 

"La Folle!" she screamed, in her piercing treble. "La Folle done crossde bayer!"

Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins. 

"Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!"

Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Mostof them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend. "She totin' Cheri!" some of them shouted. 

Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted faceupon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in awhite foam on her black lips. 

Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with his familyand guests upon the gallery. 

"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yondatotin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first which they had ofthe woman's approach. 

She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes werefixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox. 

At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laidthe boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had looked red toLa Folle suddenly turned black, --like that day she had seen powder andblood. 

She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, shefell heavily to the ground. 

When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her owncabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the opendoor and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black mammy whostood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was verylate. 

Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had goneagain. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, whosaid that La Folle might die. 

But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady withwhich she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner. 

"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'mgoin' sleep, me. "

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette withoutcompunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fieldsto her own cabin in the new quarters. 

The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose, calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence butyesterday. 

She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she rememberedthat this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strongblack coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walkedacross the old familiar field to the bayou's edge again. 

She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with along, steady stride as if she had done this all her life. 

When she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwood-treesthat lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of afield where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamedfor acres and acres like frosted silver in the early dawn. 

La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. Shewalked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, lookingabout her as she went. 

The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, were quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds thatdarted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins. 

When La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surroundedthe house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf, thatwas delicious beneath her tread. 

She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing hersenses with memories from a time far gone. 

There they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets thatpeeped out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering downfrom the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and fromthe jessamine clumps around her. 

There were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spreadin broad and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath thesparkling sheen of dew. 

When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that ledup to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent shehad made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bowat the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul. 

La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Cheri's mothersoon cautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled theastonishment she felt at seeing La Folle. 

"Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?"

"Oui, madame. I come ax how my po' li'le Cheri do, 's mo'nin'. "

"He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will benothing serious. He's sleeping now. Will you come back when he awakes?"

"Non, madame. I'm goin' wait yair tell Cheri wake up. " La Folle seatedherself upon the topmost step of the veranda. 

A look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched forthe first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world beyond thebayou. 

MA'AME PELAGIE

I

When the war began, there stood on Cote Joyeuse an imposing mansionof red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oakssurrounded it. 

Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dullred brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clingingvines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was thestone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so statelyalong the whole stretch of Cote Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as theyknew it had cost Philippe Valmet sixty thousand dollars to build, awayback in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long ashis daughter Pelagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman offifty. "Ma'ame Pelagie, " they called her, though she was unmarried, aswas her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'ame Pelagie's eyes; a child ofthirty-five. 

The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow ofthe ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma'ame Pelagie's dream, which wasto rebuild the old home. 

It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish thisend; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the picayuneshoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma'ame Pelagie felt sureof twenty years of life before her, and counted upon as many more forher sister. And what could not come to pass in twenty--in forty--years?

Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky ofLouisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each otherand the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old timesand planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered vineshigh up among the columns, where owls nested. 

"We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline, " Ma'ame Pelagiewould say; "perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to bereplaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should yoube willing, Pauline?"

"Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing. " It was always, "Yes, Sesoeur, " or"No, Sesoeur, " "Just as you please, Sesoeur, " with poor little Mam'sellePauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that oldspendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness ofa young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant thenearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire andflame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pelagie, and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother, Leandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much asPelagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all itsmemories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwellin cities. That was many years ago. Now, Leandre's business called himfrequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless daughterwas coming to stay with her aunts at Cote Joyeuse. 

They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. Mam'selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into herpale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and outincessantly. 

"But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!"

"She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours, " responded Ma'amePelagie, "and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; herfather has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it if wechose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true Valmet. "

Then Ma'ame Pelagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddleher horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through thefields; and Mam'selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangledgrasses toward the cabin. 

The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungentatmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to thesetwo, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her auntPelagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects thelight of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crepemyrtle. Mam'selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pelagie lookedinto her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness ofthe past in the living present. 

And they made room between them for this young life. 

II

La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It wentwell enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pelagie into thefields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to countthe ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with heraunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her briefpast, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing mossof the giant oaks. 

Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyeswere sometimes as bright as a bird's, unless La Petite were awayfrom her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasyexpectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called herendearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became veryquiet, --not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Thenher cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumesof the white crepe myrtle that grew in the ruin. 

One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding ahand of each, she said: "Tante Pelagie, I must tell you something, you and Tan'tante. " She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love youboth, --please remember that I love you both. But I must go away fromyou. I can't live any longer here at Cote Joyeuse. "

A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petitecould feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwinedwith her own. Ma'ame Pelagie remained unchanged and motionless. No humaneye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soulfelt. She said: "What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you tous, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain. "

"My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and such will not be his wish whenhe knows. Oh!" she continued with a restless, movement, "it is as thougha weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; thelife I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from dayto day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one ofprivation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life, I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tantePelagie, you do not need to. It seems to me, " she added in a whisper, "that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is the matterwith Tan'tante?"

It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soonpass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her somewater and fanned her with a palmetto leaf. 

But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam'selle Pauline sobbedand would not be comforted. Ma'ame Pelagie took her in her arms. 

"Pauline, my little sister Pauline, " she entreated, "I never have seenyou like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happytogether, you and I?"

"Oh, yes, Sesoeur. "

"Is it because La Petite is going away?"

"Yes, Sesoeur. "

"Then she is dearer to you than I!" spoke Ma'ame Pelagie with sharpresentment. "Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day youwere born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that couldcherish you. Pauline, don't tell me that. "

Mam'selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs. 

"I can't explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don't understand it myself. Ilove you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goesaway I shall die. I can't understand, --help me, Sesoeur. She seems--sheseems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand andwas leading me somewhere-somewhere I want to go. "

Ma'ame Pelagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir andslippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smootheddown the woman's soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silencewas broken only by Mam'selle Pauline's continued sobs. Once Ma'amePelagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave toher sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child. Almost an hour passed before Ma'ame Pelagie spoke again. Then shesaid:--

"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will makeyourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do youunderstand? She will stay, I promise you. "

Mam'selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faithin the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch ofMa'ame Pelagie's strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep. 

III

Ma'ame Pelagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselesslyand stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did notlinger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossedthe distance that divided her cabin from the ruin. 

The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moonresplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma'amePelagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin atnight-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before hadbeen there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for thelast time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto hadcrowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell. 

There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robustold white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. There areguests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the cityand from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had beenabroad with Felix, and they did not notice how the time was speeding. Felix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside her, but shedoes not want to hear what he will tell her father. 

Ma'ame Pelagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister sooften came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm ofthe window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with themoonlight, for that is faint beside the other one--the sparkle from thecrystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and respectfullyabout, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of them reflectsand glances from the polished marble pillars!

The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something whichMonsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. Hisson Jules is with him--Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. Shewonders if Felix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome Lafirmeplaying at checkers upon the sofa with Leandre. Little Pauline standsannoying them and disturbing the game. Leandre reproves her. She beginsto cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off, limpsacross the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive thelittle one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better thanshe did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floorand raised a great "bo-bo" on her forehead. Pelagie was hurt and angryenough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be broughtand laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one's steps were surer. 

"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline. " She was saying it aloud--"fairemal a Pauline. "

But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, wherethe white crepe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It hasstruck Ma'ame Pelagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She isbeyond there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a groupof friends over their wine. As usual they are talking politics. Howtiresome! She has heard them say "la guerre" oftener than once. Laguerre. Bah! She and Felix have something pleasanter to talk about, outunder the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders. 

But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolledacross the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the wholestretch of Cote Joyeuse. 

Yet Pelagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands beforeher with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse andof brazen impudence. Pelagie wants to kill her. But yet she will notbelieve. Not till Felix comes to her in the chamber above the dininghall--there where that trumpet vine hangs--comes to say good-by to her. The hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressedinto the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits upon thesofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would nothave been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same spot, and Ma'ame Pelagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all along, tolie there upon it some day when the time came to die. 

But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door hasbeen no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking thewines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits. 

One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. Sheslaps his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his blanchedcheek!

Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon hermotionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisianacan perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her kneesin an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved. 

"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline. " Again she is saying italoud--"faire mal a Pauline. "

The night was nearly spent; Ma'ame Pelagie had glided from the benchupon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stoneflagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was towalk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after theother, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips upon thesenseless brick. 

"Adieu, adieu!" whispered Ma'ame Pelagie. 

There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiarpathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, thatswung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings aboutthe ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the oldmulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the daywas mantling the earth. Ma'ame Pelagie hurried through the wet, clinginggrass, beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her face, walkingon toward the cabin-toward Pauline. Not once did she look back upon theruin that brooded like a huge monster--a black spot in the darkness thatenveloped it. 

IV

Little more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmetplace had undergone was the talk and wonder of Cote Joyeuse. One wouldhave looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither wasthe log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and thebreezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woodsthat the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solidfoundation of brick. 

Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Leandre smoking his afternooncigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be hispied a terre now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. Thelaughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within thehouse where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the enthusiasmof a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed marvelouslybeautiful to Mam'selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near her. Mam'sellePauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmet. Her cheek was asfull and almost as flushed as La Petite's. The years were falling awayfrom her. 

Ma'ame Pelagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends. Then she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the musicwhich La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went onaround the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. Shestayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out calmlyin the distance across the fields. 

She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore foldedacross her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver diadem fromher brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of fires thatwould never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of monthsseemed to have passed over her since the night she bade farewell to hervisions. 

Poor Ma'ame Pelagie! How could it be different! While the outwardpressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps intothe light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin. 

DESIREE'S BABY

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to seeDesiree and the baby. 

It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemedbut yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; whenMonsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lyingasleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. 

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada. " Thatwas as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might havestrayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. Theprevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party ofTexans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed theferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time MadameValmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had beensent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to bebeautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere, --the idol of Valmonde. 

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar inwhose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that ArmandAubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistolshot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had knownher since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, afterhis mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when hesaw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairiefire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles. 

Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: thatis, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did notcare. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about aname when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana?He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with whatpatience he could until it arrived; then they were married. 

Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. Whenshe reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she alwaysdid. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known thegentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married andburied his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too wellever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellowstuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and theirthick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. YoungAubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes hadforgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master'seasy-going and indulgent lifetime. 

The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her softwhite muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon herarm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse womansat beside a window fanning herself. 

Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to thechild. 

"This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was thelanguage spoken at Valmonde in those days. 

"I knew you would be astonished, " laughed Desiree, "at the way he hasgrown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and hishands and fingernails, --real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them thismorning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?"

The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, "Mais si, Madame. "

"And the way he cries, " went on Desiree, "is deafening. Armand heard himthe other day as far away as La Blanche's cabin. "

Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted itand walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned thebaby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face wasturned to gaze across the fields. 

"Yes, the child has grown, has changed, " said Madame Valmonde, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. "What does Armand say?"

Desiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. 

"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chieflybecause it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not, --that hewould have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn't true. I know hesays that to please me. And mamma, " she added, drawing Madame Valmonde'shead down to her, and speaking in a whisper, "he hasn't punished one ofthem--not one of them--since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretendedto have burnt his leg that he might rest from work--he only laughed, andsaid Negrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightensme. "

What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son hadsoftened Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved himdesperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When hesmiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day hefell in love with her. 

When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to theconviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquietingsuggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits fromfar-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then astrange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared notask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, fromwhich the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himselffrom home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to takehold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree was miserableenough to die. 

She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlesslydrawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hairthat hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep uponher own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with itssatin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys--halfnaked too--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacockfeathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon thebaby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that shefelt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stoodbeside him, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that shecould not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The bloodturned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon herface. 

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistresswas pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, andobediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. 

She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her facethe picture of fright. 

Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, wentto a table and began to search among some papers which covered it. 

"Armand, " she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, ifhe was human. But he did not notice. "Armand, " she said again. Then sherose and tottered towards him. "Armand, " she panted once more, clutchinghis arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? tell me. "

He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrustthe hand away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly. 

"It means, " he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it meansthat you are not white. "

A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved herwith unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I amwhite! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, youknow they are gray. And my skin is fair, " seizing his wrist. "Look at myhand; whiter than yours, Armand, " she laughed hysterically. 

"As white as La Blanche's, " he returned cruelly; and went away leavingher alone with their child. 

When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter toMadame Valmonde. 

"My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am notwhite. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is nottrue. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live. "

The answer that came was brief:

"My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who lovesyou. Come with your child. "

When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stoneimage: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there. 

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. 

He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp withagonized suspense. 

"Yes, go. "

"Do you want me to go?"

"Yes, I want you to go. "

He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; andfelt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thusinto his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of theunconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name. 

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towardsthe door, hoping he would call her back. 

"Good-by, Armand, " she moaned. 

He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. 

Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombregallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with noword of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under thelive-oak branches. 

It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the stillfields the negroes were picking cotton. 

Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers whichshe wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a goldengleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten roadwhich led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across adeserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicatelyshod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. 

She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along thebanks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. 

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In thecentre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. ArmandAubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle;and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material whichkept this fire ablaze. 

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, waslaid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of apriceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin onesadded to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; forthe corbeille had been of rare quality. 

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent littlescribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of theirespousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which hetook them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter fromhis mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for theblessing of her husband's love:--

"But above all, " she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God forhaving so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know thathis mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with thebrand of slavery. "

A RESPECTABLE WOMAN

Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected hisfriend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation. 

They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time hadalso been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation. She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, andundisturbed tete-a-tete with her husband, when he informed her thatGouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two. 

This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been herhusband's college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense asociety man or "a man about town, " which were, perhaps, some of thereasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed animage of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; witheye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim enough, but he wasn't very tall nor very cynical;neither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. Andshe rather liked him when he first presented himself. 

But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herselfwhen she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none ofthose brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, hadoften assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather muteand receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at homeand in face of Gaston's frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was ascourteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but hemade no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem. 

Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wideportico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking hiscigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston's experience as a sugarplanter. 

"This is what I call living, " he would utter with deep satisfaction, asthe air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm andscented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms withthe big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably againsthis legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go outand kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so. 

Gouvernail's personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she couldunderstand him no better than at first, she gave over being puzzled andremained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her guest, forthe most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took nomanner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon him, accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along thebatture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which hehad unconsciously enveloped himself. 

"When is he going--your friend?" she one day asked her husband. "For mypart, he tires me frightfully. "

"Not for a week yet, dear. I can't understand; he gives you no trouble. "

"No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, and I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment. "

Gaston took his wife's pretty face between his hands and looked tenderlyand laughingly into her troubled eyes. 

They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda'sdressing-room. 

"You are full of surprises, ma belle, " he said to her. "Even I can nevercount upon how you are going to act under given conditions. " He kissedher and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror. 

"Here you are, " he went on, "taking poor Gouvernail seriously and makinga commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect. "

"Commotion!" she hotly resented. "Nonsense! How can you say such athing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever. "

"So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That's why Iasked him here to take a rest. "

"You used to say he was a man of ideas, " she retorted, unconciliated. "Iexpected him to be interesting, at least. I'm going to the city in themorning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernailis gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie's. "

That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a liveoak tree at the edge of the gravel walk. 

She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. She could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinctnecessity to quit her home in the morning. 

Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern inthe darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knewit was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remainunnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away hiscigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicionthat she might object to his presence. 

"Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda, " he said, handing her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped herhead and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur ofthanks, and let it lie in her lap. 

He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of thenight air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness, he murmured, half to himself:

"'Night of south winds--night of the large few stars! Still noddingnight--'"

She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, wasnot addressed to her. 

Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not aself-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silencemelted for the time. 

He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was notunpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he andGaston had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blindambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least, a philosophic acquiescence to the existing order--only a desire to bepermitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life, such as he was breathing now. 

Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical beingwas for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, onlydrinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand inthe darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingersupon the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisperagainst his cheek--she did not care what--as she might have done if shehad not been a respectable woman. 

The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, infact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without anappearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone. 

Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar andended his apostrophe to the night. 

Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband--whowas also her friend--of this folly that had seized her. But she did notyield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a verysensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a humanbeing must fight alone. 

When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. Shehad taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return tillGouvernail was gone from under her roof. 

There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. That is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to hiswife's strenuous opposition. 

However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised anddelighted with the suggestion coming from her. 

"I am glad, chere amie, to know that you have finally overcome yourdislike for him; truly he did not deserve it. "

"Oh, " she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss uponhis lips, "I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shallbe very nice to him. "

THE KISS

It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtainsdrawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, theroom was full of deep shadows. 

Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he didnot mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened asardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight. 

She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongsto the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idlystroked the satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and sheoccasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion sat. They were talking low, of indifferent things which plainly were notthe things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved her--afrank, blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his feelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought her societyeagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him to declarehimself and she meant to accept him. The rather insignificant andunattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she liked and requiredthe entourage which wealth could give her. 

During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the nextreception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain knewquite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two broughthim to her side, and bending over her chair--before she could suspecthis intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen hervisitor--he pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips. 

Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and thenewcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiancestruggling with the confusion in his face. 

"I believe, " stammered Brantain, "I see that I have stayed too long. I--I had no idea--that is, I must wish you good-by. " He was clutchinghis hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she wasextending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completelydeserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak. 

"Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it's deuced awkwardfor you. But I hope you'll forgive me this once--this very first break. Why, what's the matter?"

"Don't touch me; don't come near me, " she returned angrily. "What do youmean by entering the house without ringing?"

"I came in with your brother, as I often do, " he answered coldly, inself-justification. "We came in the side way. He went upstairs and Icame in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough andought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do saythat you forgive me, Nathalie, " he entreated, softening. 

"Forgive you! You don't know what you are talking about. Let me pass. Itdepends upon--a good deal whether I ever forgive you. "

At that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about sheapproached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when shesaw him there. 

"Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?" she askedwith an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy;but when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retiredcorner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of hisexpression. She was apparently very outspoken. 

"Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain;but--but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable sincethat little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you mighthave misinterpreted it, and believed things"--hope was plainly gainingthe ascendancy over misery in Brantain's round, guileless face--"Ofcourse, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want youto understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing. Why, we have always been like cousins--like brother and sister, I maysay. He is my brother's most intimate associate and often fancies thathe is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know itis absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even, " she wasalmost weeping, "but it makes so much difference to me what you thinkof--of me. " Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery hadall disappeared from Brantain's face. 

"Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call youMiss Nathalie?" They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined oneither side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the veryend of it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain's face wasradiant and hers was triumphant. 

Harvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in arare moment when she stood alone. 

"Your husband, " he said, smiling, "has sent me over to kiss you. "

A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. "I supposeit's natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of thiskind. He tells me he doesn't want his marriage to interrupt wholly thatpleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don't knowwhat you've been telling him, " with an insolent smile, "but he has sentme here to kiss you. "

She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright andtender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips lookedhungry for the kiss which they invited. 

"But, you know, " he went on quietly, "I didn't tell him so, it wouldhave seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I've stopped kissing women;it's dangerous. "

Well, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can't haveeverything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her toexpect it. 

A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS

Little Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor offifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and theway in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her afeeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years. 

The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For aday or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but reallyabsorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to acthastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was duringthe still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans inher mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper andjudicious use of the money. 

A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie'sshoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer thanthey usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for newshirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to makethe old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shopwindows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings--twopairs apiece--and what darning that would save for a while! She wouldget caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of herlittle brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their livesexcited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation. 

The neighbors sometimes talked of certain "better days" that little Mrs. Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. Sheherself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time--nosecond of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbedher every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monstersometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes. 

Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could standfor hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that wasselling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had learnedto clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persistenceand determination till her turn came to be served, no matter when itcame. 

But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a lightluncheon--no! when she came to think of it, between getting the childrenfed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all!

She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that wascomparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to chargethrough an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirtingand figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and sherested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. Bydegrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something verysoothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her handlay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that theyhad been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one dollarand ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the counterasked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. Shesmiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamondswith the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling thesoft, sheeny luxurious things--with both hands now, holding them upto see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through herfingers. 

Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up atthe girl. 

"Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?"

There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more ofthat size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were somelavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured herwas excellent. 

"A dollar and ninety-eight cents, " she mused aloud. "Well, I'll takethis pair. " She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for herchange and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemedlost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag. 

Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargaincounter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor intothe region of the ladies' waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, sheexchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had justbought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoningwith herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction themotive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for thetime to be taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function andto have abandoned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed heractions and freed her of responsibility. 

How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lyingback in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury ofit. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled thecotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag. After doing thisshe crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to befitted. 

She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could notreconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easilypleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and herhead another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tippedboots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize thatthey belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellentand stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she didnot mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long asshe got what she desired. 

It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. Onrare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always "bargains, "so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to haveexpected them to be fitted to the hand. 

Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and apretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew along-wristed "kid" over Mrs. Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down overthe wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a secondor two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent. 

There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a fewpaces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazinessuch as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had beenaccustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Herstockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in herbearing--had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging tothe well-dressed multitude. 

She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravingsfor food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewedherself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertainany such thought. 

There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors;from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damaskand shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people offashion. 

When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small tablealone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. Shedid not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite--a halfdozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet--acreme-frappee, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all asmall cup of black coffee. 

While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely andlaid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced throughit, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all veryagreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed throughthe window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies andgentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables likeher own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentlebreeze, was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she reada word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes inthe silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted themoney out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon hebowed before her as before a princess of royal blood. 

There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presenteditself in the shape of a matinee poster. 

It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begunand the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacantseats here and there, and into one of them she was ushered, betweenbrilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candyand display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were theresolely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no onepresent who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to hersurroundings. She gathered in the whole--stage and players and people inone wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed atthe comedy and wept--she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over thetragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy womanwiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace andpassed little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy. 

The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was likea dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went tothe corner and waited for the cable car. 

A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the studyof her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth, he saw nothing-unless he were wizard enough to detect apoignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stopanywhere, but go on and on with her forever. 

THE LOCKET

I

One night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slopeof a hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces andwere awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond thepoint of shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin cupover the embers. Two were lying at full length a little distance away, while a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn close tothe light. He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his flannelshirt front. 

"What's that you got around your neck, Ned?" asked one of the men lyingin the obscurity. 

Ned--or Edmond--mechanically fastened another button of his shirt anddid not reply. He went on reading his letter. 

"Is it your sweet heart's picture?"

"'Taint no gal's picture, " offered the man at the fire. He had removedhis tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a smallstick. "That's a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o' thempriests gave him to keep him out o' trouble. I know them Cath'lics. That's how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he'sbeen in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?" Edmond looked up absentlyfrom his letter. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Aint that a charm you got round your neck?"

"It must be, Nick, " returned Edmond with a smile. "I don't know how Icould have gone through this year and a half without it. "

The letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretchedhimself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But hewas not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day whenthe bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good byeto him. He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locketwhich she fastened about his own. It was an old fashioned golden locketbearing miniatures of her father and mother with their names and thedate of their marriage. It was her most precious earthly possession. Edmond could feel again the folds of the girl's soft white gown, and seethe droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about hisneck. Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain ofparting, appeared before him as vividly as life. He turned over, buryinghis face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless. 

The profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance ofpeace settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octaviebrought him a letter. He had no chair to offer her and was pained andembarrassed at the condition of his garments. He was ashamed of the poorfood which comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join them. 

He dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove tograsp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream wasclamor. 

"Git your duds! you! Frenchy!" Nick was bellowing in his face. Therewas what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulatedmovement. The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with suddenup-springing lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfoldingout of the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below. 

"What's it all about?" wondered a big black bird perched in the top ofthe tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he wasnot wise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he keptblinking and wondering. 

The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awokethe little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curledup toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birdsthought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better. 

"They are children playing a game, " thought he. "I shall know more aboutit if I watch long enough. "

At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din andsmoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had understood!With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward, circling towardthe plain. 

A man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in thegarb of a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations ofreligion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet lingera spark of life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water anda flask of wine. 

There were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreathad been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have tolook to the dead. 

There was a soldier--a mere boy--lying with his face to the sky. Hishands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nailswere stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in hisdespairing grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and hisface and clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain andlocket. The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removedit from the dead soldier's neck. He had grown used to the terrors ofwar and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, alwaysbrought the tears to his old, dim eyes. 

The angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro kneltand murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the dead. 

II

The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth likea benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuousstream in central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, muchthe worse for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes. The fat, black horses went in a slow, measured trot, notwithstandingconstant urging on the part of the fat, black coachman. Within thevehicle were seated the fair Octavie and her old friend and neighbor, Judge Pillier, who had come to take her for a morning drive. 

Octavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrowbelt held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into closefitting wristbands. She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared notunlike a nun. Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket. She never displayed it now. It had returned to her sanctified in hereyes; made precious as material things sometimes are by being foreveridentified with a significant moment of one's existence. 

A hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket hadcome back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored overit. As she sat beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon herknee, heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds andthe humming of insects in the air. 

She was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over hera sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest's letter. Hetold of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold and the redfading out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows to cover thefaces of the dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of those deadwas her own! with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an agony ofsupplication. A spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and swept overher. Why was the spring here with its flowers and its seductive breathif he was dead! Why was she here! What further had she to do with lifeand the living!

Octavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessedresignation had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like amantle and enveloped her. 

"I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie, " she murmuredto herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary. Already she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. Shewalked with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Taviewhom some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation whileleaving her in possession of youth's illusions. 

As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover, again there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which hadassailed her so often before. The soul of her youth clamored for itsrights; for a share in the world's glory and exultation. She leaned backand drew her veil a little closer about her face. It was an old blackveil of her Aunt Tavie's. A whiff of dust from the road had blown in andshe wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white handkerchief, a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old fine muslinpetticoats. 

"Will you do me the favor, Octavie, " requested the judge in thecourteous tone which he never abandoned, "to remove that veil which youwear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise ofthe day. "

The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion's wish andunpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded itneatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her. 

"Ah! that is better; far better!" he said in a tone expressing unboundedrelief. "Never put it on again, dear. " Octavie felt a little hurt; as ifhe wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of afflictionwhich had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the oldmuslin handkerchief. 

They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which hadformerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here andthere, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing offin the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At thefar end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lanethat led to Judge Pillier's house, and the scent of its heavy blossomsmet them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome. 

As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around thegirl's shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: "Do you notthink that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the wholeearth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, thatheaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?" He spoke verylow, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver whichwas not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage. She gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certainterror of joy. 

They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on oneside and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat quickenedtheir lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the house, awhole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of melodiousgreeting from their leafy hiding places. 

Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which waslike a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old grayhouse with its sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, shesaw familiar faces and heard voices as if they came from far across thefields, and Edmond was holding her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond, and she felt the beating of his heart against her and the agonizingrapture of his kisses striving to awake her. It was as if the spirit oflife and the awakening spring had given back the soul to her youth andbade her rejoice. 

It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom andlooked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance. 

"It was the night before an engagement, " he said. "In the hurry of theencounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the fightwas over. I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the struggle, but it was stolen. "

"Stolen, " she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his faceuplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication. 

Edmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who hadlain far back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing. 

A REFLECTION

Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not onlyenables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnishin their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the madpace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend thesignificance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor dothey fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplatingthe moving procession. 

Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Itsfantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on theundulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are failing beneaththe feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majesticrhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in oneharmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds--to completeGod's orchestra. 

It is greater than the stars--that moving procession of human energy;greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh!I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and theclouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society ofthese symbols of life's immutability. In the procession I shouldfeel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands andstifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march. 

Salve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside.