<p>
&ldquo;Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That&rsquo;s all right!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody
understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of
the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening
persistence.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort,
arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust.
</p>
<p>
He walked down the gallery and across the narrow &ldquo;bridges&rdquo; which connected
the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining.
</p>
<p>
He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one
from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker
rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of
reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The
Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted
with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and
bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans
the day before.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height
and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and
straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed.
</p>
<p>
Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about
him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building
was called &ldquo;the house,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Zampa&rdquo; upon the piano. Madame
Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy
whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice
to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty
woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts
crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a
lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good
many persons of the pension had gone over to the Cheniere Caminada in
Beaudelet&rsquo;s lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the
wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier&rsquo;s two children were there&mdash;sturdy
little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with
a faraway, meditative air.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper
drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was
advancing at snail&rsquo;s pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between
the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow
camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the
horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined
shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they
reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of
fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning
against a supporting post.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr.
Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the
morning seemed long to him.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are burnt beyond recognition,&rdquo; he added, looking at his wife as one
looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some
damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them
critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them
reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before
leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,
understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into
her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees,
she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon
her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the
other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water,
and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing
when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and
stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to
Klein&rsquo;s hotel and play a game of billiards.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Come go along, Lebrun,&rdquo; he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite
frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs.
Pontellier.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,&rdquo; instructed
her husband as he prepared to leave.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Here, take the umbrella,&rdquo; she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He
accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps
and walked away.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Coming back to dinner?&rdquo; his wife called after him. He halted a moment and
shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar
bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner
and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found
over at Klein&rsquo;s and the size of &ldquo;the game.&rdquo; He did not say this, but she
understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.
</p>
<p>
Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting
out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts.
</p>
<h2>
II
</h2>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown,
about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an
object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of
contemplation or thought.
</p>
<p>
Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost
horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome
than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness
of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was
engaging.
</p>
<p>
Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not
afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier
had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke.
</p>
<p>
This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not
unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more
pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of
care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the
light and languor of the summer day.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and
began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from
his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around them;
their amusing adventure out in the water&mdash;it had again assumed its
entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to
the Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the
Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to &ldquo;The Poet and the
Peasant.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not
know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the
same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of
his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He
was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there.
Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New
Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave
him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.
</p>
<p>
He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at
Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, &ldquo;the house&rdquo; had
been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or more
cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the
&ldquo;Quartier Francais,&rdquo; it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and
comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father&rsquo;s Mississippi plantation and her
girlhood home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was an American
woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in
dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and
who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, and wanted
to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like,
and how long the mother had been dead.
</p>
<p>
When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for
the early dinner.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I see Leonce isn&rsquo;t coming back,&rdquo; she said, with a glance in the direction
whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was not, as there
were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein&rsquo;s.
</p>
<p>
When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended
the steps and strolled over toward the croquet players, where, during the
half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the little Pontellier
children, who were very fond of him.
</p>
<h2>
III
</h2>
<p>
It was eleven o&rsquo;clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein&rsquo;s
hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very talkative.
His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when he came
in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of
news and gossip that he had gathered during the day. From his trousers
pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal of silver
coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife,
handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets. She was
overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half utterances.
</p>
<p>
He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of
his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned him,
and valued so little his conversation.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys.
Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room
where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were
resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from
satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of
them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a
high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and sat
near the open door to smoke it.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed
perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.
Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He
assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.
</p>
<p>
He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the
children. If it was not a mother&rsquo;s place to look after children, whose on
earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business.
He could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on
the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked
in a monotonous, insistent way.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon
came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the
pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he
questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half
a minute he was fast asleep.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a
little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing out the
candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into
a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch,
where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and
fro.
</p>
<p>
It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint
light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad
except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and the
everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It
broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.
</p>
<p>
The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s eyes that the damp sleeve of
her peignoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her
chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder
of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into
the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer
to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was
crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married
life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance
of her husband&rsquo;s kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be
tacit and self-understood.
</p>
<p>
An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar
part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It
was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul&rsquo;s summer day. It
was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly
upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her
footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry
all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round
arms and nipping at her bare insteps.
</p>
<p>
The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which
might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer.
</p>
<p>
The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the
rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was
returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at
the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which
seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be
gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away
from Klein&rsquo;s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most
women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!&rdquo; she exclaimed,
smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! we&rsquo;ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,&rdquo; he laughed, as
he prepared to kiss her good-by.
</p>
<p>
The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that
numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great
favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to
say goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting,
as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.
</p>
<p>
A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It
was from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with luscious and
toothsome bits&mdash;the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two,
delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box;
she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The pates and
fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And
the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little
greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the
world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.
</p>
<h2>
IV
</h2>
<p>
It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his
own satisfaction or any one else&rsquo;s wherein his wife failed in her duty
toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than
perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and
ample atonement.
</p>
<p>
If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was
not apt to rush crying to his mother&rsquo;s arms for comfort; he would more
likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of
his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and
stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted
voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The
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 and brushed.
</p>
<p>
In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed
to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering
about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary,
threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their
children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to
efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels.
</p>
<p>
Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment of
every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a
brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adele Ratignolle.
There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so
often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our
dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty
was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor
confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but
sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of
cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was
growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the
grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white
neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands
more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she
threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle
finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice
or a bib.
</p>
<p>
Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her
sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was sitting
there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had
possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a
diminutive pair of night-drawers.
</p>
<p>
She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out&mdash;a
marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby&rsquo;s body so effectually
that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an
Eskimo&rsquo;s. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came
down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found their way
through key-holes.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s mind was quite at rest concerning the present material
needs of her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating and
making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But
she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought
forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and
under Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s directions she had cut a pattern of the
impervious garment.
</p>
<p>
Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs.
Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning
listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she
held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.
</p>
<p>
That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon a
stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it could
possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years. About
every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and was
beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always talking about her
&ldquo;condition.&rdquo; Her &ldquo;condition&rdquo; was in no way apparent, and no one would have
known a thing about it but for her persistence in making it the subject of
conversation.
</p>
<p>
Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had
subsisted upon nougat during the entire&mdash;but seeing the color mount
into Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s face he checked himself and changed the subject.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at
home in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so
intimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun&rsquo;s.
They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom
existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which distinguished
them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly was their entire
absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at first
incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in reconciling it
with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn and
unmistakable.
</p>
<p>
Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard Madame
Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of one of
her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was growing
accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting color back
from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the droll
story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group of married
women.
</p>
<p>
A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read
it, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read the book
in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done so,&mdash;to
hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openly
criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being
astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.
</p>
</section>
<section id="2">
  <h2>
    V
  </h2>
  <p>
    They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoon&mdash;Madame
    Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a story or incident with
    much expressive gesture of her perfect hands; Robert and Mrs. Pontellier
    sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, glances or smiles which
    indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.
  </p>
  <p>
    He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought anything
    of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to Mrs.
    Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was eleven
    years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted himself the
    devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it was a young
    girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some interesting married
    woman.
  </p>
  <p>
    For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle
    Duvigne&rsquo;s presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed as an
    inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle for
    whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to vouchsafe.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might
    look upon a faultless Madonna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?&rdquo; murmured
    Robert. &ldquo;She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was
    &lsquo;Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby
    sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and read
    Daudet to me while I sew.&rsquo;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet,
    like a troublesome cat.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on
    the scene, then it WAS like a dog. &lsquo;Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!&rsquo;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,&rdquo; she interjoined, with
    excessive naivete. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of the
    left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the Creole
    husband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which has
    become dwarfed by disuse.
  </p>
  <p>
    Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his one
    time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights, of
    consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge.
    While the lady at the needle kept up a little running, contemptuous
    comment:
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Blagueur&mdash;farceur&mdash;gros bete, va!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. She
    never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was impossible
    for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest.
    It was understood that he had often spoken words of love to Madame
    Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier
    was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have
    been unacceptable and annoying.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes
    dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling. She felt in
    it satisfaction of a kind which no other employment afforded her.
  </p>
  <p>
    She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that
    lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there like
    some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching her
    splendid color.
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs.
    Pontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with a
    certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close acquaintance
    with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed her work with
    close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory expressions of
    appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Mais ce n&rsquo;est pas mal! Elle s&rsquo;y connait, elle a de la force, oui.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against
    Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he repeated
    the offense. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his
    part; yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did not
    remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but firmly. He offered no
    apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance to Madame Ratignolle.
    She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her. But it
    was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects satisfying.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch
    critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, and
    crumpled the paper between her hands.
  </p>
  <p>
    The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at the
    respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. Pontellier
    made them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought to detain
    them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in
    earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbon box.
    They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding
    out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they might be
    filled; and then away they went.
  </p>
  <p>
    The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that came
    up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea. Children
    freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the oaks. Their
    voices were high and penetrating.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread
    all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She complained
    of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan. She
    bathed Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s face with cologne, while Robert plied the fan
    with unnecessary vigor.
  </p>
  <p>
    The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if
    there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the
    rose tint had never faded from her friend&rsquo;s face.
  </p>
  <p>
    She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries
    with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess.
    Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her white skirts,
    the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand endearments bore it
    along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, as everybody well knew,
    the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a pin!
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are you going bathing?&rdquo; asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so
    much a question as a reminder.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she answered, with a tone of indecision. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tired; I think
    not.&rdquo; Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose
    sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, come!&rdquo; he insisted. &ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t miss your bath. Come on. The water
    must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the
    door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked away
    together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the breeze was
    soft and warm.
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    VI
  </h2>
  <p>
    Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with
    Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the second
    place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory impulses
    which impelled her.
  </p>
  <p>
    A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,&mdash;the light
    which, showing the way, forbids it.
  </p>
  <p>
    At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to
    dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome her
    the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.
  </p>
  <p>
    In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the
    universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual
    to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight
    of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight&mdash;perhaps
    more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any
    woman.
  </p>
  <p>
    But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague,
    tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge
    from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!
  </p>
  <p>
    The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring,
    murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude;
    to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.
  </p>
  <p>
    The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous,
    enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    VII
  </h2>
  <p>
    Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic
    hitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own
    small life all within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended
    instinctively the dual life&mdash;that outward existence which conforms,
    the inward life which questions.
  </p>
  <p>
    That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of
    reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been&mdash;there
    must have been&mdash;influences, both subtle and apparent, working in
    their several ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the
    influence of Adele Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of the Creole
    had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility to beauty.
    Then the candor of the woman&rsquo;s whole existence, which every one might
    read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve&mdash;this
    might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use in
    forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well
    call love.
  </p>
  <p>
    The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm,
    under the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratignolle
    to leave the children behind, though she could not induce her to
    relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele begged to be
    allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some unaccountable way
    they had escaped from Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a
    long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that bordered
    it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There were acres
    of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away still,
    vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of orange or
    lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened from afar in
    the sun.
  </p>
  <p>
    The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the
    more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier&rsquo;s physique
    stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long, clean and
    symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into splendid poses;
    there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped fashion-plate about it. A
    casual and indiscriminating observer, in passing, might not cast a second
    glance upon the figure. But with more feeling and discernment he would
    have recognized the noble beauty of its modeling, and the graceful
    severity of poise and movement, which made Edna Pontellier different from
    the crowd.
  </p>
  <p>
    She wore a cool muslin that morning&mdash;white, with a waving vertical
    line of brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big
    straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat
    rested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was heavy,
    and clung close to her head.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze veil
    about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that protected her
    wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness of ruffles that
    became her. The draperies and fluttering things which she wore suited her
    rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of line could not have done.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid
    construction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water.
    Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun&rsquo;s
    possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential
    paraphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the owners might
    desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just strolled
    down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the water. The
    Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another under the same
    roof.
  </p>
  <p>
    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 two huge hair
    pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the front of the
    building.
  </p>
  <p>
    The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by side,
    with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended. Madame
    Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicate
    handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried
    suspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon. Edna
    removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan
    from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her companion. It
    was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks about
    the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy,
    stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered the skirts of
    the two women and kept them for a while engaged in adjusting, readjusting,
    tucking in, securing hair-pins and hat-pins. A few persons were sporting
    some distance away in the water. The beach was very still of human sound
    at that hour. The lady in black was reading her morning devotions on the
    porch of a neighboring bathhouse. Two young lovers were exchanging their
    hearts&rsquo; yearnings beneath the children&rsquo;s tent, which they had found
    unoccupied.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest
    upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the
    blue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the
    horizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and
    others to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of whom&mdash;of what are you thinking?&rdquo; 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 and fixed
    every feature into a statuesque repose.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: &ldquo;How
    stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to such a
    question. Let me see,&rdquo; she went on, throwing back her head and narrowing
    her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. &ldquo;Let me see.
    I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but perhaps I can
    retrace my thoughts.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! never mind!&rdquo; laughed Madame Ratignolle. &ldquo;I am not quite so exacting.
    I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think, especially to
    think about thinking.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;But for the fun of it,&rdquo; persisted Edna. &ldquo;First of all, the sight of the
    water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the blue sky,
    made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. The hot
    wind beating in my face made me think&mdash;without any connection that I
    can trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as
    the ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which was
    higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she
    walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I see
    the connection now!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;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 green
    before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without coming to the
    end of it. I don&rsquo;t remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I must
    have been entertained.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Likely as not it was Sunday,&rdquo; she laughed; &ldquo;and I was running away from
    prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by my
    father that chills me yet to think of.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma chere?&rdquo; asked
    Madame Ratignolle, amused.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No! oh, no!&rdquo; Edna hastened to say. &ldquo;I was a little unthinking child in
    those days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On the
    contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold upon me;
    after I was twelve and until-until&mdash;why, I suppose until now, though
    I never thought much about it&mdash;just driven along by habit. But do you
    know,&rdquo; she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and
    leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of
    her companion, &ldquo;sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through
    the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was
    near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly
    and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand,
    murmuring in an undertone, &ldquo;Pauvre cherie.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent
    herself readily to the Creole&rsquo;s gentle caress. She was not accustomed to
    an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in
    others. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal
    through force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was
    matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and
    housewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having died
    when they were quite young, Margaret was not effusive; she was practical.
    Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether accidentally or not,
    they seemed to have been all of one type&mdash;the self-contained. She
    never realized that the reserve of her own character had much, perhaps
    everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friend at school had been
    one of rather exceptional intellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding
    essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate; and with her she talked
    and glowed over the English classics, and sometimes held religious and
    political controversies.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly
    disturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her
    part. At a very early age&mdash;perhaps it was when she traversed the
    ocean of waving grass&mdash;she remembered that she had been passionately
    enamored of a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her
    father in Kentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there,
    nor remove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon&rsquo;s,
    with a lock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry
    officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence.
  </p>
  <p>
    At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman
    who visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went to
    Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the young
    lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of afternoons
    in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her teens; and the
    realization that she herself was nothing, nothing, nothing to the engaged
    young man was a bitter affliction to her. But he, too, went the way of
    dreams.
  </p>
  <p>
    She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed to
    be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a great
    tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The
    persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The
    hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.
  </p>
  <p>
    The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one may
    possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or comment.
    (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the presence of
    others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as she handed the
    photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the likeness. When alone
    she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold glass passionately.
  </p>
  <p>
    Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this respect
    resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees of Fate.
    It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met him. He fell
    in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his suit with an
    earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired. He pleased her;
    his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy of
    thought and taste between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. Add to
    this the violent opposition of her father and her sister Margaret to her
    marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives
    which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for her husband.
  </p>
  <p>
    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 who worshiped
    her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in the world
    of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm of
    romance and dreams.
  </p>
  <p>
    But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry
    officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found herself
    face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, realizing
    with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion or excessive
    and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby threatening its
    dissolution.
  </p>
  <p>
    She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would
    sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes
    forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with their
    grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding their
    happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an occasional
    intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though she did not
    admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a responsibility
    which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not fitted her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer
    day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of it
    escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s shoulder.
    She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and
    the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a
    first breath of freedom.
  </p>
  <p>
    There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by a
    troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers were
    with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s little girl in his arms.
    There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, looking
    disagreeable and resigned.
  </p>
  <p>
    The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax
    their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the
    bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood
    there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging their
    vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, and walked
    slowly away somewhere else.
  </p>
  <p>
    The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went
    over to join them.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she
    complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaned
    draggingly upon his arm as they walked.
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    VIII
  </h2>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do me a favor, Robert,&rdquo; spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as
    soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked up
    in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the
    umbrella which he had lifted.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Granted; as many as you like,&rdquo; he returned, glancing down into her eyes
    that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Tiens!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. &ldquo;Voila que Madame
    Ratignolle est jalouse!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Nonsense! I&rsquo;m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier alone.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; he asked; himself growing serious at his companion&rsquo;s solicitation.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the unfortunate
    blunder of taking you seriously.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began to
    beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t she take
    me seriously?&rdquo; he demanded sharply. &ldquo;Am I a comedian, a clown, a
    jack-in-the-box? Why shouldn&rsquo;t she? You Creoles! I have no patience with
    you! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme? I
    hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she has discernment
    enough to find in me something besides the blagueur. If I thought there
    was any doubt&mdash;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, enough, Robert!&rdquo; she broke into his heated outburst. &ldquo;You are not
    thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little reflection
    as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the
    sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with
    any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all
    know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and
    daughters of the people who trust you.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the
    gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! well! That isn&rsquo;t it,&rdquo; slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head.
    &ldquo;You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a
    fellow.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? Ma
    foi!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t pleasant to have a woman tell you&mdash;&rdquo; he went on,
    unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: &ldquo;Now if I were like Arobin-you
    remember Alcee Arobin and that story of the consul&rsquo;s wife at Biloxi?&rdquo; And
    he related the story of Alcee Arobin and the consul&rsquo;s wife; and another
    about the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should
    never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs.
    Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was
    apparently forgotten.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the
    hour&rsquo;s rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert
    begged her pardon for the impatience&mdash;he called it rudeness&mdash;with
    which he had received her well-meant caution.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You made one mistake, Adele,&rdquo; he said, with a light smile; &ldquo;there is no
    earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You
    should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might
    then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. Au
    revoir. But you look tired,&rdquo; he added, solicitously. &ldquo;Would you like a cup
    of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop
    of Angostura.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and
    acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart
    from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself
    brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a
    flaky cracker or two on the saucer.
  </p>
  <p>
    She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open
    door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon
    garcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward &ldquo;the
    house.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were
    leaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the sea. There was
    not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been
    turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady
    in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than
    usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert
    scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain
    away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother&rsquo;s room. It
    was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer,
    sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and
    as far across it as a man&rsquo;s eye might reach. The furnishings of the room
    were light, cool, and practical.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black
    girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the
    machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided
    of imperiling her health.
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer
    windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read
    it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the
    leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was
    of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother
    exchanged bits of desultory conversation.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where is Mrs. Pontellier?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Down at the beach with the children.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don&rsquo;t forget to take it down when
    you go; it&rsquo;s there on the bookshelf over the small table.&rdquo; Clatter,
    clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where is Victor going with the rockaway?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The rockaway? Victor?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away
    somewhere.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Call him.&rdquo; Clatter, clatter!
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back
    at the wharf.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t look up.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called &ldquo;Victor!&rdquo; She waved a
    handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle
    and started the horse off at a gallop.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was
    the younger son and brother&mdash;a tete montee, with a temper which
    invited violence and a will which no ax could break.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Whenever you say the word I&rsquo;m ready to thrash any amount of reason into
    him that he&rsquo;s able to hold.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;If your father had only lived!&rdquo; Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang!
    It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe
    and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more
    intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other
    spheres during the early years of their married life.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What do you hear from Montel?&rdquo; Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose
    vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the
    void which Monsieur Lebrun&rsquo;s taking off had left in the Lebrun household.
    Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I have a letter somewhere,&rdquo; looking in the machine drawer and finding the
    letter in the bottom of the workbasket. &ldquo;He says to tell you he will be in
    Vera Cruz the beginning of next month,&rdquo;&mdash;clatter, clatter!&mdash;&ldquo;and
    if you still have the intention of joining him&rdquo;&mdash;bang! clatter,
    clatter, bang!
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted&mdash;&rdquo;
    Clatter, clatter, clatter!
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be
    in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till
    the last minute.&rdquo; Clatter, clatter! &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where did you say the Goncourt was?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    IX
  </h2>
  <p>
    Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could
    be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were
    fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one
    had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful
    festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened
    against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which
    puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that
    swept up from the Gulf.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held
    between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An
    unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay
    over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families,
    with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been
    removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in
    clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its
    domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent
    disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more
    general tone to the conversation.
  </p>
  <p>
    Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual
    bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor
    looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had
    brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so,
    and making their authority felt.
  </p>
  <p>
    Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished,
    or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme,
    no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.
  </p>
  <p>
    At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to
    play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin&rsquo;s
    colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at
    their baptism. They played a duet from &ldquo;Zampa,&rdquo; and at the earnest
    solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to &ldquo;The
    Poet and the Peasant.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Allez vous-en! Sapristi!&rdquo; shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was
    the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he
    was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that
    summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant
    over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and
    consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees
    were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no
    further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature
    apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that
    one impetuous outburst.
  </p>
  <p>
    Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present
    had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city.
  </p>
  <p>
    A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The
    mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her daughter
    with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no
    apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been
    properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk tights.
    Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped,
    stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of
    grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they shot out and upward
    with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering.
  </p>
  <p>
    But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame Ratignolle
    could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others. She
    played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an expression
    into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music
    on account of the children, she said; because she and her husband both
    considered it a means of brightening the home and making it attractive.
  </p>
  <p>
    Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to
    separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling
    around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced together, but
    they did not think of it.
  </p>
  <p>
    The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with shrieks
    and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted to sit up
    till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of human
    indulgence.
  </p>
  <p>
    The ice-cream was passed around with cake&mdash;gold and silver cake
    arranged on platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen
    during the afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the
    supervision of Victor. It was pronounced a great success&mdash;excellent
    if it had only contained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if
    it had been frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept
    out of portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about
    recommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess.
  </p>
  <p>
    After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with Robert,
    and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and swayed like a
    reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the gallery and seated
    herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded a view of all that
    went on in the hall and could look out toward the Gulf. There was a soft
    effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up, and its mystic shimmer was
    casting a million lights across the distant, restless water.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?&rdquo; asked Robert, coming out
    on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear Mademoiselle
    Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask her,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell her that you want to hear her. She
    likes you. She will come.&rdquo; He turned and hurried away to one of the far
    cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging a
    chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the crying of
    a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavoring to put to
    sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had
    quarreled with almost every one, owing to a temper which was
    self-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the rights of others.
    Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty.
  </p>
  <p>
    She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an
    awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman, with
    a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had absolutely no
    taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with a bunch of
    artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,&rdquo; she requested
    of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching the
    keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A general
    air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one as they saw
    the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and a prevailing air of
    expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus
    signaled out for the imperious little woman&rsquo;s favor. She would not dare to
    choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz would please herself in her
    selections.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains, well
    rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes liked
    to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or practiced.
    One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled &ldquo;Solitude.&rdquo; It was a
    short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the piece was something else,
    but she called it &ldquo;Solitude.&rdquo; When she heard it there came before her
    imagination the figure of a man standing beside a desolate rock on the
    seashore. He was naked. His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he
    looked toward a distant bird winging its flight away from him.
  </p>
  <p>
    Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire
    gown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue between
    tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play, and still
    another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat.
  </p>
  <p>
    The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano sent
    a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s spinal column. It was not the first
    time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the first time
    she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered to take an
    impress of the abiding truth.
  </p>
  <p>
    She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and
    blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures of
    solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions
    themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the
    waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking,
    and the tears blinded her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she
    went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed along
    the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, how did you like my music?&rdquo; she asked. The young woman was unable
    to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle
    Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She patted her again
    upon the shoulder as she said:
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!&rdquo; and she went
    shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room.
  </p>
  <p>
    But she was mistaken about &ldquo;those others.&rdquo; Her playing had aroused a fever
    of enthusiasm. &ldquo;What passion!&rdquo; &ldquo;What an artist!&rdquo; &ldquo;I have always said no
    one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!&rdquo; &ldquo;That last prelude! Bon
    Dieu! It shakes a man!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But
    some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and
    under that mystic moon.
  </p>
  <p>
</section>
<section id="3">
  <h2>
    X
  </h2>
  <p>
    At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.
    There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did not
    lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered behind
    with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold
    themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or
    mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.
  </p>
  <p>
    The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the
    arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert&rsquo;s voice behind them, and
    could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join them.
    It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for
    an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next, as
    though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him the days
    when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the
    sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was
    shining.
  </p>
  <p>
    The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and
    laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein&rsquo;s
    hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance.
    There were strange, rare odors abroad&mdash;a tangle of the sea smell and
    of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a
    field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the
    sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows.
    The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and
    the softness of sleep.
  </p>
  <p>
    Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The
    sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into
    one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests
    that coiled back like slow, white serpents.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received
    instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the
    children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was
    nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his
    efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water,
    unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her.
  </p>
  <p>
    But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching
    child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time
    alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy.
    She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her
    body to the surface of the water.
  </p>
  <p>
    A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant
    import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul.
    She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to
    swim far out, where no woman had swum before.
  </p>
  <p>
    Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and
    admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had
    accomplished this desired end.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;How easy it is!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;It is nothing,&rdquo; she said aloud; &ldquo;why did I
    not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost
    splashing about like a baby!&rdquo; She would not join the groups in their
    sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam
    out alone.
  </p>
  <p>
    She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and
    solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the
    moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be
    reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.
  </p>
  <p>
    Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had
    left there. She had not gone any great distance&mdash;that is, what would
    have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her
    unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of
    a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome.
  </p>
  <p>
    A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled
    and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering
    faculties and managed to regain the land.
  </p>
  <p>
    She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror,
    except to say to her husband, &ldquo;I thought I should have perished out there
    alone.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,&rdquo; he told her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes
    and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She
    started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She
    waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their
    renewed cries which sought to detain her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious,&rdquo; said
    Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna&rsquo;s
    abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I know she is,&rdquo; assented Mr. Pontellier; &ldquo;sometimes, not often.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before
    she was overtaken by Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Did you think I was afraid?&rdquo; she asked him, without a shade of annoyance.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; I knew you weren&rsquo;t afraid.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then why did you come? Why didn&rsquo;t you stay out there with the others?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I never thought of it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Thought of what?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of anything. What difference does it make?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m very tired,&rdquo; she uttered, complainingly.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I know you are.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so
    exhausted in my life. But it isn&rsquo;t unpleasant. A thousand emotions have
    swept through me to-night. I don&rsquo;t comprehend half of them. Don&rsquo;t mind
    what I&rsquo;m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be
    stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz&rsquo;s playing moved me to-night. I wonder
    if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night
    in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings.
    There must be spirits abroad to-night.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There are,&rdquo; whispered Robert, &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you know this was the twenty-eighth
    of August?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The twenty-eighth of August?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the
    moon is shining&mdash;the moon must be shining&mdash;a spirit that has
    haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own
    penetrating vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him
    company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the
    semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has
    sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But 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 walk in
    the shadow of her divine presence.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t banter me,&rdquo; she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy.
    He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of
    pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her
    that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to
    offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had
    been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts
    trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it.
    She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere&mdash;somewhere
    in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them.
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her
    door out to the trunk of a tree.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?&rdquo; he asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stay out here. Good-night.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Shall I get you a pillow?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There&rsquo;s one here,&rdquo; she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No matter.&rdquo; And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her
    head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief.
    She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given
    to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like
    suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed
    to invade her whole body.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?&rdquo; asked Robert, seating
    himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the
    hammock rope which was fastened to the post.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;If you wish. Don&rsquo;t swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I
    left on the window-sill over at the house?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are you chilly?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; but I shall be presently.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Presently?&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;Do you know what time it is? How long are you
    going to stay out here?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. Will you get the shawl?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of course I will,&rdquo; he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking
    along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of
    moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.
  </p>
  <p>
    When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She
    did not put it around her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I said you might if you wished to.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in
    silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could
    have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant
    with the first-felt throbbings of desire.
  </p>
  <p>
    When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said
    good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she
    watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked
    away.
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    XI
  </h2>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed,&rdquo;
    said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up
    with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are you asleep?&rdquo; he asked, bending down close to look at her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they
    looked into his.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do you know it is past one o&rsquo;clock? Come on,&rdquo; and he mounted the steps
    and went into their room.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Edna!&rdquo; called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone
    by.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t wait for me,&rdquo; she answered. He thrust his head through the door.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You will take cold out there,&rdquo; he said, irritably. &ldquo;What folly is this?
    Why don&rsquo;t you come in?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t cold; I have my shawl.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The mosquitoes will devour you.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There are no mosquitoes.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and
    irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would,
    through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of
    submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we
    walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which
    has been portioned out to us.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?&rdquo; he asked again, this time
    fondly, with a note of entreaty.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; I am going to stay out here.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;This is more than folly,&rdquo; he blurted out. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t permit you to stay out
    there all night. You must come in the house instantly.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock.
    She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She
    could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She
    wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if
    she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that
    she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded,
    feeling as she then did.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Leonce, go to bed,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I mean to stay out here. I don&rsquo;t wish to
    go in, and I don&rsquo;t intend to. Don&rsquo;t speak to me like that again; I shall
    not answer you.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment.
    He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in
    a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the
    gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up
    the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke
    a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass
    of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was
    offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated
    feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a
    delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities
    pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her;
    the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her
    helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.
  </p>
  <p>
    The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the
    world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
    silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and
    the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She
    tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into
    the house.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are you coming in, Leonce?&rdquo; she asked, turning her face toward her
    husband.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes, dear,&rdquo; he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke.
    &ldquo;Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    XII
  </h2>
  <p>
    She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,
    disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only
    an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She
    was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was
    invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not
    seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from
    within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she
    had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of
    responsibility.
  </p>
  <p>
    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 moving about. The
    lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling
    toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, velvet
    and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them at no
    great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half
    inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw
    hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady
    in black, never overtaking her.
  </p>
  <p>
    The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun&rsquo;s sewing-machine was
    sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. Edna
    sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Tell him I am going to the Cheniere. The boat is ready; tell him to
    hurry.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had never
    asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did not appear
    conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding his presence.
    He was apparently equally unconscious of anything extraordinary in the
    situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet glow when he met her.
  </p>
  <p>
    They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no time
    to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window and the
    cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and ate from
    the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good.
  </p>
  <p>
    She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often
    noticed that she lacked forethought.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you up?&rdquo;
    she laughed. &ldquo;Do I have to think of everything?&mdash;as Leonce says when
    he&rsquo;s in a bad humor. I don&rsquo;t blame him; he&rsquo;d never be in a bad humor if it
    weren&rsquo;t for me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see the
    curious procession moving toward the wharf&mdash;the lovers, shoulder to
    shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old
    Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted
    Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,
    bringing up the rear.
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one
    present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a
    round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and
    she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were broad
    and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her feet, and
    noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.
  </p>
  <p>
    Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room.
    In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who considered
    himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel with so old
    a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. The girl was
    deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy the next,
    moving her head up and down, making &ldquo;eyes&rdquo; at Robert and making &ldquo;mouths&rdquo;
    at Beaudelet.
  </p>
  <p>
    The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The lady
    in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur Farival
    talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of what
    Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown
    toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why does she look at me like that?&rdquo; inquired the girl of Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No. Is she your sweetheart?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a married lady, and has two children.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano&rsquo;s wife, who had four children.
    They took all his money and one of the children and stole his boat.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Shut up!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Does she understand?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, hush!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are those two married over there&mdash;leaning on each other?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of course not,&rdquo; laughed Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of course not,&rdquo; echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of
    the head.
  </p>
  <p>
    The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna
    to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held
    his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water,
    the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old
    Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the
    sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath.
  </p>
  <p>
    Sailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if she were
    being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains
    had been loosening&mdash;had snapped the night before when the mystic
    spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to
    set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed
    Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered
    with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to
    herself sullenly.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?&rdquo; said Robert in a low voice.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What shall we do there?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold
    snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone
    there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean&rsquo;s roar and watching
    the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,&rdquo; he went
    on.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What shall we do there?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Anything&mdash;cast bait for fish.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; we&rsquo;ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll go wherever you like,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have Tonie come over and help
    me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are
    you afraid of the pirogue?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;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 the
    treasures are hidden&mdash;direct you to the very spot, perhaps.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;And in a day we should be rich!&rdquo; she laughed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give it all to you,
    the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you
    would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn&rsquo;t a thing to be hoarded or
    utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the
    fun of seeing the golden specks fly.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;We&rsquo;d share it, and scatter it together,&rdquo; he said. His face flushed.
  </p>
  <p>
    They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady
    of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun&rsquo;s glare.
  </p>
  <p>
    Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita
    walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill
    humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.
  </p>
  <p>
  <h2>
    XIII
  </h2>
  <p>
    A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service.
    Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her
    eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure;
    but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and
    reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert&rsquo;s feet with a muttered
    apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon
    seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back into his
    seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in black, who did not
    notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon the pages of her
    velvet prayer-book.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I felt giddy and almost overcome,&rdquo; Edna said, lifting her hands
    instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead.
    &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t have stayed through the service.&rdquo; They were outside in the
    shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone
    staying. Come over to Madame Antoine&rsquo;s; you can rest there.&rdquo; He took her
    arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her
    face.
  </p>
  <p>
    How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the
    reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray,
    weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must
    always have been God&rsquo;s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought. They
    stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water.
    A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which
    was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in
    the ground. The water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was not
    cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived
    and refreshed her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Antoine&rsquo;s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them
    with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door to let
    the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across the
    floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand
    that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to rest, she was all
    eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of her comfortably.
  </p>
  <p>
    The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed,
    snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which
    looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a
    disabled boat lying keel upward.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she supposed
    he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and wait for
    him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame Antoine
    busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boiling
    mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing
    the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms in the
    basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and stockings
    and stretched herself in the very center of the high, white bed. How
    luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet
    country odor of laurel lingering about the sheets and mattress! She
    stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ran her fingers
    through her loosened hair for a while. She looked at her round arms as she
    held them straight up and rubbed them one after the other, observing
    closely, as if it were something she saw for the first time, the fine,
    firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped her hands easily above
    her head, and it was thus she fell asleep.
  </p>
  <p>
    She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the
    things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine&rsquo;s heavy, scraping tread as
    she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were clucking
    outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she
    half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking under the shed. She did
    not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her sleepy eyes.
    The voices went on&mdash;Tonie&rsquo;s slow, Acadian drawl, Robert&rsquo;s quick,
    soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectly unless directly
    addressed, and the voices were only part of the other drowsy, muffled
    sounds lulling her senses.
  </p>
  <p>
    When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and
    soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine&rsquo;s step was
    no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had gone
    elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over her; the
    old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose
    quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window, she
    saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced.
    Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the
    sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book. Tonie was
    no longer with him. She wondered what had become of the rest of the party.
    She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in
    the little basin between the windows.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had
    placed a box of poudre de riz within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder
    upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little
    distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were
    bright and wide awake and her face glowed.
  </p>
  <p>
    When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She
    was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the
    table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a
    crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece
    from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured
    some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly
    out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree,
    threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up.
  </p>
  <p>
    An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her
    under the orange tree.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;How many years have I slept?&rdquo; she inquired. &ldquo;The whole island seems
    changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me
    as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and
    when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your
    slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading
    a book. The only evil I couldn&rsquo;t prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from
    drying up.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,&rdquo; said Edna, moving with
    him into the house. &ldquo;But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and
    the others?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it
    best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn&rsquo;t have let them. What was I here
    for?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!&rdquo; she speculated, as she seated herself
    at table.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Of course not; he knows you are with me,&rdquo; Robert replied, as he busied
    himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing
    on the hearth.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where are Madame Antoine and her son?&rdquo; asked Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you
    back in Tonie&rsquo;s boat whenever you are ready to go.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle
    afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and
    sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the
    mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was
    childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with
    which she ate the food which he had procured for her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Shall we go right away?&rdquo; she asked, after draining her glass and brushing
    together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The sun isn&rsquo;t as low as it will be in two hours,&rdquo; he answered.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The sun will be gone in two hours.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, let it go; who cares!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came
    back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence.
    Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any
    woman except his mother.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun
    dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and
    gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque
    monsters across the grass.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground&mdash;that is, he lay upon the
    ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside
    the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up
    to the storytelling pitch.
  </p>
  <p>
    And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the
    Cheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had
    squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the
    Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it.
    Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled
    gold.
  </p>
  <p>
    When she and Robert stepped into Tonie&rsquo;s boat, with the red lateen sail,
    misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and
    upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XIV
  </h2>
  <p>
    The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said,
    as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling
    to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him
    and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep
    for two hours.
  </p>
  <p>
    The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up
    as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist
    he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took
    him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and
    caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was not more than nine o&rsquo;clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the
    children.
  </p>
  <p>
    Leonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had
    wanted to start at once for the Cheniere. But Monsieur Farival had assured
    him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie
    would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been
    dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein&rsquo;s, looking up
    some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities,
    exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did
    not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was
    suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of
    salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for
    Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left
    alone.
  </p>
  <p>
    When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and
    Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child
    comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from
    the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert&mdash;since
    early this morning?&rdquo; she said at parting.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Goodnight.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did
    not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband&rsquo;s return. She had no desire to
    sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the
    Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices
    reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind
    wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein
    this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her
    life. She could only realize that she herself&mdash;her present self&mdash;was
    in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with
    different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself
    that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect.
  </p>
  <p>
    She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to
    her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong day.
    She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he had
    gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not
    absolutely required to leave her.
  </p>
  <p>
    As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had
    sung as they crossed the bay. It began with &ldquo;Ah! Si tu savais,&rdquo; and every
    verse ended with &ldquo;si tu savais.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert&rsquo;s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice,
    the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.
  </p>
</section>
<section id="4">
  <h2>
    XV
  </h2>
  <p>
    When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her
    habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several
    persons were talking at once, and Victor&rsquo;s voice was predominating, even
    over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed
    in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty
    white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table
    between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle.
  </p>
  <p>
    As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had
    been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her
    simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down
    and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her all
    the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She had
    not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say he was at
    the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing of,
    though she was surprised when he did not join her later in the afternoon,
    when she went down to the beach.
  </p>
  <p>
    She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided.
    Edna&rsquo;s face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she never thought
    of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a smile as he
    returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. &ldquo;When is he going?&rdquo;
    she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert were not there to answer
    for himself.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;To-night!&rdquo; &ldquo;This very evening!&rdquo; &ldquo;Did you ever!&rdquo; &ldquo;What possesses him!&rdquo;
    were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French
    and English.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;How can a person start off from Grand Isle
    to Mexico at a moment&rsquo;s notice, as if he were going over to Klein&rsquo;s or to
    the wharf or down to the beach?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I said all along I was going to Mexico; I&rsquo;ve been saying so for years!&rdquo;
    cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man
    defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going to-night,&rdquo;
    she called out. &ldquo;Really, this table is getting to be more and more like
    Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes&mdash;I hope
    God will forgive me&mdash;but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would
    lose the power of speech.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, of
    which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might afford
    her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself.
  </p>
  <p>
    Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in
    mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would be
    more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim for
    making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a trifle
    hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing much to explain, mother,&rdquo; he said; though he explained,
    nevertheless&mdash;looking chiefly at Edna&mdash;that he could only meet
    the gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and
    such a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet was
    going out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave him an
    opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;But when did you make up your mind to all this?&rdquo; demanded Monsieur
    Farival.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;This afternoon,&rdquo; returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;At what time this afternoon?&rdquo; persisted the old gentleman, with nagging
    determination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a court of
    justice.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;At four o&rsquo;clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,&rdquo; Robert replied, in a
    high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentleman on
    the stage.
  </p>
  <p>
    She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking
    the flaky bits of a court bouillon with her fork.
  </p>
  <p>
    The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speak
    in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were interesting to
    no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a pair of
    prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico, with very special
    indulgence attached to them, but she had never been able to ascertain
    whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. Father Fochel
    of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had not done so to
    her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert would interest himself, and
    discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to the indulgence
    accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in
    dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous people,
    unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no injustice in thus
    condemning them as a race. She had known personally but one Mexican, who
    made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she would have trusted
    implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was arrested for stabbing
    his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not.
  </p>
  <p>
    Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote about a
    Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in Dauphine
    Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival, who went into
    convulsions over the droll story.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at
    that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the
    Mexicans.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;At what time do you leave?&rdquo; she asked Robert.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;At ten,&rdquo; he told her. &ldquo;Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Are you all ready to go?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in the
    city.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna,
    having finished her black coffee, left the table.
  </p>
  <p>
    She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy
    after leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be a
    hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began to set
    the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the quadroon,
    who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed. She gathered
    together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of chairs, and put
    each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She changed her gown
    for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She rearranged her hair,
    combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then she went in and assisted
    the quadroon in getting the boys to bed.
  </p>
  <p>
    They were very playful and inclined to talk&mdash;to do anything but lie
    quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and told
    her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a story.
    Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their wakefulness. She
    left them in heated argument, speculating about the conclusion of the tale
    which their mother promised to finish the following night.
  </p>
  <p>
    The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to have
    Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr. Robert
    went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, that she
    did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the house later.
    She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to remove her
    peignoir. But changing her mind once more she resumed the peignoir, and
    went outside and sat down before her door. She was overheated and
    irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while. Madame Ratignolle
    came down to discover what was the matter.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,&rdquo; replied
    Edna, &ldquo;and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert
    starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it were
    a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all morning when
    he was with me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; agreed Madame Ratignolle. &ldquo;I think it was showing us all&mdash;you
    especially&mdash;very little consideration. It wouldn&rsquo;t have surprised me
    in any of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must
    say I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not
    coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn&rsquo;t look friendly.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Edna, a little sullenly. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t go to the trouble of dressing
    again; I don&rsquo;t feel like it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your waist.
    Just look at me!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No,&rdquo; persisted Edna; &ldquo;but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended if
    we both stayed away.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth
    rather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation which
    was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.
  </p>
  <p>
    Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you feeling well?&rdquo; he asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He lit a match and looked at his watch. &ldquo;In twenty minutes,&rdquo; he said. The
    sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a while.
    He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the porch.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Get a chair,&rdquo; said Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;This will do,&rdquo; he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took it
    off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of the
    heat.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Take the fan,&rdquo; said Edna, offering it to him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some time,
    and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never
    known one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Forever, perhaps. I don&rsquo;t know. It depends upon a good many things.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, in case it shouldn&rsquo;t be forever, how long will it be?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don&rsquo;t like
    it. I don&rsquo;t understand your motive for silence and mystery, never saying a
    word to me about it this morning.&rdquo; He remained silent, not offering to
    defend himself. He only said, after a moment:
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of
    patience with me before.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to part in any ill humor,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But can&rsquo;t you
    understand? I&rsquo;ve grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all the
    time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don&rsquo;t even offer
    an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of how
    pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;So was I,&rdquo; he blurted. &ldquo;Perhaps that&rsquo;s the&mdash;&rdquo; He stood up suddenly
    and held out his hand. &ldquo;Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You
    won&rsquo;t&mdash;I hope you won&rsquo;t completely forget me.&rdquo; She clung to his hand,
    striving to detain him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Write to me when you get there, won&rsquo;t you, Robert?&rdquo; she entreated.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I will, thank you. Good-by.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something more
    emphatic than &ldquo;I will, thank you; good-by,&rdquo; to such a request.
  </p>
  <p>
    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 there with
    an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked away in the
    darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet&rsquo;s voice; Robert had apparently not
    even spoken a word of greeting to his companion.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to hide,
    even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the emotion which
    was troubling&mdash;tearing&mdash;her. Her eyes were brimming with tears.
  </p>
  <p>
    For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she
    had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and
    later as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the
    poignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability.
    The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to
    heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The
    present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing
    then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held,
    that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened being
    demanded.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XVI
  </h2>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do you miss your friend greatly?&rdquo; asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning as
    she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on her way
    to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she had
    acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle drew
    near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to a
    diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she
    knew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulder and
    spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever in
    Edna&rsquo;s mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly possessed her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Robert&rsquo;s going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning
    out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way changed, but
    her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems to be no
    longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere&mdash;in others whom she
    induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun&rsquo;s
    room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. She sat there and
    chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed around the room at the
    pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, and discovered in some
    corner an old family album, which she examined with the keenest interest,
    appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment concerning the many figures
    and faces which she discovered between its pages.
  </p>
  <p>
    There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in her
    lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone in the
    baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the age of five,
    wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Edna laugh, and
    she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers; while
    another interested her, taken when he left for college, looking thin,
    long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions. But
    there was no recent picture, none which suggested the Robert who had gone
    away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for them
    himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,&rdquo; explained Madame
    Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New Orleans.
    Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to look for it
    either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on the mantelpiece.
  </p>
  <p>
    The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and
    attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark, the
    handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening it.
    There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city
    that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that he was
    well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to
    all. There was no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that
    if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the book which he had been reading to
    her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there on the
    table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his
    mother rather than to her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her
    husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert&rsquo;s departure,
    expressed regret that he had gone.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;How do you get on without him, Edna?&rdquo; he asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It&rsquo;s very dull without him,&rdquo; she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert
    in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where had they
    met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone &ldquo;in&rdquo; and had a
    drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about? Chiefly about his
    prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought were promising. How did
    he look? How did he seem&mdash;grave, or gay, or how? Quite cheerful, and
    wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier found
    altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune and adventure
    in a strange, queer country.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted
    in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She went down
    and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not being more
    attentive.
  </p>
  <p>
    It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making
    of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to speak of
    him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled
    that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to
    feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and
    emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of
    struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the
    conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no one but
    herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never
    sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a
    rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand each
    other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her
    friend, to explain.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my
    life for my children; but I wouldn&rsquo;t give myself. I can&rsquo;t make it more
    clear; it&rsquo;s only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is
    revealing itself to me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the
    unessential,&rdquo; said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; &ldquo;but a woman who would
    give her life for her children could do no more than that&mdash;your Bible
    tells you so. I&rsquo;m sure I couldn&rsquo;t do more than that.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, yes you could!&rdquo; laughed Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz&rsquo;s question the morning that
    lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked if
    she did not greatly miss her young friend.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert.
    Are you going down to bathe?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I
    haven&rsquo;t been in the surf all summer,&rdquo; replied the woman, disagreeably.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should
    have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz&rsquo;s avoidance of the water had
    furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on
    account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while
    others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed
    to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some
    chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of
    showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for
    their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass,
    she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun&rsquo;s table was
    utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame
    Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to
    pay for it.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She must feel very lonely without her son,&rdquo; said Edna, desiring to change
    the subject. &ldquo;Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let
    him go.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle laughed maliciously.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon
    you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled
    him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he
    walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can
    earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite
    son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him
    and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of
    salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That
    Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It&rsquo;s a wonder Robert hasn&rsquo;t
    beaten him to death long ago.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I thought he had great patience with his brother,&rdquo; offered Edna, glad to
    be talking about Robert, no matter what was said.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle.
    &ldquo;It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort
    of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with
    her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket&mdash;I don&rsquo;t remember
    what;&mdash;and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a
    thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good
    while. It&rsquo;s about time he was getting another.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Was her name Mariequita?&rdquo; asked Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Mariequita&mdash;yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she&rsquo;s
    a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have
    listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost
    unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned her
    bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the
    children&rsquo;s tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna
    plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her.
    She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz
    would not wait for her.
  </p>
  <p>
    But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and
    raved much over Edna&rsquo;s appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about
    music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote her
    address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in
    her pocket.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;When do you leave?&rdquo; asked Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Next Monday; and you?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The following week,&rdquo; answered Edna, adding, &ldquo;It has been a pleasant
    summer, hasn&rsquo;t it, Mademoiselle?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, &ldquo;rather pleasant, if it
    hadn&rsquo;t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <h2>
    XVII
  </h2>
  <p>
    The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New
    Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose
    round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was painted a
    dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the
    yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every
    description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within doors the
    appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The softest carpets
    and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and
    windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment and discrimination,
    upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which daily
    appeared upon the table were the envy of many women whose husbands were
    less generous than Mr. Pontellier.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its
    various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He
    greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived
    genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace
    curtain&mdash;no matter what&mdash;after he had bought it and placed it
    among his household gods.
  </p>
  <p>
    On Tuesday afternoons&mdash;Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s reception day&mdash;there
    was a constant stream of callers&mdash;women who came in carriages or in
    the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance permitted. A
    light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a diminutive silver
    tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A maid, in white fluted
    cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate, as they might
    desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained in
    the drawing-room the entire afternoon receiving her visitors. Men
    sometimes called in the evening with their wives.
  </p>
  <p>
    This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed
    since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during the week she
    and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten o&rsquo;clock,
    and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the evening&mdash;dinner
    being served at half-past seven.
  </p>
  <p>
    He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few
    weeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The
    boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet could
    be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the quadroon,
    lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not wear her
    usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress. Mr.
    Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he served
    the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?&rdquo; he asked. He tasted
    his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar, mustard&mdash;everything
    within reach.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There were a good many,&rdquo; replied Edna, who was eating her soup with
    evident satisfaction. &ldquo;I found their cards when I got home; I was out.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Out!&rdquo; exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation in
    his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her through his
    glasses. &ldquo;Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What did you have
    to do?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,&rdquo; said her husband, somewhat
    appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why, my dear, I should think you&rsquo;d understand by this time that people
    don&rsquo;t do such things; we&rsquo;ve got to observe les convenances if we ever
    expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you had
    to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable
    explanation for your absence.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;This soup is really impossible; it&rsquo;s strange that woman hasn&rsquo;t learned
    yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better
    one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don&rsquo;t remember who was here.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver
    tray, which was covered with ladies&rsquo; visiting cards. He handed it to Mrs.
    Pontellier.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Give it to Mr. Pontellier,&rdquo; she said.
  </p>
  <p>
    Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife&rsquo;s callers, reading some of
    them aloud, with comments as he read.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;The Misses Delasidas.&rsquo; I worked a big deal in futures for their father
    this morning; nice girls; it&rsquo;s time they were getting married. &lsquo;Mrs.
    Belthrop.&rsquo; I tell you what it is, Edna; you can&rsquo;t afford to snub Mrs.
    Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His business
    is worth a good, round sum to me. You&rsquo;d better write her a note. &lsquo;Mrs.
    James Highcamp.&rsquo; Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the
    better. &lsquo;Madame Laforce.&rsquo; Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor old
    soul. &lsquo;Miss Wiggs,&rsquo; &lsquo;Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.&rsquo;&rdquo; He pushed the cards aside.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Mercy!&rdquo; exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. &ldquo;Why are you taking the
    thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not making any fuss over it. But it&rsquo;s just such seeming trifles that
    we&rsquo;ve got to take seriously; such things count.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she
    did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to his
    fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were served.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It seems to me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we spend money enough in this house to procure
    at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his
    self-respect.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You used to think the cook was a treasure,&rdquo; returned Edna, indifferently.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They need
    looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ. Suppose I
    didn&rsquo;t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run things their
    own way; they&rsquo;d soon make a nice mess of me and my business.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from
    table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the highly-seasoned
    soup.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.&rdquo; He went into the
    hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.
  </p>
  <p>
    She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her very
    unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived of
    any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchen
    to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room and
    studied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing out a menu
    for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after all, she
    had accomplished no good that was worth the name.
  </p>
  <p>
    But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced deliberation.
    Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward fire that
    lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her room, having
    instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was indisposed.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim
    light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window
    and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery
    and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes
    and the dusky and 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 soothing that came to her
    from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded
    mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into
    the room and began to walk to and fro down its whole length without
    stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief,
    which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once
    she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet.
    When she saw it lying there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to
    crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark
    upon the little glittering circlet.
  </p>
  <p>
    In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung it
    upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The crash
    and clatter were what she wanted to hear.
  </p>
  <p>
    A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to discover
    what was the matter.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;A vase fell upon the hearth,&rdquo; said Edna. &ldquo;Never mind; leave it till
    morning.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; insisted the
    young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered upon
    the carpet. &ldquo;And here&rsquo;s your ring, ma&rsquo;am, under the chair.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XVIII
  </h2>
  <p>
    The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked
    Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some new
    fixtures for the library.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce. Don&rsquo;t let us get anything
    new; you are too extravagant. I don&rsquo;t believe you ever think of saving or
    putting by.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it,&rdquo;
    he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him and
    select new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she was not
    looking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale and
    very quiet.
  </p>
  <p>
    She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently
    picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She
    inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her
    white morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small
    &ldquo;express wagon,&rdquo; which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The
    quadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a
    fictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was
    crying his wares in the street.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon her
    face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the
    children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were
    all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become
    antagonistic.
  </p>
  <p>
    She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook
    concerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had
    saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly fitted.
    Mr. Pontellier&rsquo;s arguments were usually convincing with those whom he
    employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sit down
    that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner
    deserving of the name.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She
    could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her eyes.
    She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor. Finally
    she gathered together a few of the sketches&mdash;those which she
    considered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when, a
    little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and
    distinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her
    face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her heavy,
    yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a small,
    dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden in her
    hair.
  </p>
  <p>
    As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was still
    under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing
    the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an
    obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon
    details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or peculiar way
    his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her
    thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the
    forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled her with an
    incomprehensible longing.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s. Their intimacy, begun at Grand
    Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some frequency
    since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no great distance
    from Edna&rsquo;s home, on the corner of a side street, where Monsieur
    Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a steady and
    prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before him, and
    Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an enviable
    reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived in
    commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side
    within the porte cochere. There was something which Edna thought very
    French, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large and
    pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the
    Ratignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soiree
    musicale, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend who
    played upon the &lsquo;cello. One brought his flute and another his violin,
    while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon the piano
    with various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles&rsquo; soirees
    musicales were widely known, and it was considered a privilege to be
    invited to them.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had returned
    that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her occupation upon
    seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into her presence.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business,&rdquo; she explained
    to Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she summoned a young
    black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very careful in
    checking off the list which she handed her. She told her to notice
    particularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur Ratignolle&rsquo;s, which
    was missing last week, had been returned; and to be sure to set to one
    side such pieces as required mending and darning.
  </p>
  <p>
    Then placing an arm around Edna&rsquo;s waist, she led her to the front of the
    house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of great
    roses that stood upon the hearth in jars.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a
    neglige which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich,
    melting curves of her white throat.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,&rdquo; said Edna with a
    smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches and started
    to unfold them. &ldquo;I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I wanted to
    be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you think it worth while
    to take it up again and study some more? I might study for a while with
    Laidpore.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She knew that Madame Ratignolle&rsquo;s opinion in such a matter would be next
    to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined; but
    she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help her to
    put heart into her venture.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Your talent is immense, dear!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; protested Edna, well pleased.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Immense, I tell you,&rdquo; persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the sketches
    one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm&rsquo;s length, narrowing
    her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. &ldquo;Surely, this Bavarian
    peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never have I seen
    anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reach out a hand
    and take one.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her
    friend&rsquo;s praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She retained
    a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, who
    appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly exhibited the
    pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a little later for
    his midday dinner.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the earth.
    His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his goodness of
    heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife spoke English
    with an accent which was only discernible through its un-English emphasis
    and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna&rsquo;s husband spoke English
    with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles understood each other perfectly.
    If ever the fusion of two human beings into one has been accomplished on
    this sphere it was surely in their union.
  </p>
  <p>
    As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, &ldquo;Better a dinner of
    herbs,&rdquo; though it did not take her long to discover that it was no dinner
    of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every way
    satisfying.
  </p>
  <p>
    Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her looking
    not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked a good
    deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and neighborhood
    gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that gave an
    exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife was keenly
    interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the better to
    listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little
    glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no
    regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and
    she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by
    a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,&mdash;a pity for that
    colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region
    of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul,
    in which she would never have the taste of life&rsquo;s delirium. Edna vaguely
    wondered what she meant by &ldquo;life&rsquo;s delirium.&rdquo; It had crossed her thought
    like some unsought, extraneous impression.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XIX
  </h2>
  <p>
    Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to
    have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon the
    tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile
    expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked. She
    completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not return the visits
    of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectual efforts to
    conduct her household en bonne menagere, going and coming as it suited her
    fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending herself to any passing
    caprice.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a
    certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected line
    of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her absolute
    disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontellier became
    rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to take another step
    backward.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household,
    and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days which would be
    better employed contriving for the comfort of her family.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I feel like painting,&rdquo; answered Edna. &ldquo;Perhaps I shan&rsquo;t always feel like
    it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then in God&rsquo;s name paint! but don&rsquo;t let the family go to the devil.
    There&rsquo;s Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn&rsquo;t let
    everything else go to chaos. And she&rsquo;s more of a musician than you are a
    painter.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She isn&rsquo;t a musician, and I&rsquo;m not a painter. It isn&rsquo;t on account of
    painting that I let things go.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;On account of what, then?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! I don&rsquo;t know. Let me alone; you bother me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier&rsquo;s mind to wonder if his wife were not
    growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was
    not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and
    daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment
    with which to appear before the world.
  </p>
  <p>
    Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office.
    Edna went up to her atelier&mdash;a bright room in the top of the house.
    She was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing
    anything, however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. For a
    time she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art. The boys
    posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation soon
    lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a game
    arranged especially for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours
    before Edna&rsquo;s palette, patient as a savage, while the house-maid took
    charge of the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But the
    housemaid, too, served her term as model when Edna perceived that the
    young woman&rsquo;s back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that
    her hair, loosened from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While
    Edna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, &ldquo;Ah! si tu savais!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the
    water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the
    bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A
    subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold upon
    the brushes and making her eyes burn.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy
    to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the
    sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect
    Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar
    places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in.
    And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,&mdash;when it
    did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when
    life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms
    struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on
    such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.
  </p>
</section>
<section id="5">
  <h2>
    XX
  </h2>
  <p>
    It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She had
    not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by their
    last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see her&mdash;above
    all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early in the
    afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she
    had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz&rsquo;s card, and looking up her address
    in the city directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville Street,
    some distance away. The directory which fell into her hands was a year or
    more old, however, and upon reaching the number indicated, Edna discovered
    that the house was occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes who had
    chambres garnies to let. They had been living there for six months, and
    knew absolutely nothing of a Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew
    nothing of any of their neighbors; their lodgers were all people of the
    highest distinction, they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss
    class distinctions with Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring
    grocery store, feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address
    with the proprietor.
  </p>
  <p>
    He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know her,
    he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know her at all,
    or anything concerning her&mdash;the most disagreeable and unpopular woman
    who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had left the
    neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know where she had
    gone.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna&rsquo;s desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since these
    unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering who
    could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurred to
    her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so. She knew it
    was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the most distant terms
    with the musician, and preferred to know nothing concerning her. She had
    once been almost as emphatic in expressing herself upon the subject as the
    corner grocer.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the
    middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on Chartres
    Street.
  </p>
  <p>
    Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before
    the door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old regime,
    and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side was a high
    fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the street was
    locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and stood upon the
    banquette, waiting to be admitted.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her hands
    upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna could
    hear them in altercation, the woman&mdash;plainly an anomaly&mdash;claiming
    the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to answer
    the bell.
  </p>
  <p>
    Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made no
    attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a
    dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his
    mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black woman
    to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier desired to see
    her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty when she had not
    been permitted to do it all, and started back to her interrupted task of
    weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered a rebuke in the form of
    a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity and incoherence, was all
    but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was, the rebuke was convincing,
    for the woman dropped her hoe and went mumbling into the house.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side porch,
    where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She seated
    herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to rock
    gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew up his
    chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman&rsquo;s offensive
    conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not there to take her
    in hand. He had only come up from the island the morning before, and
    expected to return next day. He stayed all winter at the island; he lived
    there, and kept the place in order and got things ready for the summer
    visitors.
  </p>
  <p>
    But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, and
    every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the city. My!
    but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn&rsquo;t want his
    mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillant with
    recollections. Of course, he couldn&rsquo;t think of telling Mrs. Pontellier all
    about it, she being a woman and not comprehending such things. But it all
    began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through the shutters as he
    passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty! Certainly he smiled back, and went up
    and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not know him if she supposed he was
    one to let an opportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the
    youngster amused her. She must have betrayed in her look some degree of
    interest or entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier
    might have found herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored
    story but for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun.
  </p>
  <p>
    That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the summer.
    Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier go inside?
    Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been there before?
    How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet children? Had
    Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November?
  </p>
  <p>
    Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother&rsquo;s chair,
    where he commanded a view of Edna&rsquo;s face. He had taken her parasol from
    her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled it above
    him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that it was so
    dull coming back to the city; that she saw so few people now; that even
    Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, had so much to
    occupy him and engage his time; then it was that the youth went into
    contortions on the lounge and winked mischievously at Edna. She somehow
    felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severe and
    disapproving.
  </p>
  <p>
    There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they told
    her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for the
    letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He
    remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when
    put to the test.
  </p>
  <p>
    One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of
    Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his
    advancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over the
    one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly
    better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the people and
    their habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent his
    love to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she would
    affectionately remember him to all his friends. That was about the
    substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a message
    for her, she would have received it. The despondent frame of mind in which
    she had left home began again to overtake her, and she remembered that she
    wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz.
  </p>
  <p>
    Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the
    address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the
    remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some
    other day. The afternoon was already well advanced.
  </p>
  <p>
    Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held
    it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her to bear
    in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential.
    She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she
    should have been dignified and reserved.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!&rdquo; said Madame Lebrun to her son.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ravishing!&rdquo; he admitted. &ldquo;The city atmosphere has improved her. Some way
    she doesn&rsquo;t seem like the same woman.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXI
  </h2>
  <p>
    Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose
    apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars,
    peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front
    room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always
    open it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room
    a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light and air
    that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the
    crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of the
    Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the
    next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline
    stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the
    neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her
    belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years
    of use.
  </p>
  <p>
    When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz&rsquo;s front room door and entered, she
    discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or
    patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed all over when
    she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the
    muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the
    afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch
    of violets on the side of her head.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;So you remembered me at last,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle. &ldquo;I had said to myself,
    &lsquo;Ah, bah! she will never come.&rsquo;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Did you want me to come?&rdquo; asked Edna with a smile.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I had not thought much about it,&rdquo; answered Mademoiselle. The two had
    seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. &ldquo;I
    am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and
    was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how
    is la belle dame? Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!&rdquo; She
    took Edna&rsquo;s hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely
    without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and
    palm.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she went on; &ldquo;I sometimes thought: &lsquo;She will never come. She
    promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will
    not come.&rsquo; For I really don&rsquo;t believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know whether I like you or not,&rdquo; replied Edna, gazing down at the
    little woman with a quizzical look.
  </p>
  <p>
    The candor of Mrs. Pontellier&rsquo;s admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle
    Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the
    region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup
    of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very
    acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun&rsquo;s and
    was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she
    brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again
    on the lumpy sofa.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I have had a letter from your friend,&rdquo; she remarked, as she poured a
    little cream into Edna&rsquo;s cup and handed it to her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;My friend?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Wrote to YOU?&rdquo; repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes, to me. Why not? Don&rsquo;t stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink
    it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing
    but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Let me see it,&rdquo; requested the young woman, entreatingly.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to
    whom it is written.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It was written about you, not to you. &lsquo;Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How
    is she looking?&rsquo; he asks. &lsquo;As Mrs. Pontellier says,&rsquo; or &lsquo;as Mrs.
    Pontellier once said.&rsquo; &lsquo;If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for
    her that Impromptu of Chopin&rsquo;s, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two
    ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,&rsquo; 
    and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other&rsquo;s society.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Let me see the letter.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, no.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Have you answered it?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Let me see the letter.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No, and again, no.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then play the Impromptu for me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Time doesn&rsquo;t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the
    Impromptu.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Painting!&rdquo; laughed Edna. &ldquo;I am becoming an artist. Think of it!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your
    temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts&mdash;absolute
    gifts&mdash;which have not been acquired by one&rsquo;s own effort. And,
    moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What do you mean by the courageous soul?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have
    persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,&rdquo; replied
    Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.
  </p>
  <p>
    The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon
    which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer
    and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna&rsquo;s hands,
    and without further comment arose and went to the piano.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low
    at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful
    curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and
    imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of
    the Chopin Impromptu.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa
    corner reading Robert&rsquo;s letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had
    glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde&rsquo;s song, and
    back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing.
  </p>
  <p>
    The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and
    fantastic&mdash;turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty.
    The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon
    the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in
    the silence of the upper air.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when
    strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her
    departure. &ldquo;May I come again, Mademoiselle?&rdquo; she asked at the threshold.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are
    dark; don&rsquo;t stumble.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert&rsquo;s letter was on the floor.
    She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears.
    Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and
    replaced it in the table drawer.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXII
  </h2>
  <p>
    One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of
    his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a
    semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He
    bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill&mdash;leaving the active
    practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries&mdash;and
    was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to
    him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the
    services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study.
    His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a
    delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old
    gentleman&rsquo;s study window. He was a great reader. He stared up
    disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering
    who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you
    bring this morning?&rdquo; He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair,
    and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but
    none of their penetration.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! I&rsquo;m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber&mdash;of
    that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I
    came to consult&mdash;no, not precisely to consult&mdash;to talk to you
    about Edna. I don&rsquo;t know what ails her.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Madame Pontellier not well,&rdquo; marveled the Doctor. &ldquo;Why, I saw her&mdash;I
    think it was a week ago&mdash;walking along Canal Street, the picture of
    health, it seemed to me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes, yes; she seems quite well,&rdquo; said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and
    whirling his stick between his two hands; &ldquo;but she doesn&rsquo;t act well. She&rsquo;s
    odd, she&rsquo;s not like herself. I can&rsquo;t make her out, and I thought perhaps
    you&rsquo;d help me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;How does she act?&rdquo; inquired the Doctor.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, it isn&rsquo;t easy to explain,&rdquo; said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself
    back in his chair. &ldquo;She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We&rsquo;ve got to
    consider&mdash;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I know that; I told you I couldn&rsquo;t explain. Her whole attitude&mdash;toward
    me and everybody and everything&mdash;has changed. You know I have a quick
    temper, but I don&rsquo;t want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my
    wife; yet I&rsquo;m driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I&rsquo;ve
    made a fool of myself. She&rsquo;s making it devilishly uncomfortable for me,&rdquo;
    he went on nervously. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s got some sort of notion in her head
    concerning the eternal rights of women; and&mdash;you understand&mdash;we
    meet in the morning at the breakfast table.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether
    lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Doing! Parbleu!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Has she,&rdquo; asked the Doctor, with a smile, &ldquo;has she been associating of
    late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women&mdash;super-spiritual
    superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the trouble,&rdquo; broke in Mr. Pontellier, &ldquo;she hasn&rsquo;t been
    associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has
    thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself,
    moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she&rsquo;s
    peculiar. I don&rsquo;t like it; I feel a little worried over it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    This was a new aspect for the Doctor. &ldquo;Nothing hereditary?&rdquo; he asked,
    seriously. &ldquo;Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The
    old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday
    sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses
    literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever
    laid eyes upon. Margaret&mdash;you know Margaret&mdash;she has all the
    Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By
    the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Send your wife up to the wedding,&rdquo; exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a
    happy solution. &ldquo;Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do
    her good.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I want her to do. She won&rsquo;t go to the marriage. She says a
    wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for
    a woman to say to her husband!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at
    the recollection.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Pontellier,&rdquo; said the Doctor, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection, &ldquo;let your wife
    alone for a while. Don&rsquo;t bother her, and don&rsquo;t let her bother you. Woman,
    my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism&mdash;a sensitive
    and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is
    especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal
    successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt
    to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are
    moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some
    cause or causes which you and I needn&rsquo;t try to fathom. But it will pass
    happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! I couldn&rsquo;t do that; there&rsquo;d be no reason for it,&rdquo; objected Mr.
    Pontellier.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll go around and see her,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll drop in to
    dinner some evening en bon ami.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do! by all means,&rdquo; urged Mr. Pontellier. &ldquo;What evening will you come? Say
    Thursday. Will you come Thursday?&rdquo; he asked, rising to take his leave.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me
    Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect
    me.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on
    hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the
    ribbons. We&rsquo;ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,&rdquo; he
    laughed.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No, I thank you, my dear sir,&rdquo; returned the Doctor. &ldquo;I leave such
    ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What I wanted to say,&rdquo; continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the
    knob; &ldquo;I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take
    Edna along?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don&rsquo;t
    contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month,
    two, three months&mdash;possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, good-by, a jeudi,&rdquo; said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.
  </p>
  <p>
    The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, &ldquo;Is
    there any man in the case?&rdquo; but he knew his Creole too well to make such a
    blunder as that.
  </p>
  <p>
    He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively
    looking out into the garden.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXIII
  </h2>
  <p>
    Edna&rsquo;s father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She
    was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes
    in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in
    the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction
    for her emotions.
  </p>
  <p>
    He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an
    outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her
    marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one
    immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such
    matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress&mdash;which too
    often assumes the nature of a problem&mdash;were of inestimable value to
    his father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been
    upon Edna&rsquo;s hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a
    new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, and
    still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always
    accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, emphasizing
    the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats
    padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders and
    chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, and excited
    a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his arrival she
    began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He
    took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold
    greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was
    that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful
    capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed
    toward successful achievement.
  </p>
  <p>
    Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the
    cannon&rsquo;s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the children,
    who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in their
    mother&rsquo;s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them away with an
    expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines of his
    countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him,
    having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle
    declined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale at
    the Ratignolles&rsquo;. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel,
    installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once to dine with
    them the following Sunday, or any day which he might select. Madame
    coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive manner, with eyes,
    gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the Colonel&rsquo;s old head felt
    thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not
    comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of coquetry.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale; but
    she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract their
    notice&mdash;to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward
    them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy
    selected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an
    opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the glance
    of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had disturbed
    her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soirees musicales. He considered them
    bourgeois, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame Ratignolle he
    said the music dispensed at her soirees was too &ldquo;heavy,&rdquo; too far beyond
    his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her. But she disapproved
    of Mr. Pontellier&rsquo;s club, and she was frank enough to tell Edna so.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn&rsquo;t stay home more in the evenings. I
    think you would be more&mdash;well, if you don&rsquo;t mind my saying it&mdash;more
    united, if he did.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! dear no!&rdquo; said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. &ldquo;What should I do
    if he stayed home? We wouldn&rsquo;t have anything to say to each other.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but he
    did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, though she
    realized that he might not interest her long; and for the first time in
    her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He kept
    her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It amused her to do so.
    She would not permit a servant or one of the children to do anything for
    him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed, and thought it was
    the expression of a deep filial attachment which he had never suspected.
  </p>
  <p>
    The Colonel drank numerous &ldquo;toddies&rdquo; during the course of the day, which
    left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting strong
    drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic names,
    and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that it devolved
    upon Edna to procure for him.
  </p>
  <p>
    When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could
    discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her
    husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. She
    and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when they
    seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of the
    afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had not kept
    pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing in what he
    called &ldquo;the good old times&rdquo; when the Lecompte stables flourished, and he
    drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not be left out and seem
    wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon the
    Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with this trumped-up
    knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on his last venture,
    with the most gratifying results to both of them. Besides, they had met
    some very charming people, according to the Colonel&rsquo;s impressions. Mrs.
    Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, who were there with Alcee
    Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the hours in a fashion that
    warmed him to think of.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, and
    was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially when he
    considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He endeavored, in
    a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and only succeeded in
    arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. A pretty dispute
    followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father&rsquo;s cause and the Doctor
    remained neutral.
  </p>
  <p>
    He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and noted
    a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman he had
    known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with the forces
    of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression in her
    glance or gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful, sleek animal waking
    up in the sun.
  </p>
  <p>
    The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was cold,
    and under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantness melted
    and vanished with the fumes of the wine.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing
    plantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth, when
    he hunted &lsquo;possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed the pecan
    trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in mischievous
    idleness.
  </p>
  <p>
    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 had
    acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the
    Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and
    curious story of the waning of a woman&rsquo;s love, seeking strange, new
    channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce
    unrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been
    unfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did not
    seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of a
    woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and never
    came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one ever
    heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was a pure
    invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That, also,
    was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But every glowing
    word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel the hot breath of
    the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of the pirogue through
    the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds&rsquo; wings, rising startled
    from among the reeds in the salt-water pools; they could see the faces of
    the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness,
    drifting into the unknown.
  </p>
  <p>
    The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks with
    Edna&rsquo;s memory that night.
  </p>
  <p>
    Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the night
    was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak across his
    breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his
    fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so
    seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted
    Pontellier&rsquo;s invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest
    and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives
    thrust upon him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I hope it isn&rsquo;t Arobin,&rdquo; he muttered to himself as he walked. &ldquo;I hope to
    heaven it isn&rsquo;t Alcee Arobin.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXIV
  </h2>
  <p>
    Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the
    subject of her refusal to attend her sister&rsquo;s wedding. Mr. Pontellier
    declined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his authority.
    He was following Doctor Mandelet&rsquo;s advice, and letting her do as she
    liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of filial kindness
    and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His
    arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would accept
    any excuse&mdash;forgetting that Edna had offered none. He doubted if
    Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure Margaret would not.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off
    with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders,
    his Bible reading, his &ldquo;toddies&rdquo; and ponderous oaths.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on
    his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love could
    devise to atone somewhat for Edna&rsquo;s incomprehensible action.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce,&rdquo; asserted the Colonel.
    &ldquo;Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good and hard;
    the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into her
    grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought it
    needless to mention at that late day.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband&rsquo;s leaving home as she
    had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached when he
    was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting and
    affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his repeated
    expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about his health
    and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his clothing, thinking
    about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle would have done under
    similar circumstances. She cried when he went away, calling him her dear,
    good friend, and she was quite certain she would grow lonely before very
    long and go to join him in New York.
  </p>
  <p>
    But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found
    herself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had come
    herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The old
    madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected
    during Leonce&rsquo;s absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She was hungry
    for them&mdash;even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want
    them to be wholly &ldquo;children of the pavement,&rdquo; she always said when begging
    to have them for a space. She wished them to know the country, with its
    streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young.
    She wished them to taste something of the life their father had lived and
    known and loved when he, too, was a little child.
  </p>
  <p>
    When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. A
    feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She walked
    all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it for
    the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had
    never sat and reclined upon them before. And she perambulated around the
    outside of the house, investigating, looking to see if windows and
    shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were like new
    acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and made herself
    at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna called to the
    maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, and stooped,
    digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead, dry leaves. The
    children&rsquo;s little dog came out, interfering, getting in her way. She
    scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so good
    and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all the
    bright flowers she could find, and went into the house with them, she and
    the little dog.
  </p>
  <p>
    Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had
    never before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to say
    that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they would
    require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries.
    She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied during Mr.
    Pontellier&rsquo;s absence, and she begged her to take all thought and
    responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders.
  </p>
  <p>
    That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the
    center of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle of
    light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and shadowy.
    The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast&mdash;a
    luscious tenderloin broiled a point. The wine tasted good; the marron
    glace seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine
    in a comfortable peignoir.
  </p>
  <p>
    She thought a little sentimentally about Leonce and the children, and
    wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the
    doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was
    beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable
    advances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks
    and a lively agitation.
  </p>
  <p>
    Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she grew
    sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and determined to
    start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that her time was
    completely her own to do with as she liked.
  </p>
  <p>
    After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled comfortably
    beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had
    not known before.
  </p>
</section>
<section id="6">
  <h2>
    XXV
  </h2>
  <p>
    When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed the
    sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reached a
    stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, when in
    the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, and
    striving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work in
    itself.
  </p>
  <p>
    On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the
    friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors and nursed
    a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and
    peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were
    passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were
    other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises
    which her youth held out to her.
  </p>
  <p>
    She went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp
    called for her one bright afternoon in Arobin&rsquo;s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was a
    worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the
    forties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a
    daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of young
    men of fashion. Alcee Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar figure at
    the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual
    smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a corresponding
    cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listened to his
    good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little insolent.
    He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened with depth
    of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the conventional man of
    fashion.
  </p>
  <p>
    He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her
    father. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to
    him unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs.
    Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witness
    the turf event of the season.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse as
    well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She sat
    between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed
    at Arobin&rsquo;s pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp&rsquo;s ignorance. The race
    horse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere
    of the stables and the breath of the blue grass paddock revived in her
    memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that she was
    talking like her father as the sleek geldings ambled in review before
    them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favored her. The fever
    of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes, and it got into her blood and
    into her brain like an intoxicant. People turned their heads to look at
    her, and more than one lent an attentive ear to her utterances, hoping
    thereby to secure the elusive but ever-desired &ldquo;tip.&rdquo; Arobin caught the
    contagion of excitement which drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs.
    Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stare and
    uplifted eyebrows.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so. Arobin
    also remained and sent away his drag.
  </p>
  <p>
    The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of
    Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her
    daughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed by
    going to the &ldquo;Dante reading&rdquo; instead of joining them. The girl held a
    geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and
    noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only talked
    under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of delicate
    courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed most of her
    conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after dinner and
    read the evening papers together under the droplight; while the younger
    people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. Miss Highcamp played
    some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed to have apprehended
    all of the composer&rsquo;s coldness and none of his poetry. While Edna listened
    she could not help wondering if she had lost her taste for music.
  </p>
  <p>
    When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offer
    to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless concern.
    It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was late
    when they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to enter for a
    second to light his cigarette&mdash;his match safe was empty. He filled
    his match safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left her, after
    she had expressed her willingness to go to the races with him again.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the Highcamp
    dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She rummaged in
    the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some crackers. She
    opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. Edna felt extremely
    restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at
    the wood embers on the hearth and munched a cracker.
  </p>
  <p>
    She wanted something to happen&mdash;something, anything; she did not know
    what. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour to talk
    over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But there was
    nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for hours in a
    sort of monotonous agitation.
  </p>
  <p>
    In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to write
    her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next day and
    tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide awake
    composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote next
    day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr.
    Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal
    Street, while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded an
    Esplanade Street car:
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    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 as
    that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she
    was not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the
    meeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not
    accompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were
    any one else she cared to ask.
  </p>
  <p>
    She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the fashionable
    acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She thought of Madame
    Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not leave the house, except
    to take a languid walk around the block with her husband after nightfall.
    Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such a request from Edna. Madame
    Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for some reason Edna did not
    want her. So they went alone, she and Arobin.
  </p>
  <p>
    The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came back
    upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and confidential.
    It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner invited easy
    confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one which he
    always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging woman was
    concerned.
  </p>
  <p>
    He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire.
    They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling her
    how different life might have been if he had known her years before. With
    ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had
    been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar
    from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of Paris when he
    was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the
    inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic
    impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt
    the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of his palm.
  </p>
  <p>
    She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,&rdquo; she said.
    &ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t have looked at it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; he entreated, following her; &ldquo;it never occurred to me
    that it might be repulsive.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old,
    vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw
    enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said
    his lingering good night.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Will you go to the races again?&rdquo; he asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had enough of the races. I don&rsquo;t want to lose all
    the money I&rsquo;ve won, and I&rsquo;ve got to work when the weather is bright,
    instead of&mdash;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning
    may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Day after?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, please don&rsquo;t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might help
    you with a stray suggestion or two.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No. Good night. Why don&rsquo;t you go after you have said good night? I don&rsquo;t
    like you,&rdquo; she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting to draw away
    her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity, and she
    knew that he felt it.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry you don&rsquo;t like me. I&rsquo;m sorry I offended you. How have I
    offended you? What have I done? Can&rsquo;t you forgive me?&rdquo; And he bent and
    pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw
    them.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Mr. Arobin,&rdquo; she complained, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m greatly upset by the excitement of the
    afternoon; I&rsquo;m not myself. My manner must have misled you in some way. I
    wish you to go, please.&rdquo; She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone. He took his
    hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, looking into the
    dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive silence.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,&rdquo; he said finally. &ldquo;My own
    emotions have done that. I couldn&rsquo;t help it. When I&rsquo;m near you, how could
    I help it? Don&rsquo;t think anything of it, don&rsquo;t bother, please. You see, I go
    when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. If you
    let me come back, I&mdash;oh! you will let me come back?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. Alcee
    Arobin&rsquo;s manner was so genuine that it often deceived even himself.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was
    alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had kissed
    so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She felt
    somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into an act
    of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without being
    wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely through
    her mind, &ldquo;What would he think?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her
    husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love
    as an excuse.
  </p>
  <p>
    She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin was absolutely
    nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances,
    and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a
    narcotic upon her.
  </p>
  <p>
    She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXVI
  </h2>
  <p>
    Alcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with
    sincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared
    to her, absurd that she should have taken his action so seriously, so
    dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence
    had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored his note it would
    give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she replied to it in a
    serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the impression that she
    had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence. After all, it was no
    great matter to have one&rsquo;s hand kissed. She was provoked at his having
    written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as
    she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad to have him look in
    upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination and his business gave
    him the opportunity.
  </p>
  <p>
    He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his
    disarming naivete. And then there was scarcely a day which followed that
    she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in
    pretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit
    adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were as
    often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became
    intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He
    sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the
    crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the
    animalism that stirred impatiently within her.
  </p>
  <p>
    There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna&rsquo;s senses as a visit
    to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality
    which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to
    reach Edna&rsquo;s spirit and set it free.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna
    climbed the stairs to the pianist&rsquo;s apartments under the roof. Her clothes
    were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered
    the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little
    and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of
    chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she
    entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her
    from the mantelpiece.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ah! here comes the sunlight!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her
    knees before the stove. &ldquo;Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can let
    the fire alone.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in
    removing Edna&rsquo;s dripping mackintosh.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But
    would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the
    bottle which you brought me for my cold.&rdquo; A piece of red flannel was
    wrapped around Mademoiselle&rsquo;s throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold
    her head on one side.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I will take some brandy,&rdquo; said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves
    and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have
    done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said,
    &ldquo;Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially
    interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was
    endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its
    fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin
    from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their
    accustomed place.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you astonished?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father
    in Mississippi? where?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Just two steps away,&rdquo; laughed Edna, &ldquo;in a little four-room house around
    the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by;
    and it&rsquo;s for rent. I&rsquo;m tired looking after that big house. It never seemed
    like mine, anyway&mdash;like home. It&rsquo;s too much trouble. I have to keep
    too many servants. I am tired bothering with them.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling me
    lies. I don&rsquo;t know your reason, but you have not told me the truth.&rdquo; Edna
    did not protest or endeavor to justify herself.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn&rsquo;t that
    enough reason?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;They are your husband&rsquo;s,&rdquo; returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a
    malicious elevation of the eyebrows.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a
    caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother&rsquo;s estate, which my
    father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races,
    and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased
    with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge
    of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence.
    However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live
    in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine,
    who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my
    work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and
    independence.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What does your husband say?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think
    I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. &ldquo;Your reason is not yet clear to me,&rdquo;
    she said.
  </p>
  <p>
    Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she
    sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her
    husband&rsquo;s bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it
    would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an
    explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but
    whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than
    herself.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!&rdquo; Edna
    exclaimed. &ldquo;You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you
    everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and
    be merry for once.&rdquo; And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths
    of her being.
  </p>
  <p>
    If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the
    interval of Edna&rsquo;s visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And
    she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her
    while the young woman read the letter.
  </p>
  <p>
    The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin
    sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and
    Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and
    handed it to Edna.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Another! so soon!&rdquo; she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. &ldquo;Tell me,
    Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again
    if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a
    message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is
    trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong
    to him.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why do you show me his letters, then?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot
    deceive me,&rdquo; and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began
    to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her
    hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence,
    warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for
    joy and exultation.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. &ldquo;Why did you
    not tell me?&rdquo; She went and grasped Mademoiselle&rsquo;s hands up from the keys.
    &ldquo;Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That he was coming back? No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did not come
    long ago.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;But when, when?&rdquo; cried Edna, impatiently. &ldquo;He does not say when.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;He says &lsquo;very soon.&rsquo; You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the
    letter.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought&mdash;&rdquo; and she snatched the
    letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking
    for the reason, which was left untold.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;If I were young and in love with a man,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle, turning on
    the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down
    at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, &ldquo;it seems to me he would
    have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and ability to reach
    them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men.
    It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of
    ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me,
    Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about
    it. Why,&rdquo; went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into
    Mademoiselle&rsquo;s twisted face, &ldquo;do you suppose a woman knows why she loves?
    Does she select? Does she say to herself: &lsquo;Go to! Here is a distinguished
    statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love
    with him.&rsquo; Or, &lsquo;I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on
    every tongue?&rsquo; Or, &lsquo;This financier, who controls the world&rsquo;s money
    markets?&rsquo; 
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you in love with
    Robert?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow
    overspread her face, blotching it with red spots.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked her companion. &ldquo;Why do you love him when you ought not to?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before
    Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because
    he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing;
    because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he
    can&rsquo;t straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his
    youth. Because&mdash;&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Because you do, in short,&rdquo; laughed Mademoiselle. &ldquo;What will you do when
    he comes back?&rdquo; she asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his
    return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours
    before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the
    streets on her way home.
  </p>
  <p>
    She stopped at a confectioner&rsquo;s and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the
    children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she
    scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses.
  </p>
  <p>
    Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband,
    telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house
    around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting
    that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist
    her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with
    cheerfulness.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXVII
  </h2>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; asked Arobin that evening. &ldquo;I never found
    you in such a happy mood.&rdquo; Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining
    on the lounge before the fire.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun
    pretty soon?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, that ought to be reason enough,&rdquo; he acquiesced. &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t give
    me another if I sat here all night imploring you.&rdquo; He sat close to her on
    a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that
    fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers
    through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;One of these days,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to pull myself together for a
    while and think&mdash;try to determine what character of a woman I am;
    for, candidly, I don&rsquo;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&rsquo;t
    convince myself that I am. I must think about it.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t. What&rsquo;s the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can
    tell you what manner of woman you are.&rdquo; His fingers strayed occasionally
    down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little
    full and double.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is
    captivating. Spare yourself the effort.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No; I shan&rsquo;t tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn&rsquo;t be lying
    if I did.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?&rdquo; she asked irrelevantly.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;The pianist? I know her by sight. I&rsquo;ve heard her play.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don&rsquo;t notice
    at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;For instance?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me
    and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.
    &lsquo;The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice
    must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings
    bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.&rsquo; Whither would you soar?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend
    her.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard she&rsquo;s partially demented,&rdquo; said Arobin.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;She seems to me wonderfully sane,&rdquo; Edna replied.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m told she&rsquo;s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you
    introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! talk of me if you like,&rdquo; cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her
    head; &ldquo;but let me think of something else while you do.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;m jealous of your thoughts tonight. They&rsquo;re making you a little kinder
    than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were
    not here with me.&rdquo; She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very
    near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the
    other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look
    into each other&rsquo;s eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped
    his head, holding his lips to hers.
  </p>
  <p>
    It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really
    responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXVIII
  </h2>
  <p>
    Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one
    phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with
    her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of
    the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband&rsquo;s reproach
    looking at her from the external things around her which he had provided
    for her external existence. There was Robert&rsquo;s reproach making itself felt
    by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within
    her toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist
    had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to took upon and comprehend
    the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality.
    But among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither
    shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the
    kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had
    held this cup of life to her lips.
  </p>
  <h2>
    XXIX
  </h2>
  <p>
    Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion
    or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her
    home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the
    block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction.
    There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the
    thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours
    passed in Arobin&rsquo;s society, Edna set about securing her new abode and
    hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her
    home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of
    some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone.
  </p>
  <p>
    Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside
    from her husband&rsquo;s bounty, she caused to be transported to the other
    house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources.
  </p>
  <p>
    Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the
    house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and
    robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a
    red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her
    hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a
    picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front door open,
    and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Come down!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Do you want to kill yourself?&rdquo; She greeted him with
    affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation.
  </p>
  <p>
    If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in
    sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised.
  </p>
  <p>
    He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the
    foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the
    situation which confronted him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Please come down,&rdquo; he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working
    over at the &lsquo;pigeon house&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s the name Ellen gives it, because
    it&rsquo;s so small and looks like a pigeon house&mdash;and some one has to do
    this.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to
    tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went
    into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when
    she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna
    herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his
    request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures
    and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had
    finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands.
  </p>
  <p>
    Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather
    duster along the carpet when he came in again.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Is there anything more you will let me do?&rdquo; he asked.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;That is all,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Ellen can manage the rest.&rdquo; She kept the
    young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone with
    Arobin.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;What about the dinner?&rdquo; he asked; &ldquo;the grand event, the coup d&rsquo;etat?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the &lsquo;coup d&rsquo;etat?&rsquo; Oh!
    it will be very fine; all my best of everything&mdash;crystal, silver and
    gold, Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I&rsquo;ll let Leonce
    pay the bills. I wonder what he&rsquo;ll say when he sees the bills.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;And you ask me why I call it a coup d&rsquo;etat?&rdquo; Arobin had put on his coat,
    and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told him it
    was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;When do you go to the &lsquo;pigeon house?&rsquo;&mdash;with all due acknowledgment
    to Ellen.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?&rdquo; asked Arobin. &ldquo;The
    dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, has
    parched my throat to a crisp.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;While Ellen gets the water,&rdquo; said Edna, rising, &ldquo;I will say good-by and
    let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to
    do and think of.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;When shall I see you?&rdquo; asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid
    having left the room.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;At the dinner, of course. You are invited.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Not before?&mdash;not to-night or to-morrow morning or tomorrow noon or
    night? or the day after morning or noon? Can&rsquo;t you see yourself, without
    my telling you, what an eternity it is?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    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.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Not an instant sooner,&rdquo; she said. But she laughed and looked at him with
    eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to wait.
  </p>
</section>
<section id="7">
  <h2>
    XXX
  </h2>
  <p>
    Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in
    truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests
    invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted
    upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board,
    forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree
    souffrante and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would
    send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after
    all, which made a cozy, comfortable number.
  </p>
  <p>
    There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the
    thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who
    laughed a good deal at other people&rsquo;s witticisms, and had thereby made
    himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course,
    there was Alcee Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna
    had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her
    hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife&rsquo;s excuses. Victor
    Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted
    with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who
    looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It
    was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her
    that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She had come with a gentleman by the
    name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom
    nothing special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed
    quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight
    they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on either
    side of their hostess.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs.
    Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle
    Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle.
  </p>
  <p>
    There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table,
    an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under
    strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass candelabra,
    burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and
    red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had said there would be,
    and crystal which glittered like the gems which the women wore.
  </p>
  <p>
    The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and
    replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected
    throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive,
    was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at
    table upon bulky volumes.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Something new, Edna?&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed
    toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost
    sputtered, in Edna&rsquo;s hair, just over the center of her forehead.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Quite new; &lsquo;brand&rsquo; new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived
    this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my birthday,
    and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink my health.
    Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, composed&mdash;would
    you say &lsquo;composed?&rsquo;&rdquo; with an appeal to Miss Mayblunt&mdash;&ldquo;composed by my
    father in honor of Sister Janet&rsquo;s wedding.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a
    garnet gem.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Then, all things considered,&rdquo; spoke Arobin, &ldquo;it might not be amiss to
    start out by drinking the Colonel&rsquo;s health in the cocktail which he
    composed, on the birthday of the most charming of women&mdash;the daughter
    whom he invented.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Merriman&rsquo;s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so
    contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never
    slackened.
  </p>
  <p>
    Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before
    her, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare it to
    nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted were
    unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it.
  </p>
  <p>
    Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the mets, the
    entre-mets, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked up
    from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to the
    gentleman 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&rsquo;s name to decorate the firm&rsquo;s letterheads and to
    appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,&rdquo; said
    Arobin, &ldquo;that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these days
    to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.&rdquo; Monsieur
    Ratignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she
    considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set the
    previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in
    French, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but
    characteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the
    symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians of
    New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be
    centered upon the delicacies placed before her.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin&rsquo;s remark about inquisitive people
    reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles Hotel&mdash;but
    as Mr. Merriman&rsquo;s stories were always lame and lacking point, his wife
    seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to ask if he
    remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought the week
    before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking &ldquo;books&rdquo; with Mr.
    Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current literary
    topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately to Miss
    Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to think it extremely
    clever.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm and
    impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her
    attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating herself
    at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier and more
    vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference for an
    opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the occasional sound of
    music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeable accompaniment
    rather than an interruption to the conversation. Outside the soft,
    monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the sound penetrated into
    the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through the open
    windows.
  </p>
  <p>
    The golden shimmer of Edna&rsquo;s satin gown spread in rich folds on either
    side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It
    was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that
    one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her
    attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the
    high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman,
    the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.
  </p>
  <p>
    But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking
    her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her
    like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It
    was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue
    from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the
    acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence
    of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the
    unattainable.
  </p>
  <p>
    The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around
    the circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people together
    with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break the
    pleasant charm. At ten o&rsquo;clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle was
    waiting for him at home. She was bien souffrante, and she was filled with
    vague dread, which only her husband&rsquo;s presence could allay.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to escort
    her 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 all as she
    withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and whispered:
    &ldquo;Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage.&rdquo; She had been a little bewildered upon
    rising, or rather, descending from her cushions, and Monsieur Ratignolle
    gallantly took her arm and led her away.
  </p>
  <p>
    Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she had
    finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor&rsquo;s black curls. He
    was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of
    champagne to the light.
  </p>
  <p>
    As if a magician&rsquo;s wand had touched him, the garland of roses transformed
    him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the color of crushed
    grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Sapristi!&rdquo; exclaimed Arobin.
  </p>
  <p>
    But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took from
    the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had covered her
    shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across the boy
    in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, conventional evening
    dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a
    faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued to gaze with narrowing eyes
    at the light through his glass of champagne.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss
    Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of
    gold.&rsquo;&rdquo; murmured Gouvernail, under his breath.
  </p>
  <p>
    The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed volubility
    into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a reverie, and to be
    seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Sing,&rdquo; entreated Mrs. Highcamp. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you sing to us?&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Let him alone,&rdquo; said Arobin.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;He&rsquo;s posing,&rdquo; offered Mr. Merriman; &ldquo;let him have it out.&rdquo;
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;I believe he&rsquo;s paralyzed,&rdquo; laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the
    youth&rsquo;s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips.
    He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it
    upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy handkerchief.
  </p>
  <p>
    &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll sing for you,&rdquo; he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs.
    Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the
    ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an
    instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing:
  </p>
  <pre xml:space="preserve">
 &ldquo;Ah! si tu savais!&rdquo;