The Awakening - Chopin Kate .pdf - Cove Systems

The AwakeningKate ChopinRelease date:Source: Bebook

The Awakening and Selected Short Stories byKate Chopin

THE AWAKENING

IA green and yellow parrot, which hung in acage outside the door, kept repeating overand over:"Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That'sall right!"He could speak a little Spanish, and also alanguage which nobody understood, unless itwas the mocking-bird that hung on the otherside of the door, whistling his fluty notes outupon the breeze with maddening persistence.Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaperwith any degree of comfort, arose with anexpression and an exclamation of disgust.He walked down the gallery and across thenarrow "bridges" which connected the Lebruncottages one with the other. He had beenseated before the door of the main house. The

parrot and the mockingbird were the propertyof Madame Lebrun, and they had the right tomake all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellierhad the privilege of quitting their society whenthey ceased to be entertaining.He stopped before the door of his owncottage, which was the fourth one from themain building and next to the last. Seatinghimself in a wicker rocker which was there, heonce more applied himself to the task ofreading the newspaper. The day was Sunday;the paper was a day old. The Sunday papershad not yet reached Grand Isle. He wasalready acquainted with the market reports,and he glanced restlessly over the editorialsand bits of news which he had not had time toread before quitting New Orleans the daybefore.Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was aman of forty, of medium height and ratherslender build; he stooped a little. His hair wasbrown and straight, parted on one side. His

eard was neatly and closely trimmed.Once in a while he withdrew his glance fromthe newspaper and looked about him. Therewas more noise than ever over at the house.The main building was called "the house," todistinguish it from the cottages. The chatteringand whistling birds were still at it. Two younggirls, the Farival twins, were playing a duetfrom "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrunwas bustling in and out, giving orders in a highkey to a yard-boy whenever she got inside thehouse, and directions in an equally high voiceto a dining-room servant whenever she gotoutside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, cladalways in white with elbow sleeves. Herstarched skirts crinkled as she came and went.Farther down, before one of the cottages, alady in black was walking demurely up anddown, telling her beads. A good many personsof the pension had gone over to the CheniereCaminada in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass.Some young people were out under thewateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's

two children were there sturdy little fellows offour and five. A quadroon nurse followed themabout with a faraway, meditative air.Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began tosmoke, letting the paper drag idly from hishand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshadethat was advancing at snail's pace from thebeach. He could see it plainly between thegaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across thestretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked faraway, melting hazily into the blue of thehorizon. The sunshade continued to approachslowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were hiswife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young RobertLebrun. When they reached the cottage, thetwo seated themselves with some appearanceof fatigue upon the upper step of the porch,facing each other, each leaning against asupporting post."What folly! to bathe at such an hour in suchheat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himselfhad taken a plunge at daylight. That was why

the morning seemed long to him."You are burnt beyond recognition," headded, looking at his wife as one looks at avaluable piece of personal property which hassuffered some damage. She held up her hands,strong, shapely hands, and surveyed themcritically, drawing up her fawn sleeves abovethe wrists. Looking at them reminded her ofher rings, which she had given to her husbandbefore leaving for the beach. She silentlyreached out to him, and he, understanding,took the rings from his vest pocket anddropped them into her open palm. She slippedthem upon her fingers; then clasping herknees, she looked across at Robert and beganto laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers.He sent back an answering smile."What is it?" asked Pontellier, looking lazilyand amused from one to the other. It was someutter nonsense; some adventure out there inthe water, and they both tried to relate it atonce. 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 togo over to Klein's hotel and play a game ofbilliards."Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed toRobert. But Robert admitted quite frankly thathe preferred to stay where he was and talk toMrs. Pontellier."Well, send him about his business when hebores you, Edna," instructed her husband ashe prepared to leave."Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed,holding it out to him. He accepted thesunshade, and lifting it over his headdescended the steps and walked away."Coming back to dinner?" his wife called afterhim. He halted a moment and shrugged hisshoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there wasa ten-dollar bill there. He did not know;

perhaps he would return for the early dinnerand perhaps he would not. It all dependedupon the company which he found over atKlein's and the size of "the game." He did notsay this, but she understood it, and laughed,nodding good-by to him.Both children wanted to follow their fatherwhen they saw him starting out. He kissedthem and promised to bring them backbonbons and peanuts.

IIMrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright;they were a yellowish brown, about the colorof her hair. She had a way of turning themswiftly upon an object and holding them thereas if lost in some inward maze of contemplationor thought.Her eyebrows were a shade darker than herhair. They were thick and almost horizontal,emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She wasrather handsome than beautiful. Her face wascaptivating by reason of a certain frankness ofexpression and a contradictory subtle play offeatures. Her manner was engaging.Robert rolled a cigarette. He smokedcigarettes because he could not afford cigars,he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr.Pontellier had presented him with, and he wassaving it for his after-dinner smoke.

This seemed quite proper and natural on hispart. In coloring he was not unlike hiscompanion. A clean-shaved face made theresemblance more pronounced than it wouldotherwise have been. There rested no shadowof care upon his open countenance. His eyesgathered in and reflected the light and languorof the summer day.Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaffan that lay on the porch and began to fanherself, while Robert sent between his lipslight puffs from his cigarette. They chattedincessantly: about the things around them;their amusing adventure out in the water-it hadagain assumed its entertaining aspect; aboutthe wind, the trees, the people who had goneto the Cheniere; about the children playingcroquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins,who were now performing the overture to "ThePoet and the Peasant."Robert talked a good deal about himself. Hewas very young, and did not know any better.

Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself forthe same reason. Each was interested in whatthe other said. Robert spoke of his intention togo to Mexico in the autumn, where fortuneawaited him. He was always intending to go toMexico, but some way never got there.Meanwhile he held on to his modest position ina mercantile house in New Orleans, where anequal familiarity with English, French andSpanish gave him no small value as a clerk andcorrespondent.He was spending his summer vacation, as healways did, with his mother at Grand Isle. Informer times, before Robert could remember,"the house" had been a summer luxury of theLebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or morecottages, which were always filled withexclusive visitors from the "Quartier Francais,"it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain theeasy and comfortable existence whichappeared to be her birthright.Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's

Mississippi plantation and her girlhood homein the old Kentucky bluegrass country. Shewas an American woman, with a small infusionof French which seemed to have been lost indilution. She read a letter from her sister, whowas away in the East, and who had engagedherself to be married. Robert was interested,and wanted to know what manner of girls thesisters were, what the father was like, and howlong the mother had been dead.When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it wastime for her to dress for the early dinner."I see Leonce isn't coming back," she said,with a glance in the direction whence herhusband had disappeared. Robert supposedhe was not, as there were a good many NewOrleans club men over at Klein's.When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter herroom, the young man descended the steps andstrolled over toward the croquet players,where, during the half-hour before dinner, he

amused himself with the little Pontellierchildren, who were very fond of him.

IIIIt was eleven o'clock that night when Mr.Pontellier returned from Klein's hotel. He wasin an excellent humor, in high spirits, and verytalkative. His entrance awoke his wife, whowas in bed and fast asleep when he came in.He talked to her while he undressed, tellingher anecdotes and bits of news and gossip thathe had gathered during the day. From histrousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpledbank notes and a good deal of silver coin,which he piled on the bureau indiscriminatelywith keys, knife, handkerchief, and whateverelse happened to be in his pockets. She wasovercome with sleep, and answered him withlittle half utterances.He thought it very discouraging that his wife,who was the sole object of his existence,evinced so little interest in things whichconcerned him, and valued so little hisconversation.

Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons andpeanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding heloved them very much, and went into theadjoining room where they slept to take a lookat them and make sure that they were restingcomfortably. The result of his investigation wasfar from satisfactory. He turned and shifted theyoungsters about in bed. One of them beganto kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.

Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with theinformation that Raoul had a high fever andneeded looking after. Then he lit a cigar andwent and sat near the open door to smoke it.Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had nofever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, shesaid, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.Pontellier was too well acquainted with feversymptoms to be mistaken. He assured her thechild was consuming at that moment in thenext room.He reproached his wife with her inattention,her habitual neglect of the children. If it wasnot a mother's place to look after children,whose on earth was it? He himself had hishands full with his brokerage business. Hecould not be in two places at once; making aliving for his family on the street, and stayingat home to see that no harm befell them. Hetalked in a monotonous, insistent way.Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went

into the next room. She soon came back andsat on the edge of the bed, leaning her headdown on the pillow. She said nothing, andrefused to answer her husband when hequestioned her. When his cigar was smokedout he went to bed, and in half a minute he wasfast asleep.Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughlyawake. She began to cry a little, and wiped hereyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing outthe candle, which her husband had leftburning, she slipped her bare feet into a pairof satin mules at the foot of the bed and wentout on the porch, where she sat down in thewicker chair and began to rock gently to andfro.It was then past midnight. The cottages wereall dark. A single faint light gleamed out fromthe hallway of the house. There was no soundabroad except the hooting of an old owl in thetop of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice ofthe sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It

oke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier'seyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir nolonger served to dry them. She was holdingthe back of her chair with one hand; her loosesleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder ofher uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face,steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm,and she went on crying there, not caring anylonger to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. Shecould not have told why she was crying. Suchexperiences as the foregoing were notuncommon in her married life. They seemednever before to have weighed much againstthe abundance of her husband's kindness anda uniform devotion which had come to be tacitand self-understood.An indescribable oppression, which seemedto generate in some unfamiliar part of herconsciousness, filled her whole being with avague anguish. It was like a shadow, like amist passing across her soul's summer day. It

was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. Shedid not sit there inwardly upbraiding herhusband, lamenting at Fate, which haddirected her footsteps to the path which theyhad taken. She was just having a good cry allto herself. The mosquitoes made merry overher, biting her firm, round arms and nipping ather bare insteps.The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded indispelling a mood which might have held herthere in the darkness half a night longer.The following morning Mr. Pontellier was upin good time to take the rockaway which wasto convey him to the steamer at the wharf. Hewas returning to the city to his business, andthey would not see him again at the Island tillthe coming Saturday. He had regained hiscomposure, which seemed to have beensomewhat impaired the night before. He waseager to be gone, as he looked forward to alively week in Carondelet Street.

Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the moneywhich he had brought away from Klein's hotelthe evening before. She liked money as wellas most women, and, accepted it with no littlesatisfaction."It will buy a handsome wedding present forSister Janet!" she exclaimed, smoothing out thebills as she counted them one by one."Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that,my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kissher good-by.The boys were tumbling about, clinging to hislegs, imploring that numerous things bebrought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was agreat favorite, and ladies, men, children, evennurses, were always on hand to say goodby tohim. His wife stood smiling and waving, theboys shouting, as he disappeared in the oldrockaway down the sandy road.A few days later a box arrived for Mrs.

Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from herhusband. It was filled with friandises, withluscious and toothsome bits--the finest of fruits,pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups,and bonbons in abundance.Mrs. Pontellier was always very generouswith the contents of such a box; she was quiteused to receiving them when away from home.The pates and fruit were brought to thedining-room; the bonbons were passedaround. And the ladies, selecting with daintyand discriminating fingers and a littlegreedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier wasthe best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellierwas forced to admit that she knew of nonebetter.

IVIt would have been a difficult matter for Mr.Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction orany one else's wherein his wife failed in herduty toward their children. It was somethingwhich he felt rather than perceived, and henever voiced the feeling without subsequentregret and ample atonement.If one of the little Pontellier boys took atumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rushcrying to his mother's arms for comfort; hewould more likely pick himself up, wipe thewater out of his eyes and the sand out of hismouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were,they pulled together and stood their ground inchildish battles with doubled fists and upliftedvoices, which usually prevailed against theother mother-tots. The quadroon nurse waslooked upon as a huge encumbrance, onlygood to button up waists and panties and tobrush and part hair; since it seemed to be a

law of society that hair must be parted andbrushed.In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not amother-woman. The motherwomen seemed toprevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easyto know them, fluttering about with extended,protecting wings when any harm, real orimaginary, threatened their precious brood.They were women who idolized their children,worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it aholy privilege to efface themselves asindividuals and grow wings as ministeringangels.Many of them were delicious in the role; oneof them was the embodiment of everywomanly grace and charm. If her husband didnot adore her, he was a brute, deserving ofdeath by slow torture. Her name was AdeleRatignolle. There are no words to describe hersave the old ones that have served so often topicture the bygone heroine of romance andthe fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing

subtle or hidden about her charms; her beautywas all there, flaming and apparent: thespun-gold hair that comb nor confining pincould restrain; the blue eyes that were likenothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted,that were so red one could only think ofcherries or some other delicious crimson fruitin looking at them. She was growing a littlestout, but it did not seem to detract an iotafrom the grace of every step, pose, gesture.One would not have wanted her white neck amite less full or her beautiful arms moreslender. Never were hands more exquisitethan hers, and it was a joy to look at them whenshe threaded her needle or adjusted her goldthimble to her taper middle finger as shesewed away on the little night-drawers orfashioned a bodice or a bib.Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs.Pontellier, and often she took her sewing andwent over to sit with her in the afternoons. Shewas sitting there the afternoon of the day thebox arrived from New Orleans. She had

possession of the rocker, and she was busilyengaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair ofnight-drawers.She had brought the pattern of the drawersfor Mrs. Pontellier to cut out--a marvel ofconstruction, fashioned to enclose a baby'sbody so effectually that only two small eyesmight look out from the garment, like anEskimo's. They were designed for winter wear,when treacherous drafts came down chimneysand insidious currents of deadly cold foundtheir way through key-holes.Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at restconcerning the present material needs of herchildren, and she could not see the use ofanticipating and making winter night garmentsthe subject of her summer meditations. But shedid not want to appear unamiable anduninterested, so she had brought forthnewspapers, which she spread upon the floorof the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle'sdirections she had cut a pattern of the

impervious garment.Robert was there, seated as he had been theSunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier alsooccupied her former position on the upperstep, leaning listlessly against the post. Besideher was a box of bonbons, which she held outat intervals to Madame Ratignolle.That lady seemed at a loss to make aselection, but finally settled upon a stick ofnougat, wondering if it were not too rich;whether it could possibly hurt her. MadameRatignolle had been married seven years.About every two years she had a baby. At thattime she had three babies, and was beginningto think of a fourth one. She was always talkingabout her "condition." Her "condition" was inno way apparent, and no one would haveknown a thing about it but for her persistencein making it the subject of conversation.Robert started to reassure her, asserting thathe had known a lady who had subsisted upon

nougat during the entire--but seeing the colormount into Mrs. Pontellier's face he checkedhimself and changed the subject.Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married aCreole, was not thoroughly at home in thesociety of Creoles; never before had she beenthrown so intimately among them. There wereonly Creoles that summer at Lebrun's. They allknew each other, and felt like one large family,among whom existed the most amicablerelations. A characteristic which distinguishedthem and which impressed Mrs. Pontelliermost forcibly was their entire absence ofprudery. Their freedom of expression was atfirst incomprehensible to her, though she hadno difficulty in reconciling it with a loftychastity which in the Creole woman seems tobe inborn and unmistakable.Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shockwith which she heard Madame Ratignollerelating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowingstory of one of her accouchements,

withholding no intimate detail. She wasgrowing accustomed to like shocks, but shecould not keep the mounting color back fromher cheeks. Oftener than once her coming hadinterrupted the droll story with which Robertwas entertaining some amused group ofmarried women.A book had gone the rounds of the pension.When it came her turn to read it, she did sowith profound astonishment. She felt moved toread the book in secret and solitude, thoughnone of the others had done so,--to hide it fromview at the sound of approaching footsteps. Itwas openly criticised and freely discussed attable. Mrs. Pontellier gave over beingastonished, and concluded that wonders wouldnever cease.

VThey formed a congenial group sitting therethat summer afternoon--Madame Ratignollesewing away, often stopping to relate a storyor incident with much expressive gesture ofher perfect hands; Robert and Mrs. Pontelliersitting idle, exchanging occasional words,glances or smiles which indicated a certainadvanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.He had lived in her shadow during the pastmonth. No one thought anything of it. Manyhad predicted that Robert would devotehimself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived.Since the age of fifteen, which was elevenyears before, Robert each summer at GrandIsle had constituted himself the devotedattendant of some fair dame or damsel.Sometimes it was a young girl, again a widow;but as often as not it was some interestingmarried woman.

For two consecutive seasons he lived in thesunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne's presence.But she died between summers; then Robertposed as an inconsolable, prostrating himselfat the feet of Madame Ratignolle for whatevercrumbs of sympathy and comfort she might bepleased to vouchsafe.Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her faircompanion as she might look upon a faultlessMadonna."Could any one fathom the cruelty beneaththat fair exterior?" murmured Robert. "Sheknew that I adored her once, and she let meadore her. It was 'Robert, come; go; stand up;sit down; do this; do that; see if the babysleeps; my thimble, please, that I left Godknows where. Come and read Daudet to mewhile I sew.'""Par exemple! I never had to ask. You werealways there under my feet, like atroublesome cat."

"You mean like an adoring dog. And just assoon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene,then it WAS like a dog. 'Passez! Adieu! Allezvous-en!'""Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,"she interjoined, with excessive naivete. Thatmade them all laugh. The right hand jealous ofthe left! The heart jealous of the soul! But forthat matter, the Creole husband is neverjealous; with him the gangrene passion is onewhich has become dwarfed by disuse.Meanwhile Robert, addressing MrsPontellier, continued to tell of his one timehopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; ofsleepless nights, of consuming flames till thevery sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge.While the lady at the needle kept up a littlerunning, contemptuous comment:"Blagueur--farceur--gros bete, va!"

He never assumed this seriocomic tone whenalone with Mrs. Pontellier. She never knewprecisely what to make of it; at that moment itwas impossible for her to guess how much of itwas jest and what proportion was earnest. Itwas understood that he had often spokenwords of love to Madame Ratignolle, withoutany thought of being taken seriously. Mrs.Pontellier was glad he had not assumed asimilar role toward herself. It would have beenunacceptable and annoying.Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketchingmaterials, which she sometimes dabbled within an unprofessional way. She liked thedabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kindwhich no other employment afforded her.She had long wished to try herself onMadame Ratignolle. Never had that ladyseemed a more tempting subject than at thatmoment, seated there like some sensuousMadonna, with the gleam of the fading dayenriching her splendid color.

Robert crossed over and seated himself uponthe step below Mrs. Pontellier, that he mightwatch her work. She handled her brushes witha certain ease and freedom which came, notfrom long and close acquaintance with them,but from a natural aptitude. Robert followedher work with close attention, giving forth littleejaculatory expressions of appreciation inFrench, which he addressed to MadameRatignolle."Mais ce n'est pas mal! Elle s'y connait, elle ade la force, oui."During his oblivious attention he once quietlyrested his head against Mrs. Pontellier's arm.As gently she repulsed him. Once again herepeated the offense. She could not butbelieve it to be thoughtlessness on his part; yetthat was no reason she should submit to it. Shedid not remonstrate, except again to repulsehim quietly but firmly. He offered no apology.The picture completed bore no resemblance

to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatlydisappointed to find that it did not look likeher. But it was a fair enough piece of work, andin many respects satisfying.Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so.After surveying the sketch critically she drewa broad smudge of paint across its surface, andcrumpled the paper between her hands.The youngsters came tumbling up the steps,the quadroon following at the respectfuldistance which they required her to observe.Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paintsand things into the house. She sought to detainthem for a little talk and some pleasantry. Butthey were greatly in earnest. They had onlycome to investigate the contents of the bonbonbox. They accepted without murmuring whatshe chose to give them, each holding out twochubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope thatthey might be filled; and then away they went.The sun was low in the west, and the breeze

soft and languorous that came up from thesouth, charged with the seductive odor of thesea. Children freshly befurbelowed, weregathering for their games under the oaks.Their voices were high and penetrating.Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing,placing thimble, scissors, and thread all neatlytogether in the roll, which she pinnedsecurely. She complained of faintness. Mrs.Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan.She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face withcologne, while Robert plied the fan withunnecessary vigor.The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontelliercould not help wondering if there were not alittle imagination responsible for its origin, forthe rose tint had never faded from her friend'sface.She stood watching the fair woman walkdown the long line of galleries with the graceand majesty which queens are sometimes

supposed to possess. Her little ones ran tomeet her. Two of them clung about her whiteskirts, the third she took from its nurse andwith a thousand endearments bore it along inher own fond, encircling arms. Though, aseverybody well knew, the doctor hadforbidden her to lift so much as a pin!"Are you going bathing?" asked Robert ofMrs. Pontellier. It was not so much a questionas a reminder."Oh, no," she answered, with a tone ofindecision. "I'm tired; I think not." Her glancewandered from his face away toward the Gulf,whose sonorous murmur reached her like aloving but imperative entreaty."Oh, come!" he insisted. "You mustn't missyour bath. Come on. The water must bedelicious; it will not hurt you. Come."He reached up for her big, rough straw hatthat hung on a peg outside the door, and put it

on her head. They descended the steps, andwalked away together toward the beach. Thesun was low in the west and the breeze wassoft and warm.

VIEdna Pontellier could not have told why,wishing to go to the beach with Robert, sheshould in the first place have declined, and inthe second place have followed in obedienceto one of the two contradictory impulses whichimpelled her.A certain light was beginning to dawn dimlywithin her,--the light which, showing the way,forbids it.At that early period it served but to bewilderher. It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness,to the shadowy anguish which had overcomeher the midnight when she had abandonedherself to tears.In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning torealize her position in the universe as a humanbeing, and to recognize her relations as anindividual to the world within and about her.

This may seem like a ponderous weight ofwisdom to descend upon the soul of a youngwoman of twenty-eight--perhaps more wisdomthan the Holy Ghost is usually pleased tovouchsafe to any woman.But the beginning of things, of a worldespecially, is necessarily vague, tangled,chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How fewof us ever emerge from such beginning! Howmany souls perish in its tumult!The voice of the sea is seductive; neverceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring,inviting the soul to wander for a spell inabysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes ofinward contemplation.The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. Thetouch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding thebody in its soft, close embrace.

VIIMrs. Pontellier was not a woman given toconfidences, a characteristic hitherto contraryto her nature. Even as a child she had lived herown small life all within herself. At a very earlyperiod she had apprehended instinctively thedual life--that outward existence whichconforms, the inward life which questions.That summer at Grand Isle she began toloosen a little the mantle of reserve that hadalways enveloped her. There may havebeen--there must have been--influences, bothsubtle and apparent, working in their severalways to induce her to do this; but the mostobvious was the influence of Adele Ratignolle.The excessive physical charm of the Creolehad first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuoussusceptibility to beauty. Then the candor of thewoman's whole existence, which every onemight read, and which formed so striking acontrast to her own habitual reserve--this

might have furnished a link. Who can tell whatmetals the gods use in forging the subtle bondwhich we call sympathy, which we might aswell call love.The two women went away one morning tothe beach together, arm in arm, under thehuge white sunshade. Edna had prevailedupon Madame Ratignolle to leave the childrenbehind, though she could not induce her torelinquish a diminutive roll of needlework,which Adele begged to be allowed to slip intothe depths of her pocket. In someunaccountable way they had escaped fromRobert.The walk to the beach was no inconsiderableone, consisting as it did of a long, sandy path,upon which a sporadic and tangled growth thatbordered it on either side made frequent andunexpected inroads. There were acres ofyellow camomile reaching out on either hand.Further away still, vegetable gardensabounded, with frequent small plantations of

orange or lemon trees intervening. The darkgreen clusters glistened from afar in the sun.The women were both of goodly height,Madame Ratignolle possessing the morefeminine and matronly figure. The charm ofEdna Pontellier's physique stole insensiblyupon you. The lines of her body were long,clean and symmetrical; it was a body whichoccasionally fell into splendid poses; therewas no suggestion of the trim, stereotypedfashion-plate about it. A casual andindiscriminating observer, in passing, mightnot cast a second glance upon the figure. Butwith more feeling and discernment he wouldhave recognized the noble beauty of itsmodeling, and the graceful severity of poiseand movement, which made Edna Pontellierdifferent from the crowd.She wore a cool muslin that morning--white,with a waving vertical line of brown runningthrough it; also a white linen collar and the bigstraw hat which she had taken from the peg

outside the door. The hat rested any way onher yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, washeavy, and clung close to her head.Madame Ratignolle, more careful of hercomplexion, had twined a gauze veil about herhead. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntletsthat protected her wrists. She was dressed inpure white, with a fluffiness of ruffles thatbecame her. The draperies and flutteringthings which she wore suited her rich,luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of linecould not have done.There were a number of bath-houses alongthe beach, of rough but solid construction,built with small, protecting galleries facing thewater. Each house consisted of twocompartments, and each family at Lebrun'spossessed a compartment for itself, fitted outwith all the essential paraphernalia of the bathand whatever other conveniences the ownersmight desire. The two women had no intentionof bathing; they had just strolled down to the

each for a walk and to be alone and near thewater. The Pontellier and Ratignollecompartments adjoined one another under thesame roof.Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her keythrough force of habit. Unlocking the door ofher bath-room she went inside, and soonemerged, bringing a rug, which she spreadupon the floor of the gallery, and two huge hairpillows covered with crash, which she placedagainst the front of the building.The two seated themselves there in the shadeof the porch, side by side, with their backsagainst the pillows and their feet extended.Madame Ratignolle removed her veil, wipedher face with a rather delicate handkerchief,and fanned herself with the fan which shealways carried suspended somewhere abouther person by a long, narrow ribbon. Ednaremoved her collar and opened her dress atthe throat. She took the fan from MadameRatignolle and began to fan both herself and

her companion. It was very warm, and for awhile they did nothing but exchange remarksabout the heat, the sun, the glare. But therewas a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind thatwhipped the water into froth. It fluttered theskirts of the two women and kept them for awhile engaged in adjusting, readjusting,tucking in, securing hair-pins and hat-pins. Afew persons were sporting some distanceaway in the water. The beach was very still ofhuman sound at that hour. The lady in blackwas reading her morning devotions on theporch of a neighboring bathhouse. Two younglovers were exchanging their hearts'yearnings beneath the children's tent, whichthey had found unoccupied.Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, hadfinally kept them at rest upon the sea. The daywas clear and carried the gaze out as far as theblue sky went; there were a few white cloudssuspended idly over the horizon. A lateen sailwas visible in the direction of Cat Island, andothers to the south seemed almost motionless

in the far distance."Of whom--of what are you thinking?" askedAdele of her companion, whose countenanceshe had been watching with a little amusedattention, arrested by the absorbedexpression which seemed to have seized andfixed every feature into a statuesque repose."Nothing," returned Mrs. Pontellier, with astart, adding at once: "How stupid! But it seemsto me it is the reply we make instinctively tosuch a question. Let me see," she went on,throwing back her head and narrowing herfine eyes till they shone like two vivid points oflight. "Let me see. I was really not conscious ofthinking of anything; but perhaps I can retracemy thoughts.""Oh! never mind!" laughed MadameRatignolle. "I am not quite so exacting. I will letyou off this time. It is really too hot to think,especially to think about thinking."

"But for the fun of it," persisted Edna. "First ofall, the sight of the water stretching so faraway, those motionless sails against the bluesky, made a delicious picture that I just wantedto sit and look at. The hot wind beating in myface made me think--without any connectionthat I can trace of a summer day in Kentucky,of a meadow that seemed as big as the oceanto the very little girl walking through the grass,which was higher than her waist. She threw outher arms as if swimming when she walked,beating the tall grass as one strikes out in thewater. Oh, I see the connection now!""Where were you going that day in Kentucky,walking through the grass?""I don't remember now. I was just walkingdiagonally across a big field. My sun-bonnetobstructed the view. I could see only thestretch of green before me, and I felt as if Imust walk on forever, without coming to theend of it. I don't remember whether I wasfrightened or pleased. I must have been

entertained."Likely as not it was Sunday," she laughed;"and I was running away from prayers, fromthe Presbyterian service, read in a spirit ofgloom by my father that chills me yet to thinkof.""And have you been running away fromprayers ever since, ma chere?" asked MadameRatignolle, amused."No! oh, no!" Edna hastened to say. "I was alittle unthinking child in those days, justfollowing a misleading impulse withoutquestion. On the contrary, during one periodof my life religion took a firm hold upon me;after I was twelve and until-until--why, Isuppose until now, though I never thoughtmuch about it--just driven along by habit. Butdo you know," she broke off, turning her quickeyes upon Madame Ratignolle and leaningforward a little so as to bring her face quiteclose to that of her companion, "sometimes I

feel this summer as if I were walking throughthe green meadow again; idly, aimlessly,unthinking and unguided."Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that ofMrs. Pontellier, which was near her. Seeingthat the hand was not withdrawn, she claspedit firmly and warmly. She even stroked it alittle, fondly, with the other hand, murmuringin an undertone, "Pauvre cherie."The action was at first a little confusing toEdna, but she soon lent herself readily to theCreole's gentle caress. She was notaccustomed to an outward and spokenexpression of affection, either in herself or inothers. She and her younger sister, Janet, hadquarreled a good deal through force ofunfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret,was matronly and dignified, probably fromhaving assumed matronly and housewifelyresponsibilities too early in life, their motherhaving died when they were quite young,Margaret was not effusive; she was practical.

Edna had had an occasional girl friend, butwhether accidentally or not, they seemed tohave been all of one type--the self-contained.She never realized that the reserve of her owncharacter had much, perhaps everything, todo with this. Her most intimate friend at schoolhad been one of rather exceptional intellectualgifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, whichEdna admired and strove to imitate; and withher she talked and glowed over the Englishclassics, and sometimes held religious andpolitical controversies.Edna often wondered at one propensitywhich sometimes had inwardly disturbed herwithout causing any outward show ormanifestation on her part. At a very earlyage--perhaps it was when she traversed theocean of waving grass--she remembered thatshe had been passionately enamored of adignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer whovisited her father in Kentucky. She could notleave his presence when he was there, norremove her eyes from his face, which was

something like Napoleon's, with a lock of blackhair failing across the forehead. But the cavalryofficer melted imperceptibly out of herexistence.At another time her affections were deeplyengaged by a young gentleman who visited alady on a neighboring plantation. It was afterthey went to Mississippi to live. The youngman was engaged to be married to the younglady, and they sometimes called uponMargaret, driving over of afternoons in abuggy. Edna was a little miss, just merginginto her teens; and the realization that sheherself was nothing, nothing, nothing to theengaged young man was a bitter affliction toher. But he, too, went the way of dreams.She was a grown young woman when she wasovertaken by what she supposed to be theclimax of her fate. It was when the face andfigure of a great tragedian began to haunt herimagination and stir her senses. Thepersistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect

of genuineness. The hopelessness of it coloredit with the lofty tones of a great passion.The picture of the tragedian stood enframedupon her desk. Any one may possess theportrait of a tragedian without excitingsuspicion or comment. (This was a sinisterreflection which she cherished.) In thepresence of others she expressed admirationfor his exalted gifts, as she handed thephotograph around and dwelt upon the fidelityof the likeness. When alone she sometimespicked it up and kissed the cold glasspassionately.Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purelyan accident, in this respect resembling manyother marriages which masquerade as thedecrees of Fate. It was in the midst of hersecret great passion that she met him. He fellin love, as men are in the habit of doing, andpressed his suit with an earnestness and anardor which left nothing to be desired. Hepleased her; his absolute devotion flattered

her. She fancied there was a sympathy ofthought and taste between them, in whichfancy she was mistaken. Add to this the violentopposition of her father and her sisterMargaret to her marriage with a Catholic, andwe need seek no further for the motives whichled her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for herhusband.The acme of bliss, which would have been amarriage with the tragedian, was not for her inthis world. As the devoted wife of a man whoworshiped her, she felt she would take herplace with a certain dignity in the world ofreality, closing the portals forever behind herupon the realm of romance and dreams.But it was not long before the tragedian hadgone to join the cavalry officer and theengaged young man and a few others; andEdna found herself face to face with therealities. She grew fond of her husband,realizing with some unaccountable satisfactionthat no trace of passion or excessive and

fictitious warmth colored her affection, therebythreatening its dissolution.She was fond of her children in an uneven,impulsive way. She would sometimes gatherthem passionately to her heart; she wouldsometimes forget them. The year before theyhad spent part of the summer with theirgrandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feelingsecure regarding their happiness and welfare,she did not miss them except with anoccasional intense longing. Their absence wasa sort of relief, though she did not admit this,even to herself. It seemed to free her of aresponsibility which she had blindly assumedand for which Fate had not fitted her.Edna did not reveal so much as all this toMadame Ratignolle that summer day whenthey sat with faces turned to the sea. But agood part of it escaped her. She had put herhead down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder.She was flushed and felt intoxicated with thesound of her own voice and the unaccustomed

taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, orlike a first breath of freedom.There was the sound of approaching voices. Itwas Robert, surrounded by a troop of children,searching for them. The two little Pontellierswere with him, and he carried MadameRatignolle's little girl in his arms. There wereother children beside, and two nurse-maidsfollowed, looking disagreeable and resigned.The women at once rose and began to shakeout their draperies and relax their muscles.Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug intothe bath-house. The children all scampered offto the awning, and they stood there in a line,gazing upon the intruding lovers, stillexchanging their vows and sighs. The loversgot up, with only a silent protest, and walkedslowly away somewhere else.The children possessed themselves of thetent, and Mrs. Pontellier went over to jointhem.

Madame Ratignolle begged Robert toaccompany her to the house; she complainedof cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints.She leaned draggingly upon his arm as theywalked.

VIII"Do me a favor, Robert," spoke the prettywoman at his side, almost as soon as she andRobert had started their slow, homeward way.She looked up in his face, leaning on his armbeneath the encircling shadow of the umbrellawhich he had lifted."Granted; as many as you like," he returned,glancing down into her eyes that were full ofthoughtfulness and some speculation."I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.""Tiens!" he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyishlaugh. "Voila que Madame Ratignolle estjalouse!""Nonsense! I'm in earnest; I mean what I say.Let Mrs. Pontellier alone.""Why?" he asked; himself growing serious at

his companion's solicitation."She is not one of us; she is not like us. Shemight make the unfortunate blunder of takingyou seriously."His face flushed with annoyance, and takingoff his soft hat he began to beat it impatientlyagainst his leg as he walked. "Why shouldn'tshe take me seriously?" he demanded sharply."Am I a comedian, a clown, a jack-in-the-box?Why shouldn't she? You Creoles! I have nopatience with you! Am I always to be regardedas a feature of an amusing programme? I hopeMrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hopeshe has discernment enough to find in mesomething besides the blagueur. If I thoughtthere was any doubt--""Oh, enough, Robert!" she broke into hisheated outburst. "You are not thinking of whatyou are saying. You speak with about as littlereflection as we might expect from one ofthose children down there playing in the sand.

If your attentions to any married women herewere ever offered with any intention of beingconvincing, you would not be the gentlemanwe all know you to be, and you would be unfitto associate with the wives and daughters ofthe people who trust you."Madame Ratignolle had spoken what shebelieved to be the law and the gospel. Theyoung man shrugged his shouldersimpatiently."Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hatdown vehemently upon his head. "You oughtto feel that such things are not flattering to sayto a fellow.""Should our whole intercourse consist of anexchange of compliments? Ma foi!""It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you--"he went on, unheedingly, but breaking offsuddenly: "Now if I were like Arobin-youremember Alcee Arobin and that story of the

consul's wife at Biloxi?" And he related thestory of Alcee Arobin and the consul's wife;and another about the tenor of the FrenchOpera, who received letters which shouldnever have been written; and still otherstories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier andher possible propensity for taking young menseriously was apparently forgotten.Madame Ratignolle, when they had regainedher cottage, went in to take the hour's restwhich she considered helpful. Before leavingher, Robert begged her pardon for theimpatience--he called it rudeness--with whichhe had received her well-meant caution."You made one mistake, Adele," he said, witha light smile; "there is no earthly possibility ofMrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. Youshould have warned me against taking myselfseriously. Your advice might then have carriedsome weight and given me subject for somereflection. Au revoir. But you look tired," headded, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of

ouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mixyou a toddy with a drop of Angostura."She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon,which was grateful and acceptable. He wenthimself to the kitchen, which was a buildingapart from the cottages and lying to the rear ofthe house. And he himself brought her thegolden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup,with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer.She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtainwhich shielded her open door, and receivedthe cup from his hands. She told him he was abon garcon, and she meant it. Robert thankedher and turned away toward "the house."The lovers were just entering the grounds ofthe pension. They were leaning toward eachother as the wateroaks bent from the sea.There was not a particle of earth beneath theirfeet. Their heads might have been turnedupside-down, so absolutely did they treadupon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping

ehind them, looked a trifle paler and morejaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs.Pontellier and the children. Robert scannedthe distance for any such apparition. Theywould doubtless remain away till the dinnerhour. The young man ascended to his mother'sroom. It was situated at the top of the house,made up of odd angles and a queer, slopingceiling. Two broad dormer windows lookedout toward the Gulf, and as far across it as aman's eye might reach. The furnishings of theroom were light, cool, and practical.Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at thesewing-machine. A little black girl sat on thefloor, and with her hands worked the treadle ofthe machine. The Creole woman does not takeany chances which may be avoided ofimperiling her health.Robert went over and seated himself on thebroad sill of one of the dormer windows. Hetook a book from his pocket and beganenergetically to read it, judging by the

precision and frequency with which he turnedthe leaves. The sewing-machine made aresounding clatter in the room; it was of aponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robertand his mother exchanged bits of desultoryconversation."Where is Mrs. Pontellier?""Down at the beach with the children.""I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don'tforget to take it down when you go; it's thereon the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter,clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eightminutes."Where is Victor going with the rockaway?""The rockaway? Victor?""Yes; down there in front. He seems to begetting ready to drive away somewhere."

"Call him." Clatter, clatter!Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle whichmight have been heard back at the wharf."He won't look up."Madame Lebrun flew to the window. Shecalled "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief andcalled again. The young fellow below got intothe vehicle and started the horse off at agallop.Madame Lebrun went back to the machine,crimson with annoyance. Victor was theyounger son and brother--a tete montee, witha temper which invited violence and a willwhich no ax could break."Whenever you say the word I'm ready tothrash any amount of reason into him that he'sable to hold.""If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter,

clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief withMadame Lebrun that the conduct of theuniverse and all things pertaining theretowould have been manifestly of a moreintelligent and higher order had not MonsieurLebrun been removed to other spheres duringthe early years of their married life."What do you hear from Montel?" Montel wasa middle-aged gentleman whose vainambition and desire for the past twenty yearshad been to fill the void which MonsieurLebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrunhousehold. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!"I have a letter somewhere," looking in themachine drawer and finding the letter in thebottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell youhe will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of nextmonth,"--clatter, clatter!--"and if you still havethe intention of joining him"--bang! clatter,clatter, bang!"Why didn't you tell me so before, mother?

You know I wanted--" Clatter, clatter, clatter!"Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back withthe children? She will be in late to luncheonagain. She never starts to get ready forluncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter!"Where are you going?""Where did you say the Goncourt was?"

IXEvery light in the hall was ablaze; every lampturned as high as it could be without smokingthe chimney or threatening explosion. Thelamps were fixed at intervals against the wall,encircling the whole room. Some one hadgathered orange and lemon branches, andwith these fashioned graceful festoonsbetween. The dark green of the branchesstood out and glistened against the whitemuslin curtains which draped the windows,and which puffed, floated, and flapped at thecapricious will of a stiff breeze that swept upfrom the Gulf.It was Saturday night a few weeks after theintimate conversation held between Robertand Madame Ratignolle on their way from thebeach. An unusual number of husbands,fathers, and friends had come down to stayover Sunday; and they were being suitablyentertained by their families, with the material

help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables hadall been removed to one end of the hall, andthe chairs ranged about in rows and inclusters. Each little family group had had itssay and exchanged its domestic gossip earlierin the evening. There was now an apparentdisposition to relax; to widen the circle ofconfidences and give a more general tone tothe conversation.Many of the children had been permitted tosit up beyond their usual bedtime. A smallband of them were lying on their stomachs onthe floor looking at the colored sheets of thecomic papers which Mr. Pontellier hadbrought down. The little Pontellier boys werepermitting them to do so, and making theirauthority felt.Music, dancing, and a recitation or two werethe entertainments furnished, or rather,offered. But there was nothing systematicabout the programme, no appearance ofprearrangement nor even premeditation.

At an early hour in the evening the Farivaltwins were prevailed upon to play the piano.They were girls of fourteen, always clad in theVirgin's colors, blue and white, having beendedicated to the Blessed Virgin at theirbaptism. They played a duet from "Zampa,"and at the earnest solicitation of every onepresent followed it with the overture to "ThePoet and the Peasant.""Allez vous-en! Sapristi!" shrieked the parrotoutside the door. He was the only beingpresent who possessed sufficient candor toadmit that he was not listening to thesegracious performances for the first time thatsummer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather ofthe twins, grew indignant over theinterruption, and insisted upon having the birdremoved and consigned to regions ofdarkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and hisdecrees were as immutable as those of Fate.The parrot fortunately offered no furtherinterruption to the entertainment, the whole

venom of his nature apparently having beencherished up and hurled against the twins inthat one impetuous outburst.Later a young brother and sister gaverecitations, which every one present hadheard many times at winter eveningentertainments in the city.A little girl performed a skirt dance in thecenter of the floor. The mother played heraccompaniments and at the same timewatched her daughter with greedy admirationand nervous apprehension. She need have hadno apprehension. The child was mistress of thesituation. She had been properly dressed forthe occasion in black tulle and black silktights. Her little neck and arms were bare, andher hair, artificially crimped, stood out likefluffy black plumes over her head. Her poseswere full of grace, and her little black-shodtoes twinkled as they shot out and upward witha rapidity and suddenness which werebewildering.

But there was no reason why every oneshould not dance. Madame Ratignolle couldnot, so it was she who gaily consented to playfor the others. She played very well, keepingexcellent waltz time and infusing anexpression into the strains which was indeedinspiring. She was keeping up her music onaccount of the children, she said; because sheand her husband both considered it a means ofbrightening the home and making it attractive.Almost every one danced but the twins, whocould not be induced to separate during thebrief period when one or the other should bewhirling around the room in the arms of a man.They might have danced together, but theydid not think of it.The children were sent to bed. Some wentsubmissively; others with shrieks and protestsas they were dragged away. They had beenpermitted to sit up till after the ice-cream,which naturally marked the limit of human

indulgence.The ice-cream was passed around withcake--gold and silver cake arranged onplatters in alternate slices; it had been madeand frozen during the afternoon back of thekitchen by two black women, under thesupervision of Victor. It was pronounced agreat success--excellent if it had onlycontained a little less vanilla or a little moresugar, if it had been frozen a degree harder,and if the salt might have been kept out ofportions of it. Victor was proud of hisachievement, and went about recommendingit and urging every one to partake of it toexcess.After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice withher husband, once with Robert, and once withMonsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall andswayed like a reed in the wind when hedanced, she went out on the gallery andseated herself on the low window-sill, whereshe 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. Themoon was coming up, and its mystic shimmerwas casting a million lights across the distant,restless water."Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reiszplay?" asked Robert, coming out on the porchwhere she was. Of course Edna would like tohear Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she fearedit would be useless to entreat her."I'll ask her," he said. "I'll tell her that youwant to hear her. She likes you. She willcome." He turned and hurried away to one ofthe far cottages, where Mademoiselle Reiszwas shuffling away. She was dragging a chairin and out of her room, and at intervalsobjecting to the crying of a baby, which anurse in the adjoining cottage wasendeavoring to put to sleep. She was adisagreeable 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 ofothers. Robert prevailed upon her without anytoo great difficulty.She entered the hall with him during a lull inthe dance. She made an awkward, imperiouslittle bow as she went in. She was a homelywoman, with a small weazened face and bodyand eyes that glowed. She had absolutely notaste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty blacklace with a bunch of artificial violets pinned tothe side of her hair."Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like tohear me play," she requested of Robert. Shesat perfectly still before the piano, nottouching the keys, while Robert carried hermessage to Edna at the window. A general airof surprise and genuine satisfaction fell uponevery one as they saw the pianist enter. Therewas a settling down, and a prevailing air ofexpectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifleembarrassed at being thus signaled out for theimperious little woman's favor. She would not

dare to choose, and begged thatMademoiselle Reisz would please herself inher selections.Edna was what she herself called very fond ofmusic. Musical strains, well rendered, had away of evoking pictures in her mind. Shesometimes liked to sit in the room of morningswhen Madame Ratignolle played or practiced.One piece which that lady played Edna hadentitled "Solitude." It was a short, plaintive,minor strain. The name of the piece wassomething else, but she called it "Solitude."When she heard it there came before herimagination the figure of a man standingbeside a desolate rock on the seashore. Hewas naked. His attitude was one of hopelessresignation as he looked toward a distant birdwinging its flight away from him.Another piece called to her mind a daintyyoung woman clad in an Empire gown, takingmincing dancing steps as she came down along avenue between tall hedges. Again,

another reminded her of children at play, andstill another of nothing on earth but a demurelady stroking a cat.The very first chords which MademoiselleReisz struck upon the piano sent a keen tremordown Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It wasnot the first time she had heard an artist at thepiano. Perhaps it was the first time she wasready, perhaps the first time her being wastempered to take an impress of the abidingtruth.She waited for the material pictures whichshe thought would gather and blaze before herimagination. She waited in vain. She saw nopictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or ofdespair. But the very passions themselveswere aroused within her soul, swaying it,lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon hersplendid body. She trembled, she waschoking, and the tears blinded her.Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and

owing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away,stopping for neither, thanks nor applause. Asshe passed along the gallery she patted Ednaupon the shoulder."Well, how did you like my music?" sheasked. The young woman was unable toanswer; she pressed the hand of the pianistconvulsively. Mademoiselle Reisz perceivedher agitation and even her tears. She pattedher again upon the shoulder as she said:"You are the only one worth playing for.Those others? Bah!" and she went shuffling andsidling on down the gallery toward her room.But she was mistaken about "those others."Her playing had aroused a fever ofenthusiasm. "What passion!" "What an artist!""I have always said no one could play Chopinlike Mademoiselle Reisz!" "That last prelude!Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!"It was growing late, and there was a general

disposition to disband. But some one, perhapsit was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystichour and under that mystic moon.

XAt all events Robert proposed it, and therewas not a dissenting voice. There was not onebut was ready to follow when he led the way.He did not lead the way, however, he directedthe way; and he himself loitered behind withthe lovers, who had betrayed a disposition tolinger and hold themselves apart. He walkedbetween them, whether with malicious ormischievous intent was not wholly clear, evento himself.The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walkedahead; the women leaning upon the arms oftheir husbands. Edna could hear Robert'svoice behind them, and could sometimes hearwhat he said. She wondered why he did notjoin them. It was unlike him not to. Of late hehad sometimes held away from her for anentire day, redoubling his devotion upon thenext and the next, as though to make up forhours that had been lost. She missed him the

days when some pretext served to take himaway from her, just as one misses the sun on acloudy day without having thought much aboutthe sun when it was shining.The people walked in little groups toward thebeach. They talked and laughed; some of themsang. There was a band playing down atKlein's hotel, and the strains reached themfaintly, tempered by the distance. There werestrange, rare odors abroad--a tangle of the seasmell and of weeds and damp, new-plowedearth, mingled with the heavy perfume of afield of white blossoms somewhere near. Butthe night sat lightly upon the sea and the land.There was no weight of darkness; there wereno shadows. The white light of the moon hadfallen upon the world like the mystery and thesoftness of sleep.Most of them walked into the water as thoughinto a native element. The sea was quiet now,and swelled lazily in broad billows that meltedinto one another and did not break except

upon the beach in little foamy crests thatcoiled back like slow, white serpents.Edna had attempted all summer to learn toswim. She had received instructions from boththe men and women; in some instances fromthe children. Robert had pursued a system oflessons almost daily; and he was nearly at thepoint of discouragement in realizing the futilityof his efforts. A certain ungovernable dreadhung about her when in the water, unless therewas a hand near by that might reach out andreassure her.But that night she was like the little tottering,stumbling, clutching child, who of a suddenrealizes its powers, and walks for the first timealone, boldly and with over-confidence. Shecould have shouted for joy. She did shout forjoy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she liftedher body to the surface of the water.A feeling of exultation overtook her, as ifsome power of significant import had been

given her to control the working of her bodyand her soul. She grew daring and reckless,overestimating her strength. She wanted toswim far out, where no woman had swumbefore.Her unlooked-for achievement was thesubject of wonder, applause, and admiration.Each one congratulated himself that his specialteachings had accomplished this desired end."How easy it is!" she thought. "It is nothing,"she said aloud; "why did I not discover beforethat it was nothing. Think of the time I have lostsplashing about like a baby!" She would notjoin the groups in their sports and bouts, butintoxicated with her newly conquered power,she swam out alone.She turned her face seaward to gather in animpression of space and solitude, which thevast expanse of water, meeting and meltingwith the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excitedfancy. As she swam she seemed to be

eaching out for the unlimited in which to loseherself.Once she turned and looked toward theshore, toward the people she had left there.She had not gone any great distance that is,what would have been a great distance for anexperienced swimmer. But to herunaccustomed vision the stretch of waterbehind her assumed the aspect of a barrierwhich her unaided strength would never beable to overcome.A quick vision of death smote her soul, andfor a second of time appalled and enfeebledher senses. But by an effort she rallied herstaggering faculties and managed to regainthe land.She made no mention of her encounter withdeath and her flash of terror, except to say toher husband, "I thought I should have perishedout there alone."

"You were not so very far, my dear; I waswatching you", he told her.Edna went at once to the bath-house, and shehad put on her dry clothes and was ready toreturn home before the others had left thewater. She started to walk away alone. They allcalled to her and shouted to her. She waved adissenting hand, and went on, paying nofurther heed to their renewed cries whichsought to detain her."Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs.Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun,who was amusing herself immensely andfeared that Edna's abrupt departure might putan end to the pleasure."I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier;"sometimes, not often."Edna had not traversed a quarter of thedistance on her way home before she wasovertaken by Robert.

"Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him,without a shade of annoyance."No; I knew you weren't afraid.""Then why did you come? Why didn't youstay out there with the others?""I never thought of it.""Thought of what?""Of anything. What difference does it make?""I'm very tired," she uttered, complainingly."I know you are.""You don't know anything about it. Whyshould you know? I never was so exhausted inmy life. But it isn't unpleasant. A thousandemotions have swept through me to-night. Idon't comprehend half of them. Don't mind

what I'm saying; I am just thinking aloud. Iwonder if I shall ever be stirred again asMademoiselle Reisz's playing moved meto-night. I wonder if any night on earth willever again be like this one. It is like a night ina dream. The people about me are like someuncanny, half-human beings. There must bespirits abroad to-night.""There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't youknow this was the twenty-eighth of August?""The twenty-eighth of August?""Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at thehour of midnight, and if the moon isshining--the moon must be shining--a spiritthat has haunted these shores for ages rises upfrom the Gulf. With its own penetrating visionthe spirit seeks some one mortal worthy tohold him company, worthy of being exalted fora 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 fromthe spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer apoor, unworthy earthling to walk in theshadow of her divine presence.""Don't banter me," she said, wounded at whatappeared to be his flippancy. He did not mindthe entreaty, but the tone with its delicate noteof pathos was like a reproach. He could notexplain; he could not tell her that he hadpenetrated her mood and understood. He saidnothing except to offer her his arm, for, by herown admission, she was exhausted. She hadbeen walking alone with her arms hanginglimp, letting her white skirts trail along thedewy path. She took his arm, but she did notlean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, asthough her thoughts wereelsewhere--somewhere in advance of herbody, and she was striving to overtake them.Robert assisted her into the hammock whichswung from the post before her door out to the

trunk of a tree."Will you stay out here and wait for Mr.Pontellier?" he asked."I'll stay out here. Good-night.""Shall I get you a pillow?""There's one here," she said, feeling about,for they were in the shadow."It must be soiled; the children have beentumbling it about.""No matter." And having discovered thepillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. Sheextended herself in the hammock with a deepbreath of relief. She was not a supercilious oran over-dainty woman. She was not muchgiven to reclining in the hammock, and whenshe did so it was with no cat-like suggestion ofvoluptuous ease, but with a beneficent reposewhich seemed to invade her whole body.

"Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontelliercomes?" asked Robert, seating himself on theouter edge of one of the steps and taking holdof the hammock rope which was fastened tothe post."If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Willyou get my white shawl which I left on thewindow-sill over at the house?""Are you chilly?""No; but I shall be presently.""Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know whattime it is? How long are you going to stay outhere?""I don't know. Will you get the shawl?""Of course I will," he said, rising. He wentover to the house, walking along the grass. Shewatched his figure pass in and out of the strips

of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was veryquiet.When he returned with the shawl she took itand kept it in her hand. She did not put itaround her."Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontelliercame back?""I said you might if you wished to."He seated himself again and rolled acigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neitherdid Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude ofwords could have been more significant thanthose moments of silence, or more pregnantwith the first-felt throbbings of desire.When the voices of the bathers were heardapproaching, Robert said good-night. She didnot answer him. He thought she was asleep.Again she watched his figure pass in and out ofthe strips of moonlight as he walked away.

XI"What are you doing out here, Edna? Ithought I should find you in bed," said herhusband, when he discovered her lying there.He had walked up with Madame Lebrun andleft her at the house. His wife did not reply."Are you asleep?" he asked, bending downclose to look at her."No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense,with no sleepy shadows, as they looked intohis."Do you know it is past one o'clock? Comeon," and he mounted the steps and went intotheir room."Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within,after a few moments had gone by."Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust

his head through the door."You will take cold out there," he said,irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't youcome in?""It isn't cold; I have my shawl.""The mosquitoes will devour you.""There are no mosquitoes."She heard him moving about the room; everysound indicating impatience and irritation.Another time she would have gone in at hisrequest. She would, through habit, haveyielded to his desire; not with any sense ofsubmission or obedience to his compellingwishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move,sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of thelife which has been portioned out to us."Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" heasked again, this time fondly, with a note of

entreaty."No; I am going to stay out here.""This is more than folly," he blurted out. "Ican't permit you to stay out there all night. Youmust come in the house instantly."With a writhing motion she settled herselfmore securely in the hammock. She perceivedthat her will had blazed up, stubborn andresistant. She could not at that moment havedone other than denied and resisted. Shewondered if her husband had ever spoken toher like that before, and if she had submittedto his command. Of course she had; sheremembered that she had. But she could notrealize why or how she should have yielded,feeling as she then did."Leonce, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stayout here. I don't wish to go in, and I don'tintend to. Don't speak to me like that again; Ishall not answer you."

Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but heslipped on an extra garment. He opened abottle of wine, of which he kept a small andselect supply in a buffet of his own. He drank aglass of the wine and went out on the galleryand offered a glass to his wife. She did notwish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted hisslippered feet on the rail, and proceeded tosmoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then hewent inside and drank another glass of wine.Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept aglass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellieronce more seated himself with elevated feet,and after a reasonable interval of time smokedsome more cigars.Edna began to feel like one who awakensgradually out of a dream, a delicious,grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again therealities pressing into her soul. The physicalneed for sleep began to overtake her; theexuberance which had sustained and exaltedher spirit left her helpless and yielding to the

conditions which crowded her in.The stillest hour of the night had come, thehour before dawn, when the world seems tohold its breath. The moon hung low, and hadturned from silver to copper in the sleepingsky. The old owl no longer hooted, and thewater-oaks had ceased to moan as they benttheir heads.Edna arose, cramped from lying so long andstill in the hammock. She tottered up the steps,clutching feebly at the post before passing intothe house."Are you coming in, Leonce?" she asked,turning her face toward her husband."Yes, dear," he answered, with a glancefollowing a misty puff of smoke. "Just as soonas I have finished my cigar."

XIIShe slept but a few hours. They were troubledand feverish hours, disturbed with dreams thatwere intangible, that eluded her, leaving onlyan impression upon her half-awakened sensesof something unattainable. She was up anddressed in the cool of the early morning. Theair was invigorating and steadied somewhather faculties. However, she was not seekingrefreshment or help from any source, eitherexternal or from within. She was blindlyfollowing whatever impulse moved her, as ifshe had placed herself in alien hands fordirection, and freed her soul of responsibility.Most of the people at that early hour were stillin bed and asleep. A few, who intended to goover to the Cheniere for mass, were movingabout. The lovers, who had laid their plans thenight before, were already strolling toward thewharf. The lady in black, with her Sundayprayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her

Sunday silver beads, was following them at nogreat distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up,and was more than half inclined to do anythingthat suggested itself. He put on his big strawhat, and taking his umbrella from the stand inthe hall, followed the lady in black, neverovertaking her.The little negro girl who worked MadameLebrun's sewing-machine was sweeping thegalleries with long, absent-minded strokes ofthe broom. Edna sent her up into the house toawaken Robert."Tell him I am going to the Cheniere. Theboat is ready; tell him to hurry."He had soon joined her. She had never sentfor him before. She had never asked for him.She had never seemed to want him before. Shedid not appear conscious that she had doneanything unusual in commanding hispresence. He was apparently equallyunconscious of anything extraordinary in the

situation. But his face was suffused with a quietglow when he met her.They went together back to the kitchen todrink coffee. There was no time to wait for anynicety of service. They stood outside thewindow and the cook passed them their coffeeand a roll, which they drank and ate from thewindow-sill. Edna said it tasted good.She had not thought of coffee nor of anything.He told her he had often noticed that shelacked forethought."Wasn't it enough to think of going to theCheniere and waking you up?" she laughed."Do I have to think of everything?--as Leoncesays when he's in a bad humor. I don't blamehim; he'd never be in a bad humor if it weren'tfor me."They took a short cut across the sands. At adistance they could see the curious processionmoving toward the wharf--the lovers, shoulder

to shoulder, creeping; the lady in black,gaining steadily upon them; old MonsieurFarival, losing ground inch by inch, and ayoung barefooted Spanish girl, with a redkerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,bringing up the rear.Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her alittle in the boat. No one present understoodwhat they said. Her name was Mariequita. Shehad a round, sly, piquant face and pretty blackeyes. Her hands were small, and she keptthem folded over the handle of her basket. Herfeet were broad and coarse. She did not striveto hide them. Edna looked at her feet, andnoticed the sand and slime between her browntoes.Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita wasthere, taking up so much room. In reality hewas annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival,who considered himself the better sailor of thetwo. But he would not quarrel with so old aman as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with

Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at onemoment, appealing to Robert. She was saucythe next, moving her head up and down,making "eyes" at Robert and making "mouths"at Beaudelet.The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing,they heard nothing. The lady in black wascounting her beads for the third time. OldMonsieur Farival talked incessantly of what heknew about handling a boat, and of whatBeaudelet did not know on the same subject.Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita upand down, from her ugly brown toes to herpretty black eyes, and back again."Why does she look at me like that?" inquiredthe girl of Robert."Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I askher?""No. Is she your sweetheart?"

"She's a married lady, and has two children.""Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano'swife, who had four children. They took all hismoney and one of the children and stole hisboat.""Shut up!""Does she understand?""Oh, hush!""Are those two married over there--leaningon each other?""Of course not," laughed Robert."Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with aserious, confirmatory bob of the head.The sun was high up and beginning to bite.The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the

sting of it into the pores of her face and hands.Robert held his umbrella over her. As theywent cutting sidewise through the water, thesails bellied taut, with the wind filling andoverflowing them. Old Monsieur Farivallaughed sardonically at something as helooked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at theold man under his breath.Sailing across the bay to the CheniereCaminada, Edna felt as if she were beingborne away from some anchorage which hadheld her fast, whose chains had beenloosening--had snapped the night before whenthe mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her freeto drift whithersoever she chose to set hersails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he nolonger noticed Mariequita. The girl hadshrimps in her bamboo basket. They werecovered with Spanish moss. She beat the mossdown impatiently, and muttered to herselfsullenly."Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said

Robert in a low voice."What shall we do there?""Climb up the hill to the old fort and look atthe little wriggling gold snakes, and watch thelizards sun themselves."She gazed away toward Grande Terre andthought she would like to be alone there withRobert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roarand watching the slimy lizards writhe in andout among the ruins of the old fort."And the next day or the next we can sail tothe Bayou Brulow," he went on."What shall we do there?""Anything--cast bait for fish.""No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let thefish alone."

"We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'llhave Tonie come over and help me patch andtrim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet norany one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?""Oh, no.""Then I'll take you some night in the piroguewhen the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spiritwill whisper to you in which of these islandsthe treasures are hidden--direct you to thevery spot, perhaps.""And in a day we should be rich!" shelaughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate goldand every bit of treasure we could dig up. Ithink you would know how to spend it. Pirategold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It issomething to squander and throw to the fourwinds, for the fun of seeing the golden specksfly.""We'd share it, and scatter it together," hesaid. His face flushed.

They all went together up to the quaint littleGothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes,gleaming all brown and yellow with paint inthe sun's glare.Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkeringat his boat, and Mariequita walked away withher basket of shrimps, casting a look ofchildish ill humor and reproach at Robert fromthe corner of her eye.

XIIIA feeling of oppression and drowsinessovercame Edna during the service. Her headbegan to ache, and the lights on the altarswayed before her eyes. Another time shemight have made an effort to regain hercomposure; but her one thought was to quit thestifling atmosphere of the church and reachthe open air. She arose, climbing over Robert'sfeet with a muttered apology. Old MonsieurFarival, flurried, curious, stood up, but uponseeing that Robert had followed Mrs.Pontellier, he sank back into his seat. Hewhispered an anxious inquiry of the lady inblack, who did not notice him or reply, butkept her eyes fastened upon the pages of hervelvet prayer-book."I felt giddy and almost overcome," Ednasaid, lifting her hands instinctively to her headand pushing her straw hat up from herforehead. "I couldn't have stayed through the

service." They were outside in the shadow ofthe church. Robert was full of solicitude."It was folly to have thought of going in thefirst place, let alone staying. Come over toMadame Antoine's; you can rest there." Hetook her arm and led her away, lookinganxiously and continuously down into her face.How still it was, with only the voice of the seawhispering through the reeds that grew in thesalt-water pools! The long line of little gray,weather-beaten houses nestled peacefullyamong the orange trees. It must always havebeen God's day on that low, drowsy island,Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over ajagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask forwater. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, wasdrawing water from the cistern, which wasnothing more than a rusty buoy, with anopening on one side, sunk in the ground. Thewater which the youth handed to them in a tinpail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to herheated face, and it greatly revived and

efreshed her.Madame Antoine's cot was at the far end ofthe village. She welcomed them with all thenative hospitality, as she would have openedher door to let the sunlight in. She was fat, andwalked heavily and clumsily across the floor.She could speak no English, but when Robertmade her understand that the lady whoaccompanied him was ill and desired to rest,she was all eagerness to make Edna feel athome and to dispose of her comfortably.The whole place was immaculately clean, andthe big, four-posted bed, snow-white, invitedone to repose. It stood in a small side roomwhich looked out across a narrow grass plottoward the shed, where there was a disabledboat lying keel upward.Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Herson Tonie had, but she supposed he wouldsoon be back, and she invited Robert to beseated and wait for him. But he went and sat

outside the door and smoked. MadameAntoine busied herself in the large front roompreparing dinner. She was boiling mulletsover a few red coals in the huge fireplace.Edna, left alone in the little side room,loosened her clothes, removing the greaterpart of them. She bathed her face, her neckand arms in the basin that stood between thewindows. She took off her shoes and stockingsand stretched herself in the very center of thehigh, white bed. How luxurious it felt to restthus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweetcountry odor of laurel lingering about thesheets and mattress! She stretched her stronglimbs that ached a little. She ran her fingersthrough her loosened hair for a while. Shelooked at her round arms as she held themstraight up and rubbed them one after theother, observing closely, as if it weresomething she saw for the first time, the fine,firm quality and texture of her flesh. Sheclasped her hands easily above her head, andit was thus she fell asleep.

She slept lightly at first, half awake anddrowsily attentive to the things about her. Shecould hear Madame Antoine's heavy, scrapingtread as she walked back and forth on thesanded floor. Some chickens were cluckingoutside the windows, scratching for bits ofgravel in the grass. Later she half heard thevoices of Robert and Tonie talking under theshed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids restednumb and heavily over her sleepy eyes. Thevoices went on--Tonie's slow, Acadian drawl,Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. Sheunderstood French imperfectly unless directlyaddressed, and the voices were only part ofthe other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling hersenses.When Edna awoke it was with the convictionthat she had slept long and soundly. Thevoices were hushed under the shed. MadameAntoine's step was no longer to be heard in theadjoining room. Even the chickens had goneelsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito

ar was drawn over her; the old woman hadcome in while she slept and let down the bar.Edna arose quietly from the bed, and lookingbetween the curtains of the window, she sawby the slanting rays of the sun that theafternoon was far advanced. Robert was outthere under the shed, reclining in the shadeagainst the sloping keel of the overturnedboat. He was reading from a book. Tonie wasno longer with him. She wondered what hadbecome of the rest of the party. She peepedout at him two or three times as she stoodwashing herself in the little basin between thewindows.Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, cleantowels upon a chair, and had placed a box ofpoudre de riz within easy reach. Edna dabbedthe powder upon her nose and cheeks as shelooked at herself closely in the little distortedmirror which hung on the wall above thebasin. Her eyes were bright and wide awakeand her face glowed.

When she had completed her toilet shewalked into the adjoining room. She was veryhungry. No one was there. But there was acloth spread upon the table that stood againstthe wall, and a cover was laid for one, with acrusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine besidethe plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf,tearing it with her strong, white teeth. Shepoured some of the wine into the glass anddrank it down. Then she went softly out ofdoors, and plucking an orange from thelow-hanging bough of a tree, threw it atRobert, who did not know she was awake andup.An illumination broke over his whole facewhen he saw her and joined her under theorange tree."How many years have I slept?" she inquired."The whole island seems changed. A new raceof beings must have sprung up, leaving onlyyou and me as past relics. How many ages agodid Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when

did our people from Grand Isle disappearfrom the earth?"He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon hershoulder."You have slept precisely one hundred years.I was left here to guard your slumbers; and forone hundred years I have been out under theshed reading a book. The only evil I couldn'tprevent was to keep a broiled fowl fromdrying up.""If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," saidEdna, moving with him into the house. "Butreally, what has become of Monsieur Farivaland the others?""Gone hours ago. When they found that youwere sleeping they thought it best not toawake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them.What was I here for?""I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!" she

speculated, as she seated herself at table."Of course not; he knows you are with me,"Robert replied, as he busied himself amongsundry pans and covered dishes which hadbeen left standing on the hearth."Where are Madame Antoine and her son?"asked Edna."Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, Ibelieve. I am to take you back in Tonie's boatwhenever you are ready to go."He stirred the smoldering ashes till thebroiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He servedher with no mean repast, dripping the coffeeanew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoinehad cooked little else than the mullets, butwhile Edna slept Robert had foraged theisland. He was childishly gratified to discoverher appetite, and to see the relish with whichshe ate the food which he had procured forher.

"Shall we go right away?" she asked, afterdraining her glass and brushing together thecrumbs of the crusty loaf."The sun isn't as low as it will be in twohours," he answered."The sun will be gone in two hours.""Well, let it go; who cares!"They waited a good while under the orangetrees, till Madame Antoine came back,panting, waddling, with a thousand apologiesto explain her absence. Tonie did not dare toreturn. He was shy, and would not willinglyface any woman except his mother.It was very pleasant to stay there under theorange trees, while the sun dipped lower andlower, turning the western sky to flamingcopper and gold. The shadows lengthenedand crept out like stealthy, grotesque

monsters across the grass.Edna and Robert both sat upon theground--that is, he lay upon the ground besideher, occasionally picking at the hem of hermuslin gown.Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broadand squat, upon a bench beside the door. Shehad been talking all the afternoon, and hadwound herself up to the storytelling pitch.And what stories she told them! But twice inher life she had left the Cheniere Caminada,and then for the briefest span. All her yearsshe had squatted and waddled there upon theisland, gathering legends of the Baratariansand the sea. The night came on, with the moonto lighten it. Edna could hear the whisperingvoices of dead men and the click of muffledgold.When she and Robert stepped into Tonie'sboat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms

were prowling in the shadows and among thereeds, and upon the water were phantomships, speeding to cover.

XIVThe youngest boy, Etienne, had been verynaughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as shedelivered him into the hands of his mother. Hehad been unwilling to go to bed and had madea scene; whereupon she had taken charge ofhim and pacified him as well as she could.Raoul had been in bed and asleep for twohours.The youngster was in his long whitenightgown, that kept tripping him up asMadame 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 herselfin the rocker, began to coddle and caress him,calling him all manner of tender names,soothing him to sleep.It was not more than nine o'clock. No one hadyet gone to bed but the children.

Leonce had been very uneasy at first,Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted tostart at once for the Cheniere. But MonsieurFarival had assured him that his wife was onlyovercome with sleep and fatigue, that Toniewould bring her safely back later in the day;and he had thus been dissuaded from crossingthe bay. He had gone over to Klein's, lookingup some cotton broker whom he wished to seein regard to securities, exchanges, stocks,bonds, or something of the sort, MadameRatignolle did not remember what. He said hewould not remain away late. She herself wassuffering from heat and oppression, she said.She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan.She would not consent to remain with Edna, forMonsieur Ratignolle was alone, and hedetested above all things to be left alone.When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna borehim into the back room, and Robert went andlifted the mosquito bar that she might lay thechild comfortably in his bed. The quadroon

had vanished. When they emerged from thecottage Robert bade Edna good-night."Do you know we have been together thewhole livelong day, Robert--since early thismorning?" she said at parting."All but the hundred years when you weresleeping. Goodnight."He pressed her hand and went away in thedirection of the beach. He did not join any ofthe others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband'sreturn. She had no desire to sleep or to retire;nor did she feel like going over to sit with theRatignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and agroup whose animated voices reached her asthey sat in conversation before the house. Shelet her mind wander back over her stay atGrand Isle; and she tried to discover whereinthis summer had been different from any andevery other summer of her life. She could only

ealize that she herself--her present self--wasin some way different from the other self. Thatshe was seeing with different eyes and makingthe acquaintance of new conditions in herselfthat colored and changed her environment,she did not yet suspect.She wondered why Robert had gone awayand left her. It did not occur to her to think hemight have grown tired of being with her thelivelong day. She was not tired, and she feltthat he was not. She regretted that he hadgone. It was so much more natural to have himstay when he was not absolutely required toleave her.As Edna waited for her husband she sang lowa little song that Robert had sung as theycrossed the bay. It began with "Ah! Si tusavais," and every verse ended with "si tusavais."Robert's voice was not pretentious. It wasmusical and true. The voice, the notes, the

whole refrain haunted her memory.

XVWhen Edna entered the dining-room oneevening a little late, as was her habit, anunusually animated conversation seemed tobe going on. Several persons were talking atonce, and Victor's voice was predominating,even over that of his mother. Edna hadreturned late from her bath, had dressed insome haste, and her face was flushed. Herhead, set off by her dainty white gown,suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took herseat at table between old Monsieur Farival andMadame Ratignolle.As she seated herself and was about to beginto eat her soup, which had been served whenshe entered the room, several personsinformed her simultaneously that Robert wasgoing to Mexico. She laid her spoon down andlooked about her bewildered. He had beenwith her, reading to her all the morning, andhad never even mentioned such a place as

Mexico. She had not seen him during theafternoon; she had heard some one say he wasat the house, upstairs with his mother. This shehad thought nothing of, though she wassurprised when he did not join her later in theafternoon, when she went down to the beach.She looked across at him, where he satbeside Madame Lebrun, who presided. Edna'sface was a blank picture of bewilderment,which she never thought of disguising. Helifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a smileas he returned her glance. He lookedembarrassed and uneasy. "When is he going?"she asked of everybody in general, as ifRobert were not there to answer for himself."To-night!" "This very evening!" "Did youever!" "What possesses him!" were some of thereplies she gathered, uttered simultaneouslyin French and English."Impossible!" she exclaimed. "How can aperson start off from Grand Isle to Mexico at a

moment's notice, as if he were going over toKlein's or to the wharf or down to the beach?""I said all along I was going to Mexico; I'vebeen saying so for years!" cried Robert, in anexcited and irritable tone, with the air of a mandefending himself against a swarm of stinginginsects.Madame Lebrun knocked on the table withher knife handle."Please let Robert explain why he is going,and why he is going to-night," she called out."Really, this table is getting to be more andmore like Bedlam every day, with everybodytalking at once. Sometimes--I hope God willforgive me--but positively, sometimes I wishVictor would lose the power of speech."Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked hismother for her holy wish, of which he failed tosee the benefit to anybody, except that itmight afford her a more ample opportunity

and license to talk herself.Monsieur Farival thought that Victor shouldhave been taken out in mid-ocean in hisearliest youth and drowned. Victor thoughtthere would be more logic in thus disposing ofold people with an established claim formaking themselves universally obnoxious.Madame Lebrun grew a trifle hysterical;Robert called his brother some sharp, hardnames."There's nothing much to explain, mother," hesaid; though he explained,nevertheless--looking chiefly at Edna--that hecould only meet the gentleman whom heintended to join at Vera Cruz by taking suchand such a steamer, which left New Orleans onsuch a day; that Beaudelet was going out withhis lugger-load of vegetables that night, whichgave him an opportunity of reaching the cityand making his vessel in time."But when did you make up your mind to all

this?" demanded Monsieur Farival."This afternoon," returned Robert, with ashade of annoyance."At what time this afternoon?" persisted theold gentleman, with nagging determination, asif he were cross-questioning a criminal in acourt of justice."At four o'clock this afternoon, MonsieurFarival," Robert replied, in a high voice andwith a lofty air, which reminded Edna of somegentleman on the stage.She had forced herself to eat most of hersoup, and now she was picking the flaky bits ofa court bouillon with her fork.The lovers were profiting by the generalconversation on Mexico to speak in whispersof matters which they rightly considered wereinteresting to no one but themselves. The ladyin black had once received a pair of

prayer-beads of curious workmanship fromMexico, with very special indulgence attachedto them, but she had never been able toascertain whether the indulgence extendedoutside the Mexican border. Father Fochel ofthe Cathedral had attempted to explain it; buthe had not done so to her satisfaction. And shebegged that Robert would interest himself,and discover, if possible, whether she wasentitled to the indulgence accompanying theremarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads.Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert wouldexercise extreme caution in dealing with theMexicans, who, she considered, were atreacherous people, unscrupulous andrevengeful. She trusted she did them noinjustice in thus condemning them as a race.She had known personally but one Mexican,who made and sold excellent tamales, andwhom she would have trusted implicitly, sosoft-spoken was he. One day he was arrestedfor stabbing his wife. She never knew whetherhe had been hanged or not.

Victor had grown hilarious, and wasattempting to tell an anecdote about a Mexicangirl who served chocolate one winter in arestaurant in Dauphine Street. No one wouldlisten to him but old Monsieur Farival, whowent into convulsions over the droll story.Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, tobe talking and clamoring at that rate. Sheherself could think of nothing to say aboutMexico or the Mexicans."At what time do you leave?" she askedRobert."At ten," he told her. "Beaudelet wants to waitfor the moon.""Are you all ready to go?""Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag,and shall pack my trunk in the city."

He turned to answer some question put to himby his mother, and Edna, having finished herblack coffee, left the table.She went directly to her room. The littlecottage was close and stuffy after leaving theouter air. But she did not mind; there appearedto be a hundred different things demandingher attention indoors. She began to set thetoilet-stand to rights, grumbling at thenegligence of the quadroon, who was in theadjoining room putting the children to bed.She gathered together stray garments thatwere hanging on the backs of chairs, and puteach where it belonged in closet or bureaudrawer. She changed her gown for a morecomfortable and commodious wrapper. Sherearranged her hair, combing and brushing itwith unusual energy. Then she went in andassisted the quadroon in getting the boys tobed.They were very playful and inclined totalk--to do anything but lie quiet and go to

sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to hersupper and told her she need not return. Thenshe sat and told the children a story. Instead ofsoothing it excited them, and added to theirwakefulness. She left them in heatedargument, speculating about the conclusion ofthe tale which their mother promised to finishthe following night.The little black girl came in to say thatMadame Lebrun would like to have Mrs.Pontellier go and sit with them over at thehouse till Mr. Robert went away. Ednareturned answer that she had alreadyundressed, that she did not feel quite well, butperhaps she would go over to the house later.She started to dress again, and got as faradvanced as to remove her peignoir. Butchanging her mind once more she resumedthe peignoir, and went outside and sat downbefore her door. She was overheated andirritable, and fanned herself energetically for awhile. Madame Ratignolle came down todiscover what was the matter.

"All that noise and confusion at the table musthave upset me," replied Edna, "and moreover,I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robertstarting off in such a ridiculously sudden anddramatic way! As if it were a matter of life anddeath! Never saying a word about it allmorning when he was with me.""Yes," agreed Madame Ratignolle. "I think itwas showing us all--you especially--very littleconsideration. It wouldn't have surprised me inany of the others; those Lebruns are all givento heroics. But I must say I should never haveexpected such a thing from Robert. Are younot coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn'tlook friendly.""No," said Edna, a little sullenly. "I can't go tothe trouble of dressing again; I don't feel likeit.""You needn't dress; you look all right; fasten abelt around your waist. Just look at me!"

"No," persisted Edna; "but you go on.Madame Lebrun might be offended if we bothstayed away."Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night,and went away, being in truth rather desirousof joining in the general and animatedconversation which was still in progressconcerning Mexico and the Mexicans.Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying hishand-bag."Aren't you feeling well?" he asked."Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?"He lit a match and looked at his watch. "Intwenty minutes," he said. The sudden and briefflare of the match emphasized the darkness fora while. He sat down upon a stool which thechildren had left out on the porch.

"Get a chair," said Edna."This will do," he replied. He put on his softhat and nervously took it off again, and wipinghis face with his handkerchief, complained ofthe heat."Take the fan," said Edna, offering it to him."Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; youhave to stop fanning some time, and feel all themore uncomfortable afterward.""That's one of the ridiculous things which menalways say. I have never known one to speakotherwise of fanning. How long will you begone?""Forever, perhaps. I don't know. It dependsupon a good many things.""Well, in case it shouldn't be forever, howlong will it be?"

"I don't know.""This seems to me perfectly preposterous anduncalled for. I don't like it. I don't understandyour motive for silence and mystery, neversaying a word to me about it this morning." Heremained silent, not offering to defend himself.He only said, after a moment:"Don't part from me in any ill humor. I neverknew you to be out of patience with mebefore.""I don't want to part in any ill humor," shesaid. "But can't you understand? I've grownused to seeing you, to having you with me allthe time, and your action seems unfriendly,even unkind. You don't even offer an excusefor it. Why, I was planning to be together,thinking of how pleasant it would be to see youin the city next winter.""So was I," he blurted. "Perhaps that's the--"He stood up suddenly and held out his hand.

"Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by.You won't--I hope you won't completely forgetme." She clung to his hand, striving to detainhim."Write to me when you get there, won't you,Robert?" she entreated."I will, thank you. Good-by."How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintancewould have said something more emphaticthan "I will, thank you; good-by," to such arequest.He had evidently already taken leave of thepeople over at the house, for he descendedthe steps and went to join Beaudelet, who wasout there with an oar across his shoulderwaiting for Robert. They walked away in thedarkness. She could only hear Beaudelet'svoice; Robert had apparently not even spokena word of greeting to his companion.

Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively,striving to hold back and to hide, even fromherself as she would have hidden fromanother, the emotion which wastroubling--tearing--her. Her eyes werebrimming with tears.For the first time she recognized thesymptoms of infatuation which she had feltincipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliestteens, and later as a young woman. Therecognition did not lessen the reality, thepoignancy of the revelation by any suggestionor promise of instability. The past was nothingto her; offered no lesson which she was willingto heed. The future was a mystery which shenever attempted to penetrate. The presentalone was significant; was hers, to torture heras it was doing then with the biting convictionthat she had lost that which she had held, thatshe had been denied that which herimpassioned, newly awakened beingdemanded.

XVI"Do you miss your friend greatly?" askedMademoiselle Reisz one morning as she camecreeping up behind Edna, who had just left hercottage on her way to the beach. She spentmuch of her time in the water since she hadacquired finally the art of swimming. As theirstay at Grand Isle drew near its close, she feltthat she could not give too much time to adiversion which afforded her the only realpleasurable moments that she knew. WhenMademoiselle Reisz came and touched herupon the shoulder and spoke to her, thewoman seemed to echo the thought which wasever in Edna's mind; or, better, the feelingwhich constantly possessed her.Robert's going had some way taken thebrightness, the color, the meaning out ofeverything. The conditions of her life were inno way changed, but her whole existence wasdulled, like a faded garment which seems to

e no longer worth wearing. She sought himeverywhere--in others whom she induced totalk about him. She went up in the mornings toMadame Lebrun's room, braving the clatter ofthe old sewing-machine. She sat there andchatted at intervals as Robert had done. Shegazed around the room at the pictures andphotographs hanging upon the wall, anddiscovered in some corner an old familyalbum, which she examined with the keenestinterest, appealing to Madame Lebrun forenlightenment concerning the many figuresand faces which she discovered between itspages.There was a picture of Madame Lebrun withRobert as a baby, seated in her lap, around-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. Theeyes 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 hishand. 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, witheyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions.But there was no recent picture, none whichsuggested the Robert who had gone away fivedays ago, leaving a void and wildernessbehind him."Oh, Robert stopped having his picturestaken when he had to pay for them himself! Hefound wiser use for his money, he says,"explained Madame Lebrun. She had a letterfrom him, written before he left New Orleans.Edna wished to see the letter, and MadameLebrun told her to look for it either on the tableor the dresser, or perhaps it was on themantelpiece.The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessedthe greatest interest and attraction for Edna;the envelope, its size and shape, thepost-mark, the handwriting. She examinedevery detail of the outside before opening it.There were only a few lines, setting forth thathe would leave the city that afternoon, that he

had packed his trunk in good shape, that hewas well, and sent her his love and begged tobe affectionately remembered to all. Therewas no special message to Edna except apostscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desiredto finish the book which he had been readingto her, his mother would find it in his room,among other books there on the table. Ednaexperienced a pang of jealousy because hehad written to his mother rather than to her.Every one seemed to take for granted thatshe missed him. Even her husband, when hecame down the Saturday following Robert'sdeparture, expressed regret that he had gone."How do you get on without him, Edna?" heasked."It's very dull without him," she admitted. Mr.Pontellier had seen Robert in the city, andEdna asked him a dozen questions or more.Where had they met? On Carondelet Street, inthe morning. They had gone "in" and had a

drink and a cigar together. What had theytalked about? Chiefly about his prospects inMexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought werepromising. How did he look? How did heseem--grave, or gay, or how? Quite cheerful,and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip,which Mr. Pontellier found altogether naturalin a young fellow about to seek fortune andadventure in a strange, queer country.Edna tapped her foot impatiently, andwondered why the children persisted inplaying in the sun when they might be underthe trees. She went down and led them out ofthe sun, scolding the quadroon for not beingmore attentive.It did not strike her as in the least grotesquethat she should be making of Robert the objectof conversation and leading her husband tospeak of him. The sentiment which sheentertained for Robert in no way resembledthat which she felt for her husband, or hadever felt, or ever expected to feel. She had all

her life long been accustomed to harborthoughts and emotions which never voicedthemselves. They had never taken the form ofstruggles. They belonged to her and were herown, and she entertained the conviction thatshe had a right to them and that theyconcerned no one but herself. Edna had oncetold Madame Ratignolle that she would neversacrifice herself for her children, or for anyone. Then had followed a rather heatedargument; the two women did not appear tounderstand each other or to be talking thesame language. Edna tried to appease herfriend, to explain."I would give up the unessential; I would givemy money, I would give my life for mychildren; but I wouldn't give myself. I can'tmake it more clear; it's only something which Iam beginning to comprehend, which isrevealing itself to me.""I don't know what you would call theessential, or what you mean by the

unessential," said Madame Ratignolle,cheerfully; "but a woman who would give herlife for her children could do no more thanthat--your Bible tells you so. I'm sure I couldn'tdo more than that.""Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna.She was not surprised at MademoiselleReisz's question the morning that lady,following her to the beach, tapped her on theshoulder and asked if she did not greatly missher young friend."Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you?Why, of course I miss Robert. Are you goingdown to bathe?""Why should I go down to bathe at the veryend of the season when I haven't been in thesurf all summer," replied the woman,disagreeably."I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some

embarrassment, for she should haveremembered that Mademoiselle Reisz'savoidance of the water had furnished a themefor much pleasantry. Some among themthought it was on account of her false hair, orthe dread of getting the violets wet, whileothers attributed it to the natural aversion forwater sometimes believed to accompany theartistic temperament. Mademoiselle offeredEdna some chocolates in a paper bag, whichshe took from her pocket, by way of showingthat she bore no ill feeling. She habitually atechocolates for their sustaining quality; theycontained much nutriment in small compass,she said. They saved her from starvation, asMadame Lebrun's table was utterlyimpossible; and no one save so impertinent awoman as Madame Lebrun could think ofoffering such food to people and requiringthem to pay for it."She must feel very lonely without her son,"said Edna, desiring to change the subject."Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite

hard to let him go."Mademoiselle laughed maliciously."Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could havebeen imposing such a tale upon you? AlineLebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone.She has spoiled him into the worthlesscreature he is. She worships him and theground he walks on. Robert is very well in away, to give up all the money he can earn tothe family, and keep the barest pittance forhimself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poorfellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him andto hear him about the place the only Lebrunwho is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to seeme often in the city. I like to play to him. ThatVictor! hanging would be too good for him. It'sa wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to deathlong ago.""I thought he had great patience with hisbrother," offered Edna, glad to be talkingabout Robert, no matter what was said.

"Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year ortwo ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about aSpanish girl, whom Victor considered that hehad some sort of claim upon. He met Robertone day talking to the girl, or walking with her,or bathing with her, or carrying her basket--Idon't remember what;--and he became soinsulting and abusive that Robert gave him athrashing on the spot that has kept himcomparatively in order for a good while. It'sabout time he was getting another.""Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna."Mariequita--yes, that was it; Mariequita. Ihad forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a badone, that Mariequita!"Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz andwondered how she could have listened to hervenom so long. For some reason she feltdepressed, almost unhappy. She had notintended to go into the water; but she donned

her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone,seated under the shade of the children's tent.The water was growing cooler as the seasonadvanced. Edna plunged and swam about withan abandon that thrilled and invigorated her.She remained a long time in the water, halfhoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not waitfor her.But Mademoiselle waited. She was veryamiable during the walk back, and ravedmuch over Edna's appearance in her bathingsuit. She talked about music. She hoped thatEdna would go to see her in the city, and wroteher address with the stub of a pencil on apiece of card which she found in her pocket."When do you leave?" asked Edna."Next Monday; and you?""The following week," answered Edna,adding, "It has been a pleasant summer, hasn'tit, Mademoiselle?"

"Well," agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with ashrug, "rather pleasant, if it hadn't been for themosquitoes and the Farival twins."

XVIIThe Pontelliers possessed a very charminghome on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. Itwas a large, double cottage, with a broad frontveranda, whose round, fluted columnssupported the sloping roof. The house waspainted a dazzling white; the outside shutters,or jalousies, were green. In the yard, whichwas kept scrupulously neat, were flowers andplants of every description which flourishes inSouth Louisiana. Within doors theappointments were perfect after theconventional type. The softest carpets andrugs covered the floors; rich and tastefuldraperies hung at doors and windows. Therewere paintings, selected with judgment anddiscrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass,the silver, the heavy damask which dailyappeared upon the table were the envy ofmany women whose husbands were lessgenerous than Mr. Pontellier.

Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking abouthis house examining its various appointmentsand details, to see that nothing was amiss. Hegreatly valued his possessions, chieflybecause they were his, and derived genuinepleasure from contemplating a painting, astatuette, a rare lace curtain--no matterwhat--after he had bought it and placed itamong his household gods.On Tuesday afternoons--Tuesday being Mrs.Pontellier's reception day--there was aconstant stream of callers--women who camein carriages or in the street cars, or walkedwhen the air was soft and distance permitted.A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat andbearing a diminutive silver tray for thereception of cards, admitted them. A maid, inwhite fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur,coffee, or chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs.Pontellier, attired in a handsome receptiongown, remained in the drawing-room theentire afternoon receiving her visitors. Mensometimes called in the evening with their

wives.This had been the programme which Mrs.Pontellier had religiously followed since hermarriage, six years before. Certain eveningsduring the week she and her husbandattended the opera or sometimes the play.Mr. Pontellier left his home in the morningsbetween nine and ten o'clock, and rarelyreturned before half-past six or seven in theevening--dinner being served at half-pastseven.He and his wife seated themselves at tableone Tuesday evening, a few weeks after theirreturn from Grand Isle. They were alonetogether. The boys were being put to bed; thepatter of their bare, escaping feet could beheard occasionally, as well as the pursuingvoice of the quadroon, lifted in mild protestand entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not wear herusual Tuesday reception gown; she was inordinary house dress. Mr. Pontellier, who was

observant about such things, noticed it, as heserved the soup and handed it to the boy inwaiting."Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Manycallers?" he asked. He tasted his soup andbegan to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,mustard--everything within reach."There were a good many," replied Edna,who was eating her soup with evidentsatisfaction. "I found their cards when I gothome; I was out.""Out!" exclaimed her husband, withsomething like genuine consternation in hisvoice as he laid down the vinegar cruet andlooked at her through his glasses. "Why, whatcould have taken you out on Tuesday? Whatdid you have to do?""Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and Iwent out."

"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,"said her husband, somewhat appeased, as headded a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup."No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I wasout, that was all.""Why, my dear, I should think you'dunderstand by this time that people don't dosuch things; we've got to observe lesconvenances if we ever expect to get on andkeep up with the procession. If you felt thatyou had to leave home this afternoon, youshould have left some suitable explanation foryour absence."This soup is really impossible; it's strangethat woman hasn't learned yet to make adecent soup. Any free-lunch stand in townserves a better one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?""Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don'tremember who was here."

The boy retired and returned after a moment,bringing the tiny silver tray, which wascovered with ladies' visiting cards. He handedit to Mrs. Pontellier."Give it to Mr. Pontellier," she said.Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, andremoved the soup.Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife'scallers, reading some of them aloud, withcomments as he read."'The Misses Delasidas.' I worked a big dealin futures for their father this morning; nicegirls; it's time they were getting married. 'Mrs.Belthrop.' I tell you what it is, Edna; you can'tafford to snub Mrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthropcould buy and sell us ten times over. Hisbusiness is worth a good, round sum to me.You'd better write her a note. 'Mrs. JamesHighcamp.' Hugh! the less you have to do withMrs. Highcamp, the better. 'Madame Laforce.'

Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor oldsoul. 'Miss Wiggs,' 'Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.'" Hepushed the cards aside."Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had beenfuming. "Why are you taking the thing soseriously and making such a fuss over it?""I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's justsuch seeming trifles that we've got to takeseriously; such things count."The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier wouldnot touch it. Edna said she did not mind a littlescorched taste. The roast was in some way notto his fancy, and he did not like the manner inwhich the vegetables were served."It seems to me," he said, "we spend moneyenough in this house to procure at least onemeal a day which a man could eat and retainhis self-respect.""You used to think the cook was a treasure,"

eturned Edna, indifferently."Perhaps she was when she first came; butcooks are only human. They need lookingafter, like any other class of persons that youemploy. Suppose I didn't look after the clerksin my office, just let them run things their ownway; they'd soon make a nice mess of me andmy business.""Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeingthat her husband arose from table withouthaving eaten a morsel except a taste of thehighly-seasoned soup."I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Goodnight." He went into the hall, took his hat andstick from the stand, and left the house.She was somewhat familiar with such scenes.They had often made her very unhappy. On afew previous occasions she had beencompletely deprived of any desire to finish herdinner. Sometimes she had gone into the

kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to thecook. Once she went to her room and studiedthe cookbook during an entire evening, finallywriting out a menu for the week, which left herharassed with a feeling that, after all, she hadaccomplished no good that was worth thename.But that evening Edna finished her dinneralone, with forced deliberation. Her face wasflushed and her eyes flamed with some inwardfire that lighted them. After finishing herdinner she went to her room, having instructedthe boy to tell any other callers that she wasindisposed.It was a large, beautiful room, rich andpicturesque in the soft, dim light which themaid had turned low. She went and stood at anopen window and looked out upon the deeptangle of the garden below. All the mysteryand witchery of the night seemed to havegathered there amid the perfumes and thedusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and

foliage. She was seeking herself and findingherself in just such sweet, half-darkness whichmet her moods. But the voices were notsoothing that came to her from the darknessand the sky above and the stars. They jeeredand sounded mournful notes without promise,devoid even of hope. She turned back into theroom and began to walk to and fro down itswhole length, without stopping, withoutresting. She carried in her hands a thinhandkerchief, which she tore into ribbons,rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once shestopped, and taking off her wedding ring,flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lyingthere, she stamped her heel upon it, striving tocrush it. But her small boot heel did not makean indenture, not a mark upon the littleglittering circlet.In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vasefrom the table and flung it upon the tiles of thehearth. She wanted to destroy something. Thecrash and clatter were what she wanted tohear.

A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass,entered the room to discover what was thematter."A vase fell upon the hearth," said Edna."Never mind; leave it till morning.""Oh! you might get some of the glass in yourfeet, ma'am," insisted the young woman,picking up bits of the broken vase that werescattered upon the carpet. "And here's yourring, ma'am, under the chair."Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring,slipped it upon her finger.

XVIIIThe following morning Mr. Pontellier, uponleaving for his office, asked Edna if she wouldnot meet him in town in order to look at somenew fixtures for the library."I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce.Don't let us get anything new; you are tooextravagant. I don't believe you ever think ofsaving or putting by.""The way to become rich is to make money,my dear Edna, not to save it," he said. Heregretted that she did not feel inclined to gowith him and select new fixtures. He kissed hergood-by, and told her she was not looking welland must take care of herself. She wasunusually pale and very quiet.She stood on the front veranda as he quittedthe house, and absently picked a few sprays ofjessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She

inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrustthem into the bosom of her white morninggown. The boys were dragging along thebanquette a small "express wagon," whichthey had filled with blocks and sticks. Thequadroon was following them with little quicksteps, having assumed a fictitious animationand alacrity for the occasion. A fruit venderwas crying his wares in the street.Edna looked straight before her with aself-absorbed expression upon her face. Shefelt no interest in anything about her. Thestreet, the children, the fruit vender, theflowers growing there under her eyes, wereall part and parcel of an alien world which hadsuddenly become antagonistic.She went back into the house. She hadthought of speaking to the cook concerningher blunders of the previous night; but Mr.Pontellier had saved her that disagreeablemission, for which she was so poorly fitted. Mr.Pontellier's arguments were usually

convincing with those whom he employed. Heleft home feeling quite sure that he and Ednawould sit down that evening, and possibly afew subsequent evenings, to a dinnerdeserving of the name.Edna spent an hour or two in looking oversome of her old sketches. She could see theirshortcomings and defects, which were glaringin her eyes. She tried to work a little, but foundshe was not in the humor. Finally she gatheredtogether a few of the sketches--those whichshe considered the least discreditable; andshe carried them with her when, a little later,she dressed and left the house. She lookedhandsome and distinguished in her streetgown. The tan of the seashore had left herface, and her forehead was smooth, white, andpolished beneath her heavy, yellow-brownhair. There were a few freckles on her face,and a small, dark mole near the under lip andone on the temple, half-hidden in her hair.As Edna walked along the street she was

thinking of Robert. She was still under the spellof her infatuation. She had tried to forget him,realizing the inutility of remembering. But thethought of him was like an obsession, everpressing itself upon her. It was not that shedwelt upon details of their acquaintance, orrecalled in any special or peculiar way hispersonality; it was his being, his existence,which dominated her thought, fadingsometimes as if it would melt into the mist ofthe forgotten, reviving again with an intensitywhich filled her with an incomprehensiblelonging.Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's.Their intimacy, begun at Grand Isle, had notdeclined, and they had seen each other withsome frequency since their return to the city.The Ratignolles lived at no great distance fromEdna's home, on the corner of a side street,where Monsieur Ratignolle owned andconducted a drug store which enjoyed asteady and prosperous trade. His father hadbeen in the business before him, and Monsieur

Ratignolle stood well in the community andbore an enviable reputation for integrity andclearheadedness. His family lived incommodious apartments over the store,having an entrance on the side within the portecochere. There was something which Ednathought very French, very foreign, about theirwhole manner of living. In the large andpleasant salon which extended across thewidth of the house, the Ratignolles entertainedtheir friends once a fortnight with a soireemusicale, sometimes diversified bycard-playing. There was a friend who playedupon the 'cello. One brought his flute andanother his violin, while there were some whosang and a number who performed upon thepiano with various degrees of taste and agility.The Ratignolles' soirees musicales were widelyknown, and it was considered a privilege to beinvited to them.Edna found her friend engaged in assortingthe clothes which had returned that morningfrom the laundry. She at once abandoned her

occupation upon seeing Edna, who had beenushered without ceremony into her presence."'Cite can do it as well as I; it is really herbusiness," she explained to Edna, whoapologized for interrupting her. And shesummoned a young black woman, whom sheinstructed, in French, to be very careful inchecking off the list which she handed her. Shetold her to notice particularly if a fine linenhandkerchief of Monsieur Ratignolle's, whichwas missing last week, had been returned; andto be sure to set to one side such pieces asrequired mending and darning.Then placing an arm around Edna's waist, sheled her to the front of the house, to the salon,where it was cool and sweet with the odor ofgreat roses that stood upon the hearth in jars.Madame Ratignolle looked more beautifulthan ever there at home, in a neglige which lefther arms almost wholly bare and exposed therich, melting curves of her white throat.

"Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picturesome day," said Edna with a smile when theywere seated. She produced the roll of sketchesand started to unfold them. "I believe I ought towork again. I feel as if I wanted to be doingsomething. What do you think of them? Do youthink it worth while to take it up again andstudy some more? I might study for a whilewith Laidpore."She knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion insuch a matter would be next to valueless, thatshe herself had not alone decided, butdetermined; but she sought the words ofpraise and encouragement that would help herto put heart into her venture."Your talent is immense, dear!""Nonsense!" protested Edna, well pleased."Immense, I tell you," persisted MadameRatignolle, surveying the sketches one by one,

at close range, then holding them at arm'slength, narrowing her eyes, and dropping herhead on one side. "Surely, this Bavarianpeasant is worthy of framing; and this basket ofapples! never have I seen anything morelifelike. One might almost be tempted to reachout a hand and take one."Edna could not control a feeling whichbordered upon complacency at her friend'spraise, even realizing, as she did, its trueworth. She retained a few of the sketches, andgave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, whoappreciated the gift far beyond its value andproudly exhibited the pictures to her husbandwhen he came up from the store a little laterfor his midday dinner.Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who arecalled the salt of the earth. His cheerfulnesswas unbounded, and it was matched by hisgoodness of heart, his broad charity, andcommon sense. He and his wife spoke Englishwith an accent which was only discernible

through its un-English emphasis and a certaincarefulness and deliberation. Edna's husbandspoke English with no accent whatever. TheRatignolles understood each other perfectly. Ifever the fusion of two human beings into onehas been accomplished on this sphere it wassurely in their union.As Edna seated herself at table with them shethought, "Better a dinner of herbs," though itdid not take her long to discover that it was nodinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple,choice, and in every way satisfying.Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her,though he found her looking not so well as atGrand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked agood deal on various topics, a little politics,some city news and neighborhood gossip. Hespoke with an animation and earnestness thatgave an exaggerated importance to everysyllable he uttered. His wife was keenlyinterested in everything he said, laying downher fork the better to listen, chiming in, taking

the words out of his mouth.Edna felt depressed rather than soothed afterleaving them. The little glimpse of domesticharmony which had been offered her, gaveher no regret, no longing. It was not acondition of life which fitted her, and she couldsee in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui.She was moved by a kind of commiseration forMadame Ratignolle,--a pity for that colorlessexistence which never uplifted its possessorbeyond the region of blind contentment, inwhich no moment of anguish ever visited hersoul, in which she would never have the tasteof life's delirium. Edna vaguely wondered whatshe meant by "life's delirium." It had crossedher thought like some unsought, extraneousimpression.

XIXEdna could not help but think that it was veryfoolish, very childish, to have stamped uponher wedding ring and smashed the crystalvase upon the tiles. She was visited by nomore outbursts, moving her to such futileexpedients. She began to do as she liked andto feel as she liked. She completelyabandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did notreturn the visits of those who had called uponher. She made no ineffectual efforts to conducther household en bonne menagere, going andcoming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as shewas able, lending herself to any passingcaprice.Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteoushusband so long as he met a certain tacitsubmissiveness in his wife. But her new andunexpected line of conduct completelybewildered him. It shocked him. Then herabsolute disregard for her duties as a wife

angered him. When Mr. Pontellier becamerude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolvednever to take another step backward."It seems to me the utmost folly for a womanat the head of a household, and the mother ofchildren, to spend in an atelier days whichwould be better employed contriving for thecomfort of her family.""I feel like painting," answered Edna."Perhaps I shan't always feel like it.""Then in God's name paint! but don't let thefamily go to the devil. There's MadameRatignolle; because she keeps up her music,she doesn't let everything else go to chaos.And she's more of a musician than you are apainter.""She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter. Itisn't on account of painting that I let things go.""On account of what, then?"

"Oh! I don't know. Let me alone; you botherme."It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind towonder if his wife were not growing a littleunbalanced mentally. He could see plainly thatshe was not herself. That is, he could not seethat she was becoming herself and dailycasting aside that fictitious self which weassume like a garment with which to appearbefore the world.Her husband let her alone as she requested,and went away to his office. Edna went up toher atelier--a bright room in the top of thehouse. She was working with great energy andinterest, without accomplishing anything,however, which satisfied her even in thesmallest degree. For a time she had the wholehousehold enrolled in the service of art. Theboys posed for her. They thought it amusing atfirst, but the occupation soon lost itsattractiveness when they discovered that it

was not a game arranged especially for theirentertainment. The quadroon sat for hoursbefore Edna's palette, patient as a savage,while the house-maid took charge of thechildren, and the drawing-room wentundusted. But the housemaid, too, served herterm as model when Edna perceived that theyoung woman's back and shoulders weremolded on classic lines, and that her hair,loosened from its confining cap, became aninspiration. While Edna worked shesometimes sang low the little air, "Ah! si tusavais!"It moved her with recollections. She couldhear again the ripple of the water, the flappingsail. She could see the glint of the moon uponthe bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beatingof the hot south wind. A subtle current ofdesire passed through her body, weakeningher hold upon the brushes and making hereyes burn.There were days when she was very happy

without knowing why. She was happy to bealive and breathing, when her whole beingseemed to be one with the sunlight, the color,the odors, the luxuriant warmth of someperfect Southern day. She liked then to wanderalone into strange and unfamiliar places. Shediscovered many a sunny, sleepy corner,fashioned to dream in. And she found it goodto dream and to be alone and unmolested.There were days when she was unhappy, shedid not know why,--when it did not seem worthwhile to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead;when life appeared to her like a grotesquepandemonium and humanity like wormsstruggling blindly toward inevitableannihilation. She could not work on such a day,nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warmher blood.

XXIt was during such a mood that Edna huntedup Mademoiselle Reisz. She had not forgottenthe rather disagreeable impression left uponher by their last interview; but shenevertheless felt a desire to see her--above all,to listen while she played upon the piano.Quite early in the afternoon she started uponher quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she hadmislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, andlooking up her address in the city directory,she found that the woman lived on BienvilleStreet, some distance away. The directorywhich fell into her hands was a year or moreold, however, and upon reaching the numberindicated, Edna discovered that the house wasoccupied by a respectable family of mulattoeswho had chambres garnies to let. They hadbeen living there for six months, and knewabsolutely nothing of a Mademoiselle Reisz. Infact, they knew nothing of any of theirneighbors; their lodgers were all people of the

highest distinction, they assured Edna. She didnot linger to discuss class distinctions withMadame Pouponne, but hastened to aneighboring grocery store, feeling sure thatMademoiselle would have left her addresswith the proprietor.He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good dealbetter than he wanted to know her, heinformed his questioner. In truth, he did notwant to know her at all, or anything concerningher--the most disagreeable and unpopularwoman who ever lived in Bienville Street. Hethanked heaven she had left theneighborhood, and was equally thankful thathe did not know where she had gone.Edna's desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz hadincreased tenfold since these unlooked-forobstacles had arisen to thwart it. She waswondering who could give her the informationshe sought, when it suddenly occurred to herthat Madame Lebrun would be the one mostlikely to do so. She knew it was useless to ask

Madame Ratignolle, who was on the mostdistant terms with the musician, and preferredto know nothing concerning her. She had oncebeen almost as emphatic in expressing herselfupon the subject as the corner grocer.Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returnedto the city, for it was the middle of November.And she also knew where the Lebruns lived,on Chartres Street.Their home from the outside looked like aprison, with iron bars before the door andlower windows. The iron bars were a relic ofthe old regime, and no one had ever thoughtof dislodging them. At the side was a highfence enclosing the garden. A gate or dooropening upon the street was locked. Ednarang the bell at this side garden gate, andstood upon the banquette, waiting to beadmitted.It was Victor who opened the gate for her. Ablack woman, wiping her hands upon her

apron, was close at his heels. Before she sawthem Edna could hear them in altercation, thewoman--plainly an anomaly--claiming the rightto be allowed to perform her duties, one ofwhich was to answer the bell.Victor was surprised and delighted to seeMrs. Pontellier, and he made no attempt toconceal either his astonishment or his delight.He was a dark-browed, good-lookingyoungster of nineteen, greatly resembling hismother, but with ten times her impetuosity. Heinstructed the black woman to go at once andinform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellierdesired to see her. The woman grumbled arefusal to do part of her duty when she had notbeen permitted to do it all, and started back toher interrupted task of weeding the garden.Whereupon Victor administered a rebuke inthe form of a volley of abuse, which, owing toits rapidity and incoherence, was all butincomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was,the rebuke was convincing, for the womandropped her hoe and went mumbling into the

house.Edna did not wish to enter. It was verypleasant there on the side porch, where therewere chairs, a wicker lounge, and a smalltable. She seated herself, for she was tiredfrom her long tramp; and she began to rockgently and smooth out the folds of her silkparasol. Victor drew up his chair beside her.He at once explained that the black woman'soffensive conduct was all due to imperfecttraining, as he was not there to take her inhand. He had only come up from the island themorning before, and expected to return nextday. He stayed all winter at the island; he livedthere, and kept the place in order and gotthings ready for the summer visitors.But a man needed occasional relaxation, heinformed Mrs. Pontellier, and every now andagain he drummed up a pretext to bring him tothe city. My! but he had had a time of it theevening before! He wouldn't want his motherto know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He

was scintillant with recollections. Of course, hecouldn't think of telling Mrs. Pontellier allabout it, she being a woman and notcomprehending such things. But it all beganwith a girl peeping and smiling at him throughthe shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was abeauty! Certainly he smiled back, and went upand talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not knowhim if she supposed he was one to let anopportunity like that escape him. Despiteherself, the youngster amused her. She musthave betrayed in her look some degree ofinterest or entertainment. The boy grew moredaring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have foundherself, in a little while, listening to a highlycolored story but for the timely appearance ofMadame Lebrun.That lady was still clad in white, according toher custom of the summer. Her eyes beamedan effusive welcome. Would not Mrs.Pontellier go inside? Would she partake ofsome refreshment? Why had she not beenthere before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier

and how were those sweet children? Had Mrs.Pontellier ever known such a warmNovember?Victor went and reclined on the wickerlounge behind his mother's chair, where hecommanded a view of Edna's face. He hadtaken her parasol from her hands while hespoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled itabove him as he lay on his back. WhenMadame Lebrun complained that it was so dullcoming back to the city; that she saw so fewpeople now; that even Victor, when he cameup from the island for a day or two, had somuch to occupy him and engage his time; thenit was that the youth went into contortions onthe lounge and winked mischievously at Edna.She somehow felt like a confederate in crime,and tried to look severe and disapproving.There had been but two letters from Robert,with little in them, they told her. Victor said itwas really not worth while to go inside for theletters, when his mother entreated him to go in

search of them. He remembered the contents,which in truth he rattled off very glibly whenput to the test.One letter was written from Vera Cruz andthe other from the City of Mexico. He had metMontel, who was doing everything toward hisadvancement. So far, the financial situationwas no improvement over the one he had leftin New Orleans, but of course the prospectswere vastly better. He wrote of the City ofMexico, the buildings, the people and theirhabits, the conditions of life which he foundthere. He sent his love to the family. Heinclosed a check to his mother, and hoped shewould affectionately remember him to all hisfriends. That was about the substance of thetwo letters. Edna felt that if there had been amessage for her, she would have received it.The despondent frame of mind in which shehad left home began again to overtake her,and she remembered that she wished to findMademoiselle Reisz.

Madame Lebrun knew where MademoiselleReisz lived. She gave Edna the address,regretting that she would not consent to stayand spend the remainder of the afternoon, andpay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some otherday. The afternoon was already welladvanced.Victor escorted her out upon the banquette,lifted her parasol, and held it over her while hewalked to the car with her. He entreated her tobear in mind that the disclosures of theafternoon were strictly confidential. Shelaughed and bantered him a little,remembering too late that she should havebeen dignified and reserved."How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!" saidMadame Lebrun to her son."Ravishing!" he admitted. "The cityatmosphere has improved her. Some way shedoesn't seem like the same woman."

XXISome people contended that the reasonMademoiselle Reisz always chose apartmentsup under the roof was to discourage theapproach of beggars, peddlars and callers.There were plenty of windows in her little frontroom. They were for the most part dingy, butas they were nearly always open it did notmake so much difference. They often admittedinto the room a good deal of smoke and soot;but at the same time all the light and air thatthere was came through them. From herwindows could be seen the crescent of theriver, the masts of ships and the big chimneysof the Mississippi steamers. A magnificentpiano crowded the apartment. In the nextroom she slept, and in the third and last sheharbored a gasoline stove on which shecooked her meals when disinclined todescend to the neighboring restaurant. It wasthere also that she ate, keeping herbelongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and

attered from a hundred years of use.When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz'sfront room door and entered, she discoveredthat person standing beside the window,engaged in mending or patching an oldprunella gaiter. The little musician laughed allover when she saw Edna. Her laugh consistedof a contortion of the face and all the musclesof the body. She seemed strikingly homely,standing there in the afternoon light. She stillwore the shabby lace and the artificial bunchof violets on the side of her head."So you remembered me at last," saidMademoiselle. "I had said to myself, 'Ah, bah!she will never come.'""Did you want me to come?" asked Edna witha smile."I had not thought much about it," answeredMademoiselle. The two had seated themselveson a little bumpy sofa which stood against the

wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. Ihave the water boiling back there, and wasjust about to make some coffee. You will drinka cup with me. And how is la belle dame?Always handsome! always healthy! alwayscontented!" She took Edna's hand between herstrong wiry fingers, holding it loosely withoutwarmth, and executing a sort of double themeupon the back and palm."Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:'She will never come. She promised as thosewomen in society always do, without meaningit. She will not come.' For I really don't believeyou like me, Mrs. Pontellier.""I don't know whether I like you or not,"replied Edna, gazing down at the little womanwith a quizzical look.The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admissiongreatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. Sheexpressed her gratification by repairingforthwith to the region of the gasoline stove

and rewarding her guest with the promisedcup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuitaccompanying it proved very acceptable toEdna, who had declined refreshment atMadame Lebrun's and was now beginning tofeel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray whichshe brought in upon a small table near at hand,and seated herself once again on the lumpysofa."I have had a letter from your friend," sheremarked, as she poured a little cream intoEdna's cup and handed it to her."My friend?""Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me fromthe City of Mexico.""Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna inamazement, stirring her coffee absently."Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all thewarmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the

letter might as well have been sent to you; itwas nothing but Mrs. Pontellier frombeginning to end.""Let me see it," requested the young woman,entreatingly."No; a letter concerns no one but the personwho writes it and the one to whom it iswritten.""Haven't you just said it concerned me frombeginning to end?""It was written about you, not to you. 'Haveyou seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'he asks. 'As Mrs. Pontellier says,' or 'as Mrs.Pontellier once said.' 'If Mrs. Pontellier shouldcall upon you, play for her that Impromptu ofChopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day ortwo ago, but not as you play it. I should like toknow how it affects her,' and so on, as if hesupposed we were constantly in each other'ssociety."

"Let me see the letter.""Oh, no.""Have you answered it?""No.""Let me see the letter.""No, and again, no.""Then play the Impromptu for me.""It is growing late; what time do you have tobe home?""Time doesn't concern me. Your questionseems a little rude. Play the Impromptu.""But you have told me nothing of yourself.What are you doing?"

"Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming anartist. Think of it!""Ah! an artist! You have pretensions,Madame.""Why pretensions? Do you think I could notbecome an artist?""I do not know you well enough to say. I donot know your talent or your temperament. Tobe an artist includes much; one must possessmany gifts--absolute gifts--which have notbeen acquired by one's own effort. And,moreover, to succeed, the artist must possessthe courageous soul.""What do you mean by the courageous soul?""Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. Thesoul that dares and defies.""Show me the letter and play for me theImpromptu. You see that I have persistence.

Does that quality count for anything in art?""It counts with a foolish old woman whom youhave captivated," replied Mademoiselle, withher wriggling laugh.The letter was right there at hand in thedrawer of the little table upon which Edna hadjust placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselleopened the drawer and drew forth the letter,the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands,and without further comment arose and wentto the piano.Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It wasan improvisation. She sat low at the instrument,and the lines of her body settled intoungraceful curves and angles that gave it anappearance of deformity. Gradually andimperceptibly the interlude melted into thesoft opening minor chords of the ChopinImpromptu.Edna did not know when the Impromptu

egan or ended. She sat in the sofa cornerreading Robert's letter by the fading light.Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin intothe quivering love notes of Isolde's song, andback again to the Impromptu with its soulfuland poignant longing.The shadows deepened in the little room. Themusic grew strange and fantastic--turbulent,insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. Theshadows grew deeper. The music filled theroom. It floated out upon the night, over thehousetops, the crescent of the river, losingitself in the silence of the upper air.Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept onemidnight at Grand Isle when strange, newvoices awoke in her. She arose in someagitation to take her departure. "May I comeagain, Mademoiselle?" she asked at thethreshold."Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful;the stairs and landings are dark; don't

stumble."Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle.Robert's letter was on the floor. She stoopedand picked it up. It was crumpled and dampwith tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letterout, restored it to the envelope, and replacedit in the table drawer.

XXIIOne morning on his way into town Mr.Pontellier stopped at the house of his oldfriend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet.The Doctor was a semi-retired physician,resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. Hebore a reputation for wisdom rather thanskill--leaving the active practice of medicine tohis assistants and youngercontemporaries--and was much sought for inmatters of consultation. A few families, unitedto him by bonds of friendship, he still attendedwhen they required the services of aphysician. The Pontelliers were among these.Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at theopen window of his study. His house stoodrather far back from the street, in the center ofa delightful garden, so that it was quiet andpeaceful at the old gentleman's study window.He was a great reader. He stared updisapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr.

Pontellier entered, wondering who had thetemerity to disturb him at that hour of themorning."Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come andhave a seat. What news do you bring thismorning?" He was quite portly, with aprofusion of gray hair, and small blue eyeswhich age had robbed of much of theirbrightness but none of their penetration."Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that Icome of tough fiber--of that old Creole race ofPontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. Icame to consult--no, not precisely toconsult--to talk to you about Edna. I don't knowwhat ails her.""Madame Pontellier not well," marveled theDoctor. "Why, I saw her--I think it was a weekago--walking along Canal Street, the picture ofhealth, it seemed to me.""Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr.

Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling hisstick between his two hands; "but she doesn'tact well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can'tmake her out, and I thought perhaps you'dhelp me.""How does she act?" inquired the Doctor."Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr.Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair."She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.""Well, well; women are not all alike, my dearPontellier. We've got to consider--""I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Herwhole attitude--toward me and everybody andeverything--has changed. You know I have aquick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or berude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'mdriven to it, and feel like ten thousand devilsafter I've made a fool of myself. She's making itdevilishly uncomfortable for me," he went onnervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her

head concerning the eternal rights of women;and--you understand--we meet in the morningat the breakfast table."The old gentleman lifted his shaggyeyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, andtapped the arms of his chair with his cushionedfingertips."What have you been doing to her,Pontellier?""Doing! Parbleu!""Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile,"has she been associating of late with a circleof pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritualsuperior beings? My wife has been telling meabout them.""That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier,"she hasn't been associating with any one. Shehas abandoned her Tuesdays at home, hasthrown over all her acquaintances, and goes

tramping about by herself, moping in thestreet-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she'speculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worriedover it."This was a new aspect for the Doctor."Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously."Nothing peculiar about her familyantecedents, is there?""Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound oldPresbyterian Kentucky stock. The oldgentleman, her father, I have heard, used toatone for his weekday sins with his Sundaydevotions. I know for a fact, that his racehorses literally ran away with the prettiest bitof Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyesupon. Margaret--you know Margaret--she hasall the Presbyterianism undiluted. And theyoungest is something of a vixen. By the way,she gets married in a couple of weeks fromnow.""Send your wife up to the wedding,"

exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happysolution. "Let her stay among her own peoplefor a while; it will do her good.""That's what I want her to do. She won't go tothe marriage. She says a wedding is one of themost lamentable spectacles on earth. Nicething for a woman to say to her husband!"exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at therecollection."Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment'sreflection, "let your wife alone for a while.Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you.Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar anddelicate organism--a sensitive and highlyorganized woman, such as I know Mrs.Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It wouldrequire an inspired psychologist to dealsuccessfully with them. And when ordinaryfellows like you and me attempt to cope withtheir idiosyncrasies the result is bungling.Most women are moody and whimsical. This issome passing whim of your wife, due to some

cause or causes which you and I needn't try tofathom. But it will pass happily over, especiallyif you let her alone. Send her around to seeme.""Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reasonfor it," objected Mr. Pontellier."Then I'll go around and see her," said theDoctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening enbon ami."Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier."What evening will you come? Say Thursday.Will you come Thursday?" he asked, rising totake his leave."Very well; Thursday. My wife may possiblyhave some engagement for me Thursday. Incase she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise,you may expect me."Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:

"I am going to New York on business verysoon. I have a big scheme on hand, and wantto be on the field proper to pull the ropes andhandle the ribbons. We'll let you in on theinside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed."No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned theDoctor. "I leave such ventures to you youngermen with the fever of life still in your blood.""What I wanted to say," continued Mr.Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I mayhave to be absent a good while. Would youadvise me to take Edna along?""By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leaveher here. Don't contradict her. The mood willpass, I assure you. It may take a month, two,three months--possibly longer, but it will pass;have patience.""Well, good-by, a jeudi," said Mr. Pontellier,as he let himself out.

The Doctor would have liked during thecourse of conversation to ask, "Is there anyman in the case?" but he knew his Creole toowell to make such a blunder as that.He did not resume his book immediately, butsat for a while meditatively looking out into thegarden.

XXIIIEdna's father was in the city, and had beenwith them several days. She was not verywarmly or deeply attached to him, but theyhad certain tastes in common, and whentogether they were companionable. Hiscoming was in the nature of a welcomedisturbance; it seemed to furnish a newdirection for her emotions.He had come to purchase a wedding gift forhis daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself inwhich he might make a creditable appearanceat her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selectedthe bridal gift, as every one immediatelyconnected with him always deferred to histaste in such matters. And his suggestions onthe question of dress--which too often assumesthe nature of a problem--were of inestimablevalue to his father-in-law. But for the past fewdays the old gentleman had been upon Edna'shands, and in his society she was becoming

acquainted with a new set of sensations. Hehad been a colonel in the Confederate army,and still maintained, with the title, the militarybearing which had always accompanied it. Hishair and mustache were white and silky,emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. Hewas tall and thin, and wore his coats padded,which gave a fictitious breadth and depth tohis shoulders and chest. Edna and her fatherlooked very distinguished together, andexcited a good deal of notice during theirperambulations. Upon his arrival she began byintroducing him to her atelier and making asketch of him. He took the whole matter veryseriously. If her talent had been ten-foldgreater than it was, it would not have surprisedhim, convinced as he was that he hadbequeathed to all of his daughters the germsof a masterful capability, which only dependedupon their own efforts to be directed towardsuccessful achievement.Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching,as he had faced the cannon's mouth in days

gone by. He resented the intrusion of thechildren, who gaped with wondering eyes athim, sitting so stiff up there in their mother'sbright atelier. When they drew near hemotioned them away with an expressive actionof the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines of hiscountenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.Edna, anxious to entertain him, invitedMademoiselle Reisz to meet him, havingpromised him a treat in her piano playing; butMademoiselle declined the invitation. Sotogether they attended a soiree musicale at theRatignolles'. Monsieur and Madame Ratignollemade much of the Colonel, installing him asthe guest of honor and engaging him at once todine with them the following Sunday, or anyday which he might select. Madame coquettedwith him in the most captivating and naivemanner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusionof compliments, till the Colonel's old head feltthirty years younger on his padded shoulders.Edna marveled, not comprehending. Sheherself was almost devoid of coquetry.

There were one or two men whom sheobserved at the soiree musicale; but shewould never have felt moved to any kittenishdisplay to attract their notice--to any feline orfeminine wiles to express herself toward them.Their personality attracted her in an agreeableway. Her fancy selected them, and she wasglad when a lull in the music gave them anopportunity to meet her and talk with her.Often on the street the glance of strange eyeshad lingered in her memory, and sometimeshad disturbed her.Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soireesmusicales. He considered them bourgeois,and found more diversion at the club. ToMadame Ratignolle he said the musicdispensed at her soirees was too "heavy," toofar beyond his untrained comprehension. Hisexcuse flattered her. But she disapproved ofMr. Pontellier's club, and she was frankenough to tell Edna so.

"It's a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn't stay homemore in the evenings. I think you would bemore--well, if you don't mind my sayingit--more united, if he did.""Oh! dear no!" said Edna, with a blank look inher eyes. "What should I do if he stayed home?We wouldn't have anything to say to eachother."She had not much of anything to say to herfather, for that matter; but he did notantagonize her. She discovered that heinterested her, though she realized that hemight not interest her long; and for the firsttime in her life she felt as if she werethoroughly acquainted with him. He kept herbusy serving him and ministering to his wants.It amused her to do so. She would not permit aservant or one of the children to do anythingfor him which she might do herself. Herhusband noticed, and thought it was theexpression of a deep filial attachment which hehad never suspected.

The Colonel drank numerous "toddies"during the course of the day, which left him,however, imperturbed. He was an expert atconcocting strong drinks. He had eveninvented some, to which he had given fantasticnames, and for whose manufacture herequired diverse ingredients that it devolvedupon Edna to procure for him.When Doctor Mandelet dined with thePontelliers on Thursday he could discern inMrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbidcondition which her husband had reported tohim. She was excited and in a manner radiant.She and her father had been to the racecourse, and their thoughts when they seatedthemselves at table were still occupied withthe events of the afternoon, and their talk wasstill of the track. The Doctor had not kept pacewith turf affairs. He had certain recollections ofracing in what he called "the good old times"when the Lecompte stables flourished, and hedrew upon this fund of memories so that he

might not be left out and seem wholly devoidof the modern spirit. But he failed to imposeupon the Colonel, and was even far fromimpressing him with this trumped-upknowledge of bygone days. Edna had stakedher father on his last venture, with the mostgratifying results to both of them. Besides,they had met some very charming people,according to the Colonel's impressions. Mrs.Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. JamesHighcamp, who were there with Alcee Arobin,had joined them and had enlivened the hoursin a fashion that warmed him to think of.Mr. Pontellier himself had no particularleaning toward horseracing, and was evenrather inclined to discourage it as a pastime,especially when he considered the fate of thatblue-grass farm in Kentucky. He endeavored,in a general way, to express a particulardisapproval, and only succeeded in arousingthe ire and opposition of his father-in-law. Apretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmlyespoused her father's cause and the Doctor

emained neutral.He observed his hostess attentively fromunder his shaggy brows, and noted a subtlechange which had transformed her from thelistless woman he had known into a being who,for the moment, seemed palpitant with theforces of life. Her speech was warm andenergetic. There was no repression in herglance or gesture. She reminded him of somebeautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun.The dinner was excellent. The claret waswarm and the champagne was cold, and undertheir beneficent influence the threatenedunpleasantness melted and vanished with thefumes of the wine.Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grewreminiscent. He told some amusing plantationexperiences, recollections of old Iberville andhis youth, when he hunted 'possum in companywith some friendly darky; thrashed the pecantrees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods

and fields in mischievous idleness.The Colonel, with little sense of humor and ofthe fitness of things, related a somber episodeof those dark and bitter days, in which he hadacted a conspicuous part and always formed acentral figure. Nor was the Doctor happier inhis selection, when he told the old, ever newand curious story of the waning of a woman'slove, seeking strange, new channels, only toreturn to its legitimate source after days offierce unrest. It was one of the many littlehuman documents which had been unfolded tohim during his long career as a physician. Thestory did not seem especially to impress Edna.She had one of her own to tell, of a woman whopaddled away with her lover one night in apirogue and never came back. They were lostamid the Baratarian Islands, and no one everheard of them or found trace of them from thatday to this. It was a pure invention. She saidthat Madame Antoine had related it to her.That, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was adream she had had. But every glowing word

seemed real to those who listened. They couldfeel the hot breath of the Southern night; theycould hear the long sweep of the piroguethrough the glistening moonlit water, thebeating of birds' wings, rising startled fromamong the reeds in the salt-water pools; theycould see the faces of the lovers, pale, closetogether, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness,drifting into the unknown.The champagne was cold, and its subtlefumes played fantastic tricks with Edna'smemory that night.Outside, away from the glow of the fire andthe soft lamplight, the night was chill andmurky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashionedcloak across his breast as he strode homethrough the darkness. He knew hisfellow-creatures better than most men; knewthat inner life which so seldom unfolds itself tounanointed eyes. He was sorry he hadaccepted Pontellier's invitation. He wasgrowing old, and beginning to need rest and

an imperturbed spirit. He did not want thesecrets of other lives thrust upon him."I hope it isn't Arobin," he muttered to himselfas he walked. "I hope to heaven it isn't AlceeArobin."

XXIVEdna and her father had a warm, and almostviolent dispute upon the subject of her refusalto attend her sister's wedding. Mr. Pontellierdeclined to interfere, to interpose either hisinfluence or his authority. He was followingDoctor Mandelet's advice, and letting her doas she liked. The Colonel reproached hisdaughter for her lack of filial kindness andrespect, her want of sisterly affection andwomanly consideration. His arguments werelabored and unconvincing. He doubted if Janetwould accept any excuse--forgetting that Ednahad offered none. He doubted if Janet wouldever speak to her again, and he was sureMargaret would not.Edna was glad to be rid of her father when hefinally took himself off with his weddinggarments and his bridal gifts, with his paddedshoulders, his Bible reading, his "toddies" andponderous oaths.

Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meantto stop at the wedding on his way to New Yorkand endeavor by every means which moneyand love could devise to atone somewhat forEdna's incomprehensible action."You are too lenient, too lenient by far,Leonce," asserted the Colonel. "Authority,coercion are what is needed. Put your footdown good and hard; the only way to managea wife. Take my word for it."The Colonel was perhaps unaware that hehad coerced his own wife into her grave. Mr.Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which hethought it needless to mention at that late day.Edna was not so consciously gratified at herhusband's leaving home as she had been overthe departure of her father. As the dayapproached when he was to leave her for acomparatively long stay, she grew melting andaffectionate, remembering his many acts of

consideration and his repeated expressions ofan ardent attachment. She was solicitous abouthis health and his welfare. She bustled around,looking after his clothing, thinking aboutheavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignollewould have done under similar circumstances.She cried when he went away, calling him herdear, good friend, and she was quite certainshe would grow lonely before very long andgo to join him in New York.But after all, a radiant peace settled upon herwhen she at last found herself alone. Even thechildren were gone. Old Madame Pontellierhad come herself and carried them off toIberville with their quadroon. The old madamedid not venture to say she was afraid theywould be neglected during Leonce's absence;she hardly ventured to think so. She washungry for them--even a little fierce in herattachment. She did not want them to bewholly "children of the pavement," she alwayssaid when begging to have them for a space.She wished them to know the country, with its

streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, sodelicious to the young. She wished them totaste something of the life their father hadlived and known and loved when he, too, wasa little child.When Edna was at last alone, she breathed abig, genuine sigh of relief. A feeling that wasunfamiliar but very delicious came over her.She walked all through the house, from oneroom to another, as if inspecting it for the firsttime. She tried the various chairs and lounges,as if she had never sat and reclined upon thembefore. And she perambulated around theoutside of the house, investigating, looking tosee if windows and shutters were secure andin order. The flowers were like newacquaintances; she approached them in afamiliar spirit, and made herself at homeamong them. The garden walks were damp,and Edna called to the maid to bring out herrubber sandals. And there she stayed, andstooped, digging around the plants, trimming,picking dead, dry leaves. The children's little

dog came out, interfering, getting in her way.She scolded him, laughed at him, played withhim. The garden smelled so good and lookedso pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Ednaplucked all the bright flowers she could find,and went into the house with them, she and thelittle dog.Even the kitchen assumed a suddeninteresting character which she had neverbefore perceived. She went in to givedirections to the cook, to say that the butcherwould have to bring much less meat, that theywould require only half their usual quantity ofbread, of milk and groceries. She told the cookthat she herself would be greatly occupiedduring Mr. Pontellier's absence, and shebegged her to take all thought andresponsibility of the larder upon her ownshoulders.That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra,with a few candies in the center of the table,gave all the light she needed. Outside the

circle of light in which she sat, the largedining-room looked solemn and shadowy. Thecook, placed upon her mettle, served adelicious repast--a luscious tenderloin broileda point. The wine tasted good; the marronglace seemed to be just what she wanted. Itwas so pleasant, too, to dine in a comfortablepeignoir.She thought a little sentimentally aboutLeonce and the children, and wondered whatthey were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap ortwo to the doggie, she talked intimately to himabout Etienne and Raoul. He was besidehimself with astonishment and delight overthese companionable advances, and showedhis appreciation by his little quick, snappybarks and a lively agitation.Then Edna sat in the library after dinner andread Emerson until she grew sleepy. Sherealized that she had neglected her reading,and determined to start anew upon a course ofimproving studies, now that her time was

completely her own to do with as she liked.After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed.And as she snuggled comfortably beneath theeiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her,such as she had not known before.

XXVWhen the weather was dark and cloudy Ednacould not work. She needed the sun to mellowand temper her mood to the sticking point. Shehad reached a stage when she seemed to beno longer feeling her way, working, when inthe humor, with sureness and ease. And beingdevoid of ambition, and striving not towardaccomplishment, she drew satisfaction fromthe work in itself.On rainy or melancholy days Edna went outand sought the society of the friends she hadmade at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoorsand nursed a mood with which she wasbecoming too familiar for her own comfort andpeace of mind. It was not despair; but itseemed to her as if life were passing by,leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. Yetthere were other days when she listened, wasled on and deceived by fresh promises whichher youth held out to her.

She went again to the races, and again. AlceeArobin and Mrs. Highcamp called for her onebright afternoon in Arobin's drag. Mrs.Highcamp was a worldly but unaffected,intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in theforties, with an indifferent manner and blueeyes that stared. She had a daughter whoserved her as a pretext for cultivating thesociety of young men of fashion. Alcee Arobinwas one of them. He was a familiar figure at therace course, the opera, the fashionable clubs.There was a perpetual smile in his eyes, whichseldom failed to awaken a correspondingcheerfulness in any one who looked into themand listened to his good-humored voice. Hismanner was quiet, and at times a little insolent.He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face,not overburdened with depth of thought orfeeling; and his dress was that of theconventional man of fashion.He admired Edna extravagantly, aftermeeting her at the races with her father. He

had met her before on other occasions, but shehad seemed to him unapproachable until thatday. It was at his instigation that Mrs.Highcamp called to ask her to go with them tothe Jockey Club to witness the turf event of theseason.There were possibly a few track men outthere who knew the race horse as well asEdna, but there was certainly none who knewit better. She sat between her two companionsas one having authority to speak. She laughedat Arobin's pretensions, and deplored Mrs.Highcamp's ignorance. The race horse was afriend and intimate associate of her childhood.The atmosphere of the stables and the breathof the blue grass paddock revived in hermemory and lingered in her nostrils. She didnot perceive that she was talking like herfather as the sleek geldings ambled in reviewbefore them. She played for very high stakes,and fortune favored her. The fever of the gameflamed in her cheeks and eyes, and it got intoher blood and into her brain like an intoxicant.

People turned their heads to look at her, andmore than one lent an attentive car to herutterances, hoping thereby to secure theelusive but ever-desired "tip." Arobin caughtthe contagion of excitement which drew him toEdna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained,as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stareand uplifted eyebrows.Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcampupon being urged to do so. Arobin alsoremained and sent away his drag.The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, savefor the cheerful efforts of Arobin to enliventhings. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absenceof her daughter from the races, and tried toconvey to her what she had missed by going tothe "Dante reading" instead of joining them.The girl held a geranium leaf up to her noseand said nothing, but looked knowing andnoncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain,bald-headed man, who only talked undercompulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs.

Highcamp was full of delicate courtesy andconsideration toward her husband. Sheaddressed most of her conversation to him attable. They sat in the library after dinner andread the evening papers together under thedroplight; while the younger people went intothe drawing-room near by and talked. MissHighcamp played some selections from Griegupon the piano. She seemed to haveapprehended all of the composer's coldnessand none of his poetry. While Edna listenedshe could not help wondering if she had losther taste for music.When the time came for her to go home, Mr.Highcamp grunted a lame offer to escort her,looking down at his slippered feet with tactlessconcern. It was Arobin who took her home.The car ride was long, and it was late whenthey reached Esplanade Street. Arobin askedpermission to enter for a second to light hiscigarette--his match safe was empty. He filledhis match safe, but did not light his cigaretteuntil he left her, after she had expressed her

willingness to go to the races with him again.Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She washungry again, for the Highcamp dinner,though of excellent quality, had lackedabundance. She rummaged in the larder andbrought forth a slice of Gruyere and somecrackers. She opened a bottle of beer whichshe found in the icebox. Edna felt extremelyrestless and excited. She vacantly hummed afantastic tune as she poked at the woodembers on the hearth and munched a cracker.She wanted something to happen--something,anything; she did not know what. Sheregretted that she had not made Arobin stay ahalf hour to talk over the horses with her. Shecounted the money she had won. But there wasnothing else to do, so she went to bed, andtossed there for hours in a sort of monotonousagitation.In the middle of the night she rememberedthat she had forgotten to write her regular

letter to her husband; and she decided to doso next day and tell him about her afternoon atthe Jockey Club. She lay wide awakecomposing a letter which was nothing like theone which she wrote next day. When the maidawoke her in the morning Edna was dreamingof Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at theentrance of a music store on Canal Street,while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, asthey boarded an Esplanade Street car:"What a pity that so much talent has beenneglected! but I must go."When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin againcalled for Edna in his drag, Mrs. Highcampwas not with him. He said they would pick herup. But as that lady had not been apprised ofhis intention of picking her up, she was not athome. The daughter was just leaving the houseto attend the meeting of a branch Folk LoreSociety, and regretted that she could notaccompany them. Arobin appearednonplused, and asked Edna if there were any

one else she cared to ask.She did not deem it worth while to go insearch of any of the fashionable acquaintancesfrom whom she had withdrawn herself. Shethought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew thather fair friend did not leave the house, exceptto take a languid walk around the block withher husband after nightfall. MademoiselleReisz would have laughed at such a requestfrom Edna. Madame Lebrun might haveenjoyed the outing, but for some reason Ednadid not want her. So they went alone, she andArobin.The afternoon was intensely interesting toher. The excitement came back upon her like aremittent fever. Her talk grew familiar andconfidential. It was no labor to becomeintimate with Arobin. His manner invited easyconfidence. The preliminary stage ofbecoming acquainted was one which healways endeavored to ignore when a prettyand engaging woman was concerned.

He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayedand sat beside the wood fire. They laughedand talked; and before it was time to go he wastelling her how different life might have beenif he had known her years before. Withingenuous frankness he spoke of what awicked, ill-disciplined boy he had been, andimpulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit uponhis wrist the scar from a saber cut which hehad received in a duel outside of Paris whenhe was nineteen. She touched his hand as shescanned the red cicatrice on the inside of hiswhite wrist. A quick impulse that wassomewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers toclose in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He feltthe pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh ofhis palm.She arose hastily and walked toward themantel."The sight of a wound or scar always agitatesand sickens me," she said. "I shouldn't have

looked at it.""I beg your pardon," he entreated, followingher; "it never occurred to me that it might berepulsive."He stood close to her, and the effrontery inhis eyes repelled the old, vanishing self in her,yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. Hesaw enough in her face to impel him to takeher hand and hold it while he said hislingering good night."Will you go to the races again?" he asked."No," she said. "I've had enough of the races. Idon't want to lose all the money I've won, andI've got to work when the weather is bright,instead of--""Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to showme your work. What morning may I come up toyour atelier? To-morrow?"

"No!""Day after?""No, no.""Oh, please don't refuse me! I knowsomething of such things. I might help you witha stray suggestion or two.""No. Good night. Why don't you go after youhave said good night? I don't like you," shewent on in a high, excited pitch, attempting todraw away her hand. She felt that her wordslacked dignity and sincerity, and she knewthat he felt it."I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry Ioffended you. How have I offended you? Whathave I done? Can't you forgive me?" And hebent and pressed his lips upon her hand as ifhe wished never more to withdraw them."Mr. Arobin," she complained, "I'm greatly

upset by the excitement of the afternoon; I'mnot myself. My manner must have misled youin some way. I wish you to go, please." Shespoke in a monotonous, dull tone. He took hishat from the table, and stood with eyes turnedfrom her, looking into the dying fire. For amoment or two he kept an impressive silence."Your manner has not misled me, Mrs.Pontellier," he said finally. "My own emotionshave done that. I couldn't help it. When I'mnear you, how could I help it? Don't thinkanything of it, don't bother, please. You see, Igo when you command me. If you wish me tostay away, I shall do so. If you let me comeback, I--oh! you will let me come back?"He cast one appealing glance at her, to whichshe made no response. Alcee Arobin's mannerwas so genuine that it often deceived evenhimself.Edna did not care or think whether it weregenuine or not. When she was alone she

looked mechanically at the back of her handwhich he had kissed so warmly. Then sheleaned her head down on the mantelpiece. Shefelt somewhat like a woman who in a momentof passion is betrayed into an act of infidelity,and realizes the significance of the act withoutbeing wholly awakened from its glamour. Thethought was passing vaguely through hermind, "What would he think?"She did not mean her husband; she wasthinking of Robert Lebrun. Her husbandseemed to her now like a person whom shehad married without love as an excuse.She lit a candle and went up to her room.Alcee Arobin was absolutely nothing to her.Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth ofhis glances, and above all the touch of his lipsupon her hand had acted like a narcotic uponher.She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven withvanishing dreams.

XXVIAlcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note ofapology, palpitant with sincerity. Itembarrassed her; for in a cooler, quietermoment it appeared to her, absurd that sheshould have taken his action so seriously, sodramatically. She felt sure that the significanceof the whole occurrence had lain in her ownself-consciousness. If she ignored his note itwould give undue importance to a trivial affair.If she replied to it in a serious spirit it wouldstill leave in his mind the impression that shehad in a susceptible moment yielded to hisinfluence. After all, it was no great matter tohave one's hand kissed. She was provoked athis having written the apology. She answeredin as light and bantering a spirit as she fanciedit deserved, and said she would be glad tohave him look in upon her at work wheneverhe felt the inclination and his business gavehim the opportunity.

He responded at once by presenting himselfat her home with all his disarming naivete. Andthen there was scarcely a day which followedthat she did not see him or was not remindedof him. He was prolific in pretexts. His attitudebecame one of good-humored subservienceand tacit adoration. He was ready at all timesto submit to her moods, which were as oftenkind as they were cold. She grew accustomedto him. They became intimate and friendly byimperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. Hesometimes talked in a way that astonished herat first and brought the crimson into her face;in a way that pleased her at last, appealing tothe animalism that stirred impatiently withinher.There was nothing which so quieted theturmoil of Edna's senses as a visit toMademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in thepresence of that personality which wasoffensive to her, that the woman, by her divineart, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set itfree.

It was misty, with heavy, loweringatmosphere, one afternoon, when Ednaclimbed the stairs to the pianist's apartmentsunder the roof. Her clothes were dripping withmoisture. She felt chilled and pinched as sheentered the room. Mademoiselle was pokingat a rusty stove that smoked a little andwarmed the room indifferently. She wasendeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on thestove. The room looked cheerless and dingy toEdna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven,covered with a hood of dust, scowled at herfrom the mantelpiece."Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimedMademoiselle, rising from her knees beforethe stove. "Now it will be warm and brightenough; I can let the fire alone."She closed the stove door with a bang, andapproaching, assisted in removing Edna'sdripping mackintosh.

"You are cold; you look miserable. Thechocolate will soon be hot. But would yourather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcelytouched the bottle which you brought me formy cold." A piece of red flannel was wrappedaround Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neckcompelled her to hold her head on one side."I will take some brandy," said Edna,shivering as she removed her gloves andovershoes. She drank the liquor from the glassas a man would have done. Then flingingherself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said,"Mademoiselle, I am going to move away frommy house on Esplanade Street.""Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neithersurprised nor especially interested. Nothingever seemed to astonish her very much. Shewas endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violetswhich had become loose from its fastening inher hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa,and taking a pin from her own hair, securedthe shabby artificial flowers in their

accustomed place."Aren't you astonished?""Passably. Where are you going? to NewYork? to Iberville? to your father inMississippi? where?""Just two steps away," laughed Edna, "in alittle four-room house around the corner. Itlooks so cozy, so inviting and restful,whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tiredlooking after that big house. It never seemedlike mine, anyway--like home. It's too muchtrouble. I have to keep too many servants. I amtired bothering with them.""That is not your true reason, ma belle. Thereis no use in telling me lies. I don't know yourreason, but you have not told me the truth."Edna did not protest or endeavor to justifyherself."The house, the money that provides for it,

are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?""They are your husband's," returnedMademoiselle, with a shrug and a maliciouselevation of the eyebrows."Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then letme tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little moneyof my own from my mother's estate, which myfather sends me by driblets. I won a large sumthis winter on the races, and I am beginning tosell my sketches. Laidpore is more and morepleased with my work; he says it grows inforce and individuality. I cannot judge of thatmyself, but I feel that I have gained in ease andconfidence. However, as I said, I have sold agood many through Laidpore. I can live in thetiny house for little or nothing, with oneservant. Old Celestine, who worksoccasionally for me, says she will come staywith me and do my work. I know I shall like it,like the feeling of freedom andindependence."

"What does your husband say?""I have not told him yet. I only thought of itthis morning. He will think I am demented, nodoubt. Perhaps you think so."Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Yourreason is not yet clear to me," she said.Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; butit unfolded itself as she sat for a while insilence. Instinct had prompted her to put awayher husband's bounty in casting off herallegiance. She did not know how it would bewhen he returned. There would have to be anunderstanding, an explanation. Conditionswould some way adjust themselves, she felt;but whatever came, she had resolved neveragain to belong to another than herself."I shall give a grand dinner before I leave theold house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have tocome to it, Mademoiselle. I will give youeverything that you like to eat and to drink.

We shall sing and laugh and be merry foronce." And she uttered a sigh that came fromthe very depths of her being.If Mademoiselle happened to have received aletter from Robert during the interval of Edna'svisits, she would give her the letterunsolicited. And she would seat herself at thepiano and play as her humor prompted herwhile the young woman read the letter.The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot,and the chocolate in the tin sizzled andsputtered. Edna went forward and opened thestove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took aletter from under the bust of Beethoven andhanded it to Edna."Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyesfilled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle,does he know that I see his letters?""Never in the world! He would be angry andwould never write to me again if he thought so.

Does he write to you? Never a line. Does hesend you a message? Never a word. It isbecause he loves you, poor fool, and is tryingto forget you, since you are not free to listen tohim or to belong to him.""Why do you show me his letters, then?""Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuseyou anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me,"and Mademoiselle approached her belovedinstrument and began to play. Edna did not atonce read the letter. She sat holding it in herhand, while the music penetrated her wholebeing like an effulgence, warming andbrightening the dark places of her soul. Itprepared her for joy and exultation."Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall tothe floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She wentand grasped Mademoiselle's hands up fromthe keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did younot tell me?"

"That he was coming back? No great news,ma foi. I wonder he did not come long ago.""But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently."He does not say when.""He says 'very soon.' You know as much aboutit as I do; it is all in the letter.""But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if Ithought--" and she snatched the letter from thefloor and turned the pages this way and thatway, looking for the reason, which was leftuntold."If I were young and in love with a man," saidMademoiselle, turning on the stool andpressing her wiry hands between her knees asshe looked down at Edna, who sat on the floorholding the letter, "it seems to me he wouldhave to be some grand esprit; a man with loftyaims and ability to reach them; one who stoodhigh enough to attract the notice of hisfellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and

in love I should never deem a man of ordinarycaliber worthy of my devotion.""Now it is you who are telling lies andseeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or elseyou have never been in love, and knownothing about it. Why," went on Edna, claspingher knees and looking up into Mademoiselle'stwisted face, "do you suppose a woman knowswhy she loves? Does she select? Does she sayto herself: 'Go to! Here is a distinguishedstatesman with presidential possibilities; Ishall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, 'Ishall set my heart upon this musician, whosefame is on every tongue?' Or, 'This financier,who controls the world's money markets?'"You are purposely misunderstanding me, mareine. Are you in love with Robert?""Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she hadadmitted it, and a glow overspread her face,blotching it with red spots.

"Why?" asked her companion. "Why do youlove him when you ought not to?"Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herselfon her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, whotook the glowing face between her two hands."Why? Because his hair is brown and growsaway from his temples; because he opens andshuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out ofdrawing; because he has two lips and a squarechin, and a little finger which he can'tstraighten from having played baseball tooenergetically in his youth. Because--""Because you do, in short," laughedMademoiselle. "What will you do when hecomes back?" she asked."Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy tobe alive."She was already glad and happy to be alive atthe mere thought of his return. The murky,

lowering sky, which had depressed her a fewhours before, seemed bracing andinvigorating as she splashed through thestreets on her way home.She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered ahuge box of bonbons for the children inIberville. She slipped a card in the box, onwhich she scribbled a tender message andsent an abundance of kisses.Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote acharming letter to her husband, telling him ofher intention to move for a while into the littlehouse around the block, and to give a farewelldinner before leaving, regretting that he wasnot there to share it, to help out with the menuand assist her in entertaining the guests. Herletter was brilliant and brimming withcheerfulness.

XXVII"What is the matter with you?" asked Arobinthat evening. "I never found you in such ahappy mood." Edna was tired by that time, andwas reclining on the lounge before the fire."Don't you know the weather prophet has toldus we shall see the sun pretty soon?""Well, that ought to be reason enough," heacquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if Isat here all night imploring you." He sat closeto her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke hisfingers lightly touched the hair that fell a littleover her forehead. She liked the touch of hisfingers through her hair, and closed her eyessensitively."One of these days," she said, "I'm going topull myself together for a while and think--tryto determine what character of a woman I am;for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes

which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishlywicked specimen of the sex. But some way Ican't convince myself that I am. I must thinkabout it.""Don't. What's the use? Why should youbother thinking about it when I can tell youwhat manner of woman you are." His fingersstrayed occasionally down to her warm,smooth cheeks and firm chin, which wasgrowing a little full and double."Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable;everything that is captivating. Spare yourselfthe effort.""No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort,though I shouldn't be lying if I did.""Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" sheasked irrelevantly."The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heardher play."

"She says queer things sometimes in abantering way that you don't notice at the timeand you find yourself thinking aboutafterward.""For instance?""Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, sheput her arms around me and felt my shoulderblades, to see if my wings were strong, shesaid. 'The bird that would soar above the levelplain of tradition and prejudice must havestrong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see theweaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering backto earth.' Whither would you soar?""I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. Ionly half comprehend her.""I've heard she's partially demented," saidArobin."She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna

eplied."I'm told she's extremely disagreeable andunpleasant. Why have you introduced her at amoment when I desired to talk of you?""Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna,clasping her hands beneath her head; "but letme think of something else while you do.""I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They'remaking you a little kinder than usual; but someway I feel as if they were wandering, as if theywere not here with me." She only looked athim and smiled. His eyes were very near. Heleaned upon the lounge with an arm extendedacross her, while the other hand still restedupon her hair. They continued silently to lookinto each other's eyes. When he leanedforward and kissed her, she clasped his head,holding his lips to hers.It was the first kiss of her life to which hernature had really responded. It was a flaming

torch that kindled desire.

XXVIIIEdna cried a little that night after Arobin lefther. It was only one phase of the multitudinousemotions which had assailed her. There waswith her an overwhelming feeling ofirresponsibility. There was the shock of theunexpected and the unaccustomed. There washer husband's reproach looking at her fromthe external things around her which he hadprovided for her external existence. There wasRobert's reproach making itself felt by aquicker, fiercer, more overpowering love,which had awakened within her toward him.Above all, there was understanding. She felt asif a mist had been lifted from her eyes,enabling her to took upon and comprehendthe significance of life, that monster made upof beauty and brutality. But among theconflicting sensations which assailed her,there was neither shame nor remorse. Therewas a dull pang of regret because it was notthe kiss of love which had inflamed her,

ecause it was not love which had held thiscup of life to her lips.

XXIXWithout even waiting for an answer from herhusband regarding his opinion or wishes inthe matter, Edna hastened her preparations forquitting her home on Esplanade Street andmoving into the little house around the block.A feverish anxiety attended her every action inthat direction. There was no moment ofdeliberation, no interval of repose betweenthe thought and its fulfillment. Early upon themorning following those hours passed inArobin's society, Edna set about securing hernew abode and hurrying her arrangements foroccupying it. Within the precincts of her homeshe felt like one who has entered and lingeredwithin the portals of some forbidden temple inwhich a thousand muffled voices bade herbegone.Whatever was her own in the house,everything which she had acquired aside fromher husband's bounty, she caused to be

transported to the other house, supplyingsimple and meager deficiencies from her ownresources.Arobin found her with rolled sleeves,working in company with the house-maidwhen he looked in during the afternoon. Shewas splendid and robust, and had neverappeared handsomer than in the old bluegown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted atrandom around her head to protect her hairfrom the dust. She was mounted upon a highstepladder, unhooking a picture from the wallwhen he entered. He had found the front dooropen, and had followed his ring by walking inunceremoniously."Come down!" he said. "Do you want to killyourself?" She greeted him with affectedcarelessness, and appeared absorbed in heroccupation.If he had expected to find her languishing,reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears,

he must have been greatly surprised.He was no doubt prepared for anyemergency, ready for any one of the foregoingattitudes, just as he bent himself easily andnaturally to the situation which confronted him."Please come down," he insisted, holding theladder and looking up at her."No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mountthe ladder. Joe is working over at the 'pigeonhouse'--that's the name Ellen gives it, becauseit's so small and looks like a pigeon house--andsome one has to do this."Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressedhimself ready and willing to tempt fate in herplace. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps,and went into contortions of mirth, which shefound it impossible to control, when she sawhim put it on before the mirror as grotesquelyas he could. Edna herself could not refrainfrom smiling when she fastened it at his

equest. So it was he who in turn mounted theladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, anddislodging ornaments as Edna directed. Whenhe had finished he took off his dust-cap andwent out to wash his hands.Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idlybrushing the tips of a feather duster along thecarpet when he came in again."Is there anything more you will let me do?"he asked."That is all," she answered. "Ellen canmanage the rest." She kept the young womanoccupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to beleft alone with Arobin."What about the dinner?" he asked; "thegrand event, the coup d'etat?""It will be day after to-morrow. Why do youcall it the 'coup d'etat?' Oh! it will be very fine;all my best of everything--crystal, silver and

gold, Sevres, flowers, music, and champagneto swim in. I'll let Leonce pay the bills. Iwonder what he'll say when he sees the bills."And you ask me why I call it a coup d'etat?"Arobin had put on his coat, and he stoodbefore her and asked if his cravat was plumb.She told him it was, looking no higher than thetip of his collar."When do you go to the 'pigeon house?'--withall due acknowledgment to Ellen.""Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shallsleep there.""Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass ofwater?" asked Arobin. "The dust in thecurtains, if you will pardon me for hinting sucha thing, has parched my throat to a crisp.""While Ellen gets the water," said Edna,rising, "I will say good-by and let you go. Imust get rid of this grime, and I have a million

things to do and think of.""When shall I see you?" asked Arobin,seeking to detain her, the maid having left theroom."At the dinner, of course. You are invited.""Not before?--not to-night or to-morrowmorning or tomorrow noon or night? or theday after morning or noon? Can't you seeyourself, without my telling you, what aneternity it is?"He had followed her into the hall and to thefoot of the stairway, looking up at her as shemounted with her face half turned to him."Not an instant sooner," she said. But shelaughed and looked at him with eyes that atonce gave him courage to wait and made ittorture to wait.

XXXThough Edna had spoken of the dinner as avery grand affair, it was in truth a very smallaffair and very select, in so much as the guestsinvited were few and were selected withdiscrimination. She had counted upon an evendozen seating themselves at her roundmahogany board, forgetting for the momentthat Madame Ratignolle was to the last degreesouffrante and unpresentable, and notforeseeing that Madame Lebrun would send athousand regrets at the last moment. So therewere only ten, after all, which made a cozy,comfortable number.There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty,vivacious little woman in the thirties; herhusband, a jovial fellow, something of ashallow-pate, who laughed a good deal atother people's witticisms, and had therebymade himself extremely popular. Mrs.Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course,

there was Alcee Arobin; and MademoiselleReisz had consented to come. Edna had senther a fresh bunch of violets with black lacetrimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignollebrought himself and his wife's excuses. VictorLebrun, who happened to be in the city, bentupon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity.There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in herteens, who looked at the world throughlorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It wasthought and said that she was intellectual; itwas suspected of her that she wrote under anom de guerre. She had come with agentleman by the name of Gouvernail,connected with one of the daily papers, ofwhom nothing special could be said, exceptthat he was observant and seemed quiet andinoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, andat half-past eight they seated themselves attable, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle oneither side of their hostess.Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin andVictor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr.

Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, andMademoiselle Reisz next to MonsieurRatignolle.There was something extremely gorgeousabout the appearance of the table, an effect ofsplendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellowsatin under strips of lace-work. There werewax 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 saidthere would be, and crystal which glitteredlike the gems which the women wore.The ordinary stiff dining chairs had beendiscarded for the occasion and replaced bythe most commodious and luxurious whichcould be collected throughout the house.Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedinglydiminutive, was elevated upon cushions, assmall children are sometimes hoisted at tableupon bulky volumes.

"Something new, Edna?" exclaimed MissMayblunt, with lorgnette directed toward amagnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled,that almost sputtered, in Edna's hair, just overthe center of her forehead."Quite new; 'brand' new, in fact; a presentfrom my husband. It arrived this morning fromNew York. I may as well admit that this is mybirthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In goodtime I expect you to drink my health.Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with thiscocktail, composed--would you say'composed?'" with an appeal to MissMayblunt--"composed by my father in honor ofSister Janet's wedding."Before each guest stood a tiny glass thatlooked and sparkled like a garnet gem."Then, all things considered," spoke Arobin,"it might not be amiss to start out by drinkingthe Colonel's health in the cocktail which hecomposed, on the birthday of the most

charming of women--the daughter whom heinvented."Mr. Merriman's laugh at this sally was such agenuine outburst and so contagious that itstarted the dinner with an agreeable swingthat never slackened.Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keepher cocktail untouched before her, just to lookat. The color was marvelous! She couldcompare it to nothing she had ever seen, andthe garnet lights which it emitted wereunspeakably rare. She pronounced theColonel an artist, and stuck to it.Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to takethings seriously; the mets, the entre-mets, theservice, the decorations, even the people. Helooked up from his pompano and inquired ofArobin if he were related to the gentleman ofthat name who formed one of the firm ofLaitner and Arobin, lawyers. The young manadmitted that Laitner was a warm personal

friend, who permitted Arobin's name todecorate the firm's letterheads and to appearupon a shingle that graced Perdido Street."There are so many inquisitive people andinstitutions abounding," said Arobin, "that oneis really forced as a matter of conveniencethese days to assume the virtue of anoccupation if he has it not." MonsieurRatignolle stared a little, and turned to askMademoiselle Reisz if she considered thesymphony concerts up to the standard whichhad been set the previous winter.Mademoiselle Reisz answered MonsieurRatignolle in French, which Edna thought alittle rude, under the circumstances, butcharacteristic. Mademoiselle had onlydisagreeable things to say of the symphonyconcerts, and insulting remarks to make of allthe musicians of New Orleans, singly andcollectively. All her interest seemed to becentered upon the delicacies placed beforeher.

Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin's remarkabout inquisitive people reminded him of aman from Waco the other day at the St. CharlesHotel--but as Mr. Merriman's stories werealways lame and lacking point, his wife seldompermitted him to complete them. Sheinterrupted him to ask if he remembered thename of the author whose book she hadbought the week before to send to a friend inGeneva. She was talking "books" with Mr.Gouvernail and trying to draw from him hisopinion upon current literary topics. Herhusband told the story of the Waco manprivately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended tobe greatly amused and to think it extremelyclever.Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid butunaffected interest upon the warm andimpetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor,Victor Lebrun. Her attention was never for amoment withdrawn from him after seatingherself at table; and when he turned to Mrs.Merriman, who was prettier and more

vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited witheasy indifference for an opportunity to reclaimhis attention. There was the occasional soundof music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed tobe an agreeable accompaniment rather thanan interruption to the conversation. Outsidethe soft, monotonous splash of a fountain couldbe heard; the sound penetrated into the roomwith the heavy odor of jessamine that camethrough the open windows.The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gownspread in rich folds on either side of her.There was a soft fall of lace encircling hershoulders. It was the color of her skin, withoutthe glow, the myriad living tints that one maysometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There wassomething in her attitude, in her wholeappearance when she leaned her head againstthe high-backed chair and spread her arms,which suggested the regal woman, the onewho rules, who looks on, who stands alone.But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt

the old ennui overtaking her; the hopelessnesswhich so often assailed her, which came uponher like an obsession, like somethingextraneous, independent of volition. It wassomething which announced itself; a chillbreath that seemed to issue from some vastcavern wherein discords waited. There cameover her the acute longing which alwayssummoned into her spiritual vision thepresence of the beloved one, overpoweringher at once with a sense of the unattainable.The moments glided on, while a feeling ofgood fellowship passed around the circle likea mystic cord, holding and binding thesepeople together with jest and laughter.Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break thepleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excusedhimself. Madame Ratignolle was waiting forhim at home. She was bien souffrante, and shewas filled with vague dread, which only herhusband's presence could allay.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 herhead, for she bowed pleasantly to all as shewithdrew from table. She kissed Edna uponthe shoulder, and whispered: "Bonne nuit, mareine; soyez sage." She had been a littlebewildered upon rising, or rather, descendingfrom her cushions, and Monsieur Ratignollegallantly took her arm and led her away.Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland ofroses, yellow and red. When she had finishedthe garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor'sblack curls. He was reclining far back in theluxurious chair, holding a glass of champagneto the light.As if a magician's wand had touched him, thegarland of roses transformed him into a visionof Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the colorof crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowedwith a languishing fire.

"Sapristi!" exclaimed Arobin.But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch toadd to the picture. She took from the back ofher chair a white silken scarf, with which shehad covered her shoulders in the early part ofthe evening. She draped it across the boy ingraceful folds, and in a way to conceal hisblack, conventional evening dress. He did notseem to mind what she did to him, only smiled,showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while hecontinued to gaze with narrowing eyes at thelight through his glass of champagne."Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than inwords!" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, losingherself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked athim."'There was a graven image of Desire Paintedwith red blood on a ground of gold.'"murmured Gouvernail, under his breath.The effect of the wine upon Victor was to

change his accustomed volubility into silence.He seemed to have abandoned himself to areverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions inthe amber bead."Sing," entreated Mrs. Highcamp. "Won't yousing to us?""Let him alone," said Arobin."He's posing," offered Mr. Merriman; "let himhave it out.""I believe he's paralyzed," laughed Mrs.Merriman. And leaning over the youth's chair,she took the glass from his hand and held it tohis lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and whenhe had drained the glass she laid it upon thetable and wiped his lips with her little filmyhandkerchief."Yes, I'll sing for you," he said, turning in hischair toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped hishands behind his head, and looking up at the

ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voicelike a musician tuning an instrument. Then,looking at Edna, he began to sing:"Ah! si tu savais!""Stop!" she cried, "don't sing that. I don't wantyou to sing it," and she laid her glass soimpetuously and blindly upon the table as toshatter it against a carafe. The wine spilledover Arobin's legs and some of it trickleddown upon Mrs. Highcamp's black gauzegown. Victor had lost all idea of courtesy, orelse he thought his hostess was not in earnest,for he laughed and went on:"Ah! si tu savaisCe que tes yeux me disent"--"Oh! you mustn't! you mustn't," exclaimedEdna, and pushing back her chair she got up,and going behind him placed her hand over

his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressedupon his lips."No, no, I won't, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn't knowyou meant it," looking up at her with caressingeyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasingsting to her hand. She lifted the garland ofroses from his head and flung it across theroom."Come, Victor; you've posed long enough.Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf."Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf fromabout him with her own hands. Miss Maybluntand Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived thenotion that it was time to say good night. AndMr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it couldbe so late.Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcampinvited him to call upon her daughter, who sheknew would be charmed to meet him and talkFrench and sing French songs with him. Victor

expressed his desire and intention to call uponMiss Highcamp at the first opportunity whichpresented itself. He asked if Arobin weregoing his way. Arobin was not.The mandolin players had long since stolenaway. A profound stillness had fallen upon thebroad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna'sdisbanding guests jarred like a discordantnote upon the quiet harmony of the night.

XXXI"Well?" questioned Arobin, who hadremained with Edna after the others haddeparted."Well," she reiterated, and stood up,stretching her arms, and feeling the need torelax her muscles after having been so longseated."What next?" he asked."The servants are all gone. They left when themusicians did. I have dismissed them. Thehouse has to be closed and locked, and I shalltrot around to the pigeon house, and shall sendCelestine over in the morning to straightenthings up."He looked around, and began to turn outsome of the lights.

"What about upstairs?" he inquired."I think it is all right; but there may be awindow or two unlatched. We had better look;you might take a candle and see. And bringme my wrap and hat on the foot of the bed inthe middle room."He went up with the light, and Edna beganclosing doors and windows. She hated to shutin the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobinfound her cape and hat, which he broughtdown and helped her to put on.When everything was secured and the lightsput out, they left through the front door, Arobinlocking it and taking the key, which he carriedfor Edna. He helped her down the steps."Will you have a spray of jessamine?" heasked, breaking off a few blossoms as hepassed."No; I don't want anything."

She seemed disheartened, and had nothing tosay. She took his arm, which he offered her,holding up the weight of her satin train withthe other hand. She looked down, noticing theblack line of his leg moving in and out so closeto her against the yellow shimmer of her gown.There was the whistle of a railway trainsomewhere in the distance, and the midnightbells were ringing. They met no one in theirshort walk.The "pigeon house" stood behind a lockedgate, and a shallow parterre that had beensomewhat neglected. There was a small frontporch, upon which a long window and the frontdoor opened. The door opened directly intothe parlor; there was no side entry. Back in theyard was a room for servants, in which oldCelestine had been ensconced.Edna had left a lamp burning low upon thetable. She had succeeded in making the roomlook habitable and homelike. There were

some books on the table and a lounge near athand. On the floor was a fresh matting,covered with a rug or two; and on the wallshung a few tasteful pictures. But the room wasfilled with flowers. These were a surprise toher. Arobin had sent them, and had hadCelestine distribute them during Edna'sabsence. Her bedroom was adjoining, andacross a small passage were the diningroomand kitchen.Edna seated herself with every appearance ofdiscomfort."Are you tired?" he asked."Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if Ihad been wound up to a certain pitch--tootight--and something inside of me hadsnapped." She rested her head against thetable upon her bare arm."You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet.I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest."

"Yes," she replied.He stood up beside her and smoothed herhair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touchconveyed to her a certain physical comfort.She could have fallen quietly asleep there if hehad continued to pass his hand over her hair.He brushed the hair upward from the nape ofher neck."I hope you will feel better and happier in themorning," he said. "You have tried to do toomuch in the past few days. The dinner was thelast straw; you might have dispensed with it.""Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid.""No, it was delightful; but it has worn youout." His hand had strayed to her beautifulshoulders, and he could feel the response ofher flesh to his touch. He seated himselfbeside her and kissed her lightly upon theshoulder.

"I thought you were going away," she said, inan uneven voice."I am, after I have said good night.""Good night," she murmured.He did not answer, except to continue tocaress her. He did not say good night until shehad become supple to his gentle, seductiveentreaties.

XXXIIWhen Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife'sintention to abandon her home and take up herresidence elsewhere, he immediately wroteher a letter of unqualified disapproval andremonstrance. She had given reasons whichhe was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate.He hoped she had not acted upon her rashimpulse; and he begged her to consider first,foremost, and above all else, what peoplewould say. He was not dreaming of scandalwhen he uttered this warning; that was a thingwhich would never have entered into his mindto consider in connection with his wife's nameor his own. He was simply thinking of hisfinancial integrity. It might get noised aboutthat the Pontelliers had met with reverses, andwere forced to conduct their menage on ahumbler scale than heretofore. It might doincalculable mischief to his businessprospects.

But remembering Edna's whimsical turn ofmind of late, and foreseeing that she hadimmediately acted upon her impetuousdetermination, he grasped the situation withhis usual promptness and handled it with hiswell-known business tact and cleverness.The same mail which brought to Edna hisletter of disapproval carried instructions--themost minute instructions--to a well-knownarchitect concerning the remodeling of hishome, changes which he had longcontemplated, and which he desired carriedforward during his temporary absence.Expert and reliable packers and moverswere engaged to convey the furniture,carpets, pictures--everything movable, inshort--to places of security. And in anincredibly short time the Pontellier house wasturned over to the artisans. There was to be anaddition--a small snuggery; there was to befrescoing, and hardwood flooring was to beput into such rooms as had not yet been

subjected to this improvement.Furthermore, in one of the daily papersappeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr.and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating asummer sojourn abroad, and that theirhandsome residence on Esplanade Street wasundergoing sumptuous alterations, and wouldnot be ready for occupancy until their return.Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances!Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, andavoided any occasion to balk his intentions.When the situation as set forth by Mr.Pontellier was accepted and taken for granted,she was apparently satisfied that it should beso.The pigeon house pleased her. It at onceassumed the intimate character of a home,while she herself invested it with a charmwhich it reflected like a warm glow. There waswith her a feeling of having descended in thesocial scale, with a corresponding sense of

having risen in the spiritual. Every step whichshe took toward relieving herself fromobligations added to her strength andexpansion as an individual. She began to lookwith her own eyes; to see and to apprehendthe deeper undercurrents of life. No longerwas she content to "feed upon opinion" whenher own soul had invited her.After a little while, a few days, in fact, Ednawent up and spent a week with her children inIberville. They were delicious February days,with all the summer's promise hovering in theair.How glad she was to see the children! Shewept for very pleasure when she felt their littlearms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheekspressed against her own glowing cheeks. Shelooked into their faces with hungry eyes thatcould not be satisfied with looking. And whatstories they had to tell their mother! About thepigs, the cows, the mules! About riding to themill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake

with their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans withLidie's little black brood, and hauling chips intheir express wagon. It was a thousand timesmore fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie'sreal fire than to drag painted blocks along thebanquette on Esplanade Street!She went with them herself to see the pigsand the cows, to look at the darkies laying thecane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fishin the back lake. She lived with them a wholeweek long, giving them all of herself, andgathering and filling herself with their youngexistence. They listened, breathless, when shetold them the house in Esplanade Street wascrowded with workmen, hammering, nailing,sawing, and filling the place with clatter. Theywanted to know where their bed was; what hadbeen done with their rocking-horse; andwhere did Joe sleep, and where had Ellengone, and the cook? But, above all, they werefired with a desire to see the little housearound the block. Was there any place to play?Were there any boys next door? Raoul, with

pessimistic foreboding, was convinced thatthere were only girls next door. Where wouldthey sleep, and where would papa sleep? Shetold them the fairies would fix it all right.The old Madame was charmed with Edna'svisit, and showered all manner of delicateattentions upon her. She was delighted toknow that the Esplanade Street house was in adismantled condition. It gave her the promiseand pretext to keep the children indefinitely.It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna lefther children. She carried away with her thesound of their voices and the touch of theircheeks. All along the journey homeward theirpresence lingered with her like the memory ofa delicious song. But by the time she hadregained the city the song no longer echoed inher soul. She was again alone.

XXXIIIIt happened sometimes when Edna went tosee Mademoiselle Reisz that the little musicianwas absent, giving a lesson or making somesmall necessary household purchase. The keywas always left in a secret hiding-place in theentry, which Edna knew. If Mademoisellehappened to be away, Edna would usuallyenter and wait for her return.When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz'sdoor one afternoon there was no response; sounlocking the door, as usual, she entered andfound the apartment deserted, as she hadexpected. Her day had been quite filled up,and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talkabout Robert, that she sought out her friend.She had worked at her canvas--a youngItalian character study--all the morning,completing the work without the model; butthere had been many interruptions, some

incident to her modest housekeeping, andothers of a social nature.Madame Ratignolle had dragged herselfover, avoiding the too public thoroughfares,she said. She complained that Edna hadneglected her much of late. Besides, she wasconsumed with curiosity to see the little houseand the manner in which it was conducted. Shewanted to hear all about the dinner party;Monsieur Ratignolle had left so early. Whathad happened after he left? The champagneand grapes which Edna sent over were TOOdelicious. She had so little appetite; they hadrefreshed and toned her stomach. Where onearth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier inthat little house, and the boys? And then shemade Edna promise to go to her when herhour of trial overtook her."At any time--any time of the day or night,dear," Edna assured her.Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said:

"In some way you seem to me like a child,Edna. You seem to act without a certainamount of reflection which is necessary in thislife. That is the reason I want to say you mustn'tmind if I advise you to be a little careful whileyou are living here alone. Why don't you havesome one come and stay with you? Wouldn'tMademoiselle Reisz come?""No; she wouldn't wish to come, and Ishouldn't want her always with me.""Well, the reason--you know how evil-mindedthe world is--some one was talking of AlceeArobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn'tmatter if Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadfulreputation. Monsieur Ratignolle was telling methat his attentions alone are consideredenough to ruin a woman s name.""Does he boast of his successes?" askedEdna, indifferently, squinting at her picture.

"No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellowas far as that goes. But his character is so wellknown among the men. I shan't be able tocome back and see you; it was very, veryimprudent to-day.""Mind the step!" cried Edna."Don't neglect me," entreated MadameRatignolle; "and don't mind what I said aboutArobin, or having some one to stay with you."Of course not," Edna laughed. "You may sayanything you like to me." They kissed eachother good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not farto go, and Edna stood on the porch a whilewatching her walk down the street.Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs.Highcamp had made their "party call." Ednafelt that they might have dispensed with theformality. They had also come to invite her toplay vingt-et-un one evening at Mrs.Merriman's. She was asked to go early, to

dinner, and Mr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin wouldtake her home. Edna accepted in ahalf-hearted way. She sometimes felt verytired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman.Late in the afternoon she sought refuge withMademoiselle Reisz, and stayed there alone,waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invadeher with the very atmosphere of the shabby,unpretentious little room.Edna sat at the window, which looked outover the house-tops and across the river. Thewindow frame was filled with pots of flowers,and she sat and picked the dry leaves from arose geranium. The day was warm, and thebreeze which blew from the river was verypleasant. She removed her hat and laid it onthe piano. She went on picking the leaves anddigging around the plants with her hat pin.Once she thought she heard MademoiselleReisz approaching. But it was a young blackgirl, who came in, bringing a small bundle oflaundry, which she deposited in the adjoining

oom, and went away.Edna seated herself at the piano, and softlypicked out with one hand the bars of a piece ofmusic which lay open before her. A half-hourwent by. There was the occasional sound ofpeople going and coming in the lower hall.She was growing interested in her occupationof picking out the aria, when there was asecond rap at the door. She vaguely wonderedwhat these people did when they foundMademoiselle's door locked."Come in," she called, turning her facetoward the door. And this time it was RobertLebrun who presented himself. She attemptedto rise; she could not have done so withoutbetraying the agitation which mastered her atsight of him, so she fell back upon the stool,only exclaiming, "Why, Robert!"He came and clasped her hand, seeminglywithout knowing what he was saying or doing.

"Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen--oh!how well you look! Is Mademoiselle Reisz nothere? I never expected to see you.""When did you come back?" asked Edna inan unsteady voice, wiping her face with herhandkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on thepiano stool, and he begged her to take thechair by the window.She did so, mechanically, while he seatedhimself on the stool."I returned day before yesterday," heanswered, while he leaned his arm on thekeys, bringing forth a crash of discordantsound."Day before yesterday!" she repeated, aloud;and went on thinking to herself, "day beforeyesterday," in a sort of an uncomprehendingway. She had pictured him seeking her at thevery first hour, and he had lived under thesame sky since day before yesterday; while

only by accident had he stumbled upon her.Mademoiselle must have lied when she said,"Poor fool, he loves you.""Day before yesterday," she repeated,breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle'sgeranium; "then if you had not met me hereto-day you wouldn't--when--that is, didn't youmean to come and see me?""Of course, I should have gone to see you.There have been so many things--" he turnedthe leaves of Mademoiselle's music nervously."I started in at once yesterday with the oldfirm. After all there is as much chance for mehere as there was there--that is, I might find itprofitable some day. The Mexicans were notvery congenial."So he had come back because the Mexicanswere not congenial; because business was asprofitable here as there; because of anyreason, and not because he cared to be nearher. She remembered the day she sat on the

floor, turning the pages of his letter, seekingthe reason which was left untold.She had not noticed how he looked--onlyfeeling his presence; but she turneddeliberately and observed him. After all, hehad been absent but a few months, and wasnot changed. His hair--the color ofhers--waved back from his temples in thesame way as before. His skin was not moreburned than it had been at Grand Isle. Shefound in his eyes, when he looked at her forone silent moment, the same tender caress,with an added warmth and entreaty which hadnot been there before the same glance whichhad penetrated to the sleeping places of hersoul and awakened them.A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert'sreturn, and imagined their first meeting. It wasusually at her home, whither he had sought herout at once. She always fancied himexpressing or betraying in some way his lovefor her. And here, the reality was that they sat

ten feet apart, she at the window, crushinggeranium leaves in her hand and smellingthem, he twirling around on the piano stool,saying:"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr.Pontellier's absence; it's a wonderMademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and yourmoving--mother told me yesterday. I shouldthink you would have gone to New York withhim, or to Iberville with the children, ratherthan be bothered here with housekeeping.And you are going abroad, too, I hear. Weshan't have you at Grand Isle next summer; itwon't seem--do you see much of MademoiselleReisz? She often spoke of you in the few lettersshe wrote.""Do you remember that you promised towrite to me when you went away?" A flushoverspread his whole face."I couldn't believe that my letters would be ofany interest to you."

"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Ednareached for her hat on the piano. She adjustedit, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil ofhair with some deliberation."Are you not going to wait for MademoiselleReisz?" asked Robert."No; I have found when she is absent thislong, she is liable not to come back till late."She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked uphis hat."Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna."Not if you think she will not be back till late,"adding, as if suddenly aware of somediscourtesy in his speech, "and I should missthe pleasure of walking home with you." Ednalocked the door and put the key back in itshiding-place.They went together, picking their way across

muddy streets and sidewalks encumberedwith the cheap display of small tradesmen.Part of the distance they rode in the car, andafter disembarking, passed the Pontelliermansion, which looked broken and half tornasunder. Robert had never known the house,and looked at it with interest."I never knew you in your home," heremarked."I am glad you did not.""Why?" She did not answer. They went onaround the corner, and it seemed as if herdreams were coming true after all, when hefollowed her into the little house."You must stay and dine with me, Robert. Yousee I am all alone, and it is so long since I haveseen you. There is so much I want to ask you."She took off her hat and gloves. He stoodirresolute, making some excuse about his

mother who expected him; he even mutteredsomething about an engagement. She struck amatch and lit the lamp on the table; it wasgrowing dusk. When he saw her face in thelamp-light, looking pained, with all the softlines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside andseated himself."Oh! you know I want to stay if you will letme!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back.She laughed, and went and put her hand on hisshoulder."This is the first moment you have seemedlike the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." Shehurried away to tell Celestine to set an extraplace. She even sent her off in search of someadded delicacy which she had not thought offor herself. And she recommended great carein dripping the coffee and having the omeletdone to a proper turn.When she reentered, Robert was turning overmagazines, sketches, and things that lay upon

the table in great disorder. He picked up aphotograph, and exclaimed:"Alcee Arobin! What on earth is his picturedoing here?""I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,"answered Edna, "and he thought thephotograph might help me. It was at the otherhouse. I thought it had been left there. I musthave packed it up with my drawing materials.""I should think you would give it back to himif you have finished with it.""Oh! I have a great many such photographs. Inever think of returning them. They don'tamount to anything." Robert kept on looking atthe picture."It seems to me--do you think his head worthdrawing? Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? Younever said you knew him."

"He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's afriend of mine. I always knew him--that is, it isonly of late that I know him pretty well. But I'drather talk about you, and know what you havebeen seeing and doing and feeling out there inMexico." Robert threw aside the picture."I've been seeing the waves and the whitebeach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street ofthe Cheniere; the old fort at Grande Terre. I'vebeen working like a machine, and feeling likea lost soul. There was nothing interesting."She leaned her head upon her hand to shadeher eyes from the light."And what have you been seeing and doingand feeling all these days?" he asked."I've been seeing the waves and the whitebeach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street ofthe Cheniere Caminada; the old sunny fort atGrande Terre. I've been working with a littlemore comprehension than a machine, and still

feeling like a lost soul. There was nothinginteresting.""Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel," he said, withfeeling, closing his eyes and resting his headback in his chair. They remained in silence tillold Celestine announced dinner.

XXXIVThe dining-room was very small. Edna'sround mahogany would have almost filled it.As it was there was but a step or two from thelittle table to the kitchen, to the mantel, thesmall buffet, and the side door that opened outon the narrow brick-paved yard.A certain degree of ceremony settled uponthem with the announcement of dinner. Therewas no return to personalities. Robert relatedincidents of his sojourn in Mexico, and Ednatalked of events likely to interest him, whichhad occurred during his absence. The dinnerwas of ordinary quality, except for the fewdelicacies which she had sent out to purchase.Old Celestine, with a bandana tignon twistedabout her head, hobbled in and out, taking apersonal interest in everything; and shelingered occasionally to talk patois withRobert, whom she had known as a boy.

He went out to a neighboring cigar stand topurchase cigarette papers, and when he cameback he found that Celestine had served theblack coffee in the parlor."Perhaps I shouldn't have come back," hesaid. "When you are tired of me, tell me to go.""You never tire me. You must have forgottenthe hours and hours at Grand Isle in which wegrew accustomed to each other and used tobeing together.""I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle," hesaid, not looking at her, but rolling a cigarette.His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon thetable, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair,evidently the handiwork of a woman."You used to carry your tobacco in a rubberpouch," said Edna, picking up the pouch andexamining the needlework."Yes; it was lost."

"Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?""It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; theyare very generous," he replied, striking amatch and lighting his cigarette."They are very handsome, I suppose, thoseMexican women; very picturesque, with theirblack eyes and their lace scarfs.""Some are; others are hideous, just as youfind women everywhere.""What was she like--the one who gave you thepouch? You must have known her very well.""She was very ordinary. She wasn't of theslightest importance. I knew her well enough.""Did you visit at her house? Was itinteresting? I should like to know and hearabout the people you met, and the impressionsthey made on you."

"There are some people who leaveimpressions not so lasting as the imprint of anoar upon the water.""Was she such a one?""It would be ungenerous for me to admit thatshe was of that order and kind." He thrust thepouch back in his pocket, as if to put away thesubject with the trifle which had brought it up.Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs.Merriman, to say that the card party waspostponed on account of the illness of one ofher children."How do you do, Arobin?" said Robert, risingfrom the obscurity."Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterdayyou were back. How did they treat you downin Mexique?"

"Fairly well.""But not well enough to keep you there.Stunning girls, though, in Mexico. I thought Ishould never get away from Vera Cruz when Iwas down there a couple of years ago.""Did they embroider slippers and tobaccopouches and hat-bands and things for you?"asked Edna."Oh! my! no! I didn't get so deep in theirregard. I fear they made more impression onme than I made on them.""You were less fortunate than Robert, then.""I am always less fortunate than Robert. Hashe been imparting tender confidences?""I've been imposing myself long enough,"said Robert, rising, and shaking hands withEdna. "Please convey my regards to Mr.Pontellier when you write."

He shook hands with Arobin and went away."Fine fellow, that Lebrun," said Arobin whenRobert had gone. "I never heard you speak ofhim.""I knew him last summer at Grand Isle," shereplied. "Here is that photograph of yours.Don't you want it?""What do I want with it? Throw it away." Shethrew it back on the table."I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's," she said."If you see her, tell her so. But perhaps I hadbetter write. I think I shall write now, and saythat I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her notto count on me.""It would be a good scheme," acquiescedArobin. "I don't blame you; stupid lot!"Edna opened the blotter, and having

procured paper and pen, began to write thenote. Arobin lit a cigar and read the eveningpaper, which he had in his pocket."What is the date?" she asked. He told her."Will you mail this for me when you go out?""Certainly." He read to her little bits out of thenewspaper, while she straightened things onthe table."What do you want to do?" he asked,throwing aside the paper. "Do you want to goout for a walk or a drive or anything? It wouldbe a fine night to drive.""No; I don't want to do anything but just bequiet. You go away and amuse yourself. Don'tstay.""I'll go away if I must; but I shan't amusemyself. You know that I only live when I amnear you."

He stood up to bid her good night."Is that one of the things you always say towomen?""I have said it before, but I don't think I evercame so near meaning it," he answered with asmile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;only a dreamy, absent look."Good night. I adore you. Sleep well," hesaid, and he kissed her hand and went away.She stayed alone in a kind of reverie--a sort ofstupor. Step by step she lived over everyinstant of the time she had been with Robertafter he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz'sdoor. She recalled his words, his looks. Howfew and meager they had been for her hungryheart! A vision--a transcendently seductivevision of a Mexican girl arose before her. Shewrithed with a jealous pang. She wonderedwhen he would come back. He had not said he

would come back. She had been with him, hadheard his voice and touched his hand. Butsome way he had seemed nearer to her offthere in Mexico.

XXXVThe morning was full of sunlight and hope.Edna could see before her no denial--only thepromise of excessive joy. She lay in bedawake, with bright eyes full of speculation. "Heloves you, poor fool." If she could but get thatconviction firmly fixed in her mind, whatmattered about the rest? She felt she had beenchildish and unwise the night before in givingherself over to despondency. Sherecapitulated the motives which no doubtexplained Robert's reserve. They were notinsurmountable; they would not hold if hereally loved her; they could not hold againsther own passion, which he must come torealize in time. She pictured him going to hisbusiness that morning. She even saw how hewas dressed; how he walked down one street,and turned the corner of another; saw himbending over his desk, talking to people whoentered the office, going to his lunch, andperhaps watching for her on the street. He

would come to her in the afternoon or evening,sit and roll his cigarette, talk a little, and goaway as he had done the night before. But howdelicious it would be to have him there withher! She would have no regrets, nor seek topenetrate his reserve if he still chose to wearit.Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed. Themaid brought her a delicious printed scrawlfrom Raoul, expressing his love, asking her tosend him some bonbons, and telling her theyhad found that morning ten tiny white pigs alllying in a row beside Lidie's big white pig.A letter also came from her husband, sayinghe hoped to be back early in March, and thenthey would get ready for that journey abroadwhich he had promised her so long, which hefelt now fully able to afford; he felt able totravel as people should, without any thought ofsmall economies--thanks to his recentspeculations in Wall Street.

Much to her surprise she received a notefrom Arobin, written at midnight from the club.It was to say good morning to her, to hope shehad slept well, to assure her of his devotion,which he trusted she in some faintest mannerreturned.All these letters were pleasing to her. Sheanswered the children in a cheerful frame ofmind, promising them bonbons, andcongratulating them upon their happy find ofthe little pigs.She answered her husband with friendlyevasiveness,--not with any fixed design tomislead him, only because all sense of realityhad gone out of her life; she had abandonedherself to Fate, and awaited the consequenceswith indifference.To Arobin's note she made no reply. She put itunder Celestine's stove-lid.Edna worked several hours with much spirit.

She saw no one but a picture dealer, whoasked her if it were true that she was goingabroad to study in Paris.She said possibly she might, and henegotiated with her for some Parisian studiesto reach him in time for the holiday trade inDecember.Robert did not come that day. She was keenlydisappointed. He did not come the followingday, nor the next. Each morning she awokewith hope, and each night she was a prey todespondency. She was tempted to seek himout. But far from yielding to the impulse, sheavoided any occasion which might throw herin his way. She did not go to MademoiselleReisz's nor pass by Madame Lebrun's, as shemight have done if he had still been in Mexico.When Arobin, one night, urged her to drivewith him, she went--out to the lake, on the ShellRoad. His horses were full of mettle, and evena little unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait

at which they spun along, and the quick, sharpsound of the horses' hoofs on the hard road.They did not stop anywhere to eat or to drink.Arobin was not needlessly imprudent. But theyate and they drank when they regained Edna'slittle dining-room--which was comparativelyearly in the evening.It was late when he left her. It was getting tobe more than a passing whim with Arobin tosee her and be with her. He had detected thelatent sensuality, which unfolded under hisdelicate sense of her nature's requirementslike a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom.There was no despondency when she fellasleep that night; nor was there hope when sheawoke in the morning.

XXXVIThere was a garden out in the suburbs; asmall, leafy corner, with a few green tablesunder the orange trees. An old cat slept all dayon the stone step in the sun, and an oldmulatresse slept her idle hours away in herchair at the open window, till, some onehappened to knock on one of the green tables.She had milk and cream cheese to sell, andbread and butter. There was no one who couldmake such excellent coffee or fry a chicken sogolden brown as she.The place was too modest to attract theattention of people of fashion, and so quiet asto have escaped the notice of those in searchof pleasure and dissipation. Edna haddiscovered it accidentally one day when thehigh-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight ofa little green table, blotched with thecheckered sunlight that filtered through thequivering leaves overhead. Within she had

found the slumbering mulatresse, the drowsycat, and a glass of milk which reminded her ofthe milk she had tasted in Iberville.She often stopped there during herperambulations; sometimes taking a book withher, and sitting an hour or two under the treeswhen she found the place deserted. Once ortwice she took a quiet dinner there alone,having instructed Celestine beforehand toprepare no dinner at home. It was the lastplace in the city where she would haveexpected to meet any one she knew.Still she was not astonished when, as she waspartaking of a modest dinner late in theafternoon, looking into an open book, strokingthe cat, which had made friends with her--shewas not greatly astonished to see Robert comein at the tall garden gate."I am destined to see you only by accident,"she said, shoving the cat off the chair besideher. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost

embarrassed at meeting her thus sounexpectedly."Do you come here often?" he asked."I almost live here," she said."I used to drop in very often for a cup ofCatiche's good coffee. This is the first timesince I came back.""She'll bring you a plate, and you will sharemy dinner. There's always enough fortwo--even three." Edna had intended to beindifferent and as reserved as he when shemet him; she had reached the determinationby a laborious train of reasoning, incident toone of her despondent moods. But her resolvemelted when she saw him before designingProvidence had led him into her path."Why have you kept away from me, Robert?"she asked, closing the book that lay open uponthe table.

"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier?Why do you force me to idiotic subterfuges?"he exclaimed with sudden warmth. "I supposethere's no use telling you I've been very busy,or that I've been sick, or that I've been to seeyou and not found you at home. Please let meoff with any one of these excuses.""You are the embodiment of selfishness," shesaid. "You save yourself something--I don'tknow what--but there is some selfish motive,and in sparing yourself you never consider fora moment what I think, or how I feel yourneglect and indifference. I suppose this is whatyou would call unwomanly; but I have got intoa habit of expressing myself. It doesn't matterto me, and you may think me unwomanly if youlike.""No; I only think you cruel, as I said the otherday. Maybe not intentionally cruel; but youseem to be forcing me into disclosures whichcan result in nothing; as if you would have me

are a wound for the pleasure of looking at it,without the intention or power of healing it.""I'm spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mindwhat I say. You haven't eaten a morsel.""I only came in for a cup of coffee." Hissensitive face was all disfigured withexcitement."Isn't this a delightful place?" she remarked."I am so glad it has never actually beendiscovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Doyou notice there is scarcely a sound to beheard? It's so out of the way; and a good walkfrom the car. However, I don't mind walking. Ialways feel so sorry for women who don't liketo walk; they miss so much--so many rare littleglimpses of life; and we women learn so littleof life on the whole."Catiche's coffee is always hot. I don't knowhow she manages it, here in the open air.Celestine's coffee gets cold bringing it from

the kitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps!How can you drink it so sweet? Take some ofthe cress with your chop; it's so biting andcrisp. Then there's the advantage of being ableto smoke with your coffee out here. Now, in thecity--aren't you going to smoke?""After a while," he said, laying a cigar on thetable."Who gave it to you?" she laughed."I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; Ibought a whole box." She was determined notto be personal again and make himuncomfortable.The cat made friends with him, and climbedinto his lap when he smoked his cigar. Hestroked her silky fur, and talked a little abouther. He looked at Edna's book, which he hadread; and he told her the end, to save her thetrouble of wading through it, he said.

Again he accompanied her back to her home;and it was after dusk when they reached thelittle "pigeon-house." She did not ask him toremain, which he was grateful for, as itpermitted him to stay without the discomfort ofblundering through an excuse which he hadno intention of considering. He helped her tolight the lamp; then she went into her room totake off her hat and to bathe her face andhands.When she came back Robert was notexamining the pictures and magazines asbefore; he sat off in the shadow, leaning hishead back on the chair as if in a reverie. Ednalingered a moment beside the table, arrangingthe books there. Then she went across theroom to where he sat. She bent over the arm ofhis chair and called his name."Robert," she said, "are you asleep?""No," he answered, looking up at her.

She leaned over and kissed him--a soft, cool,delicate kiss, whose voluptuous stingpenetrated his whole being-then she movedaway from him. He followed, and took her inhis arms, just holding her close to him. She puther hand up to his face and pressed his cheekagainst her own. The action was full of love andtenderness. He sought her lips again. Then hedrew her down upon the sofa beside him andheld her hand in both of his."Now you know," he said, "now you knowwhat I have been fighting against since lastsummer at Grand Isle; what drove me awayand drove me back again.""Why have you been fighting against it?" sheasked. Her face glowed with soft lights."Why? Because you were not free; you wereLeonce Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help lovingyou if you were ten times his wife; but so longas I went away from you and kept away I couldhelp telling you so." She put her free hand up

to his shoulder, and then against his cheek,rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His facewas warm and flushed."There in Mexico I was thinking of you all thetime, and longing for you.""But not writing to me," she interrupted."Something put into my head that you caredfor me; and I lost my senses. I forgoteverything but a wild dream of your some waybecoming my wife.""Your wife!""Religion, loyalty, everything would give wayif only you cared.""Then you must have forgotten that I wasLeonce Pontellier's wife.""Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild,impossible things, recalling men who had set

their wives free, we have heard of suchthings.""Yes, we have heard of such things.""I came back full of vague, mad intentions.And when I got here--""When you got here you never came nearme!" She was still caressing his cheek."I realized what a cur I was to dream of such athing, even if you had been willing."She took his face between her hands andlooked into it as if she would never withdrawher eyes more. She kissed him on theforehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips."You have been a very, very foolish boy,wasting your time dreaming of impossiblethings when you speak of Mr. Pontellier settingme free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier'spossessions to dispose of or not. I give myself

where I choose. If he were to say, 'Here,Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' Ishould laugh at you both."His face grew a little white. "What do youmean?" he asked.There was a knock at the door. Old Celestinecame in to say that Madame Ratignolle'sservant had come around the back way with amessage that Madame had been taken sickand begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to herimmediately."Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tellher yes--to wait for me. I'll go back with her.""Let me walk over with you," offered Robert."No," she said; "I will go with the servant. Shewent into her room to put on her hat, and whenshe came in again she sat once more upon thesofa beside him. He had not stirred. She puther arms about his neck.

"Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell megood-by." He kissed her with a degree ofpassion which had not before entered into hiscaress, and strained her to him."I love you," she whispered, "only you; noone but you. It was you who awoke me lastsummer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh!you have made me so unhappy with yourindifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered!Now you are here we shall love each other, myRobert. We shall be everything to each other.Nothing else in the world is of anyconsequence. I must go to my friend; but youwill wait for me? No matter how late; you willwait for me, Robert?""Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,"he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay withme, stay with me.""I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall findyou here." She buried her face in his neck, and

said good-by again. Her seductive voice,together with his great love for her, hadenthralled his senses, had deprived him ofevery impulse but the longing to hold her andkeep her.

XXXVIIEdna looked in at the drug store. MonsieurRatignolle was putting up a mixture himself,very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tinyglass. He was grateful to Edna for havingcome; her presence would be a comfort to hiswife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who hadalways been with her at such trying times, hadnot been able to come up from the plantation,and Adele had been inconsolable until Mrs.Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her.The nurse had been with them at night for thepast week, as she lived a great distance away.And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and goingall the afternoon. They were then looking forhim any moment.Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairwaythat led from the rear of the store to theapartments above. The children were allsleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignollewas in the salon, whither she had strayed in

her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa,clad in an ample white peignoir, holding ahandkerchief tight in her hand with a nervousclutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, hersweet blue eyes haggard and unnatural. Allher beautiful hair had been drawn back andplaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow,coiled like a golden serpent. The nurse, acomfortable looking Griffe woman in whiteapron and cap, was urging her to return to herbedroom."There is no use, there is no use," she said atonce to Edna. "We must get rid of Mandelet;he is getting too old and careless. He said hewould be here at half-past seven; now it mustbe eight. See what time it is, Josephine."The woman was possessed of a cheerfulnature, and refused to take any situation tooseriously, especially a situation with which shewas so familiar. She urged Madame to havecourage and patience. But Madame only sether teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna

saw the sweat gather in beads on her whiteforehead. After a moment or two she uttered aprofound sigh and wiped her face with thehandkerchief rolled in a ball. She appearedexhausted. The nurse gave her a freshhandkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water."This is too much!" she cried. "Mandeletought to be killed! Where is Alphonse? Is itpossible I am to be abandoned likethis-neglected by every one?""Neglected, indeed!" exclaimed the nurse.Wasn't she there? And here was Mrs. Pontellierleaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at hometo devote to her? And wasn't MonsieurRatignolle coming that very instant through thehall? And Josephine was quite sure she hadheard Doctor Mandelet's coupe. Yes, there itwas, down at the door.Adele consented to go back to her room. Shesat on the edge of a little low couch next to herbed.

Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to MadameRatignolle's upbraidings. He was accustomedto them at such times, and was too wellconvinced of her loyalty to doubt it.He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her togo with him into the salon and entertain him.But Madame Ratignolle would not consent thatEdna should leave her for an instant. Betweenagonizing moments, she chatted a little, andsaid it took her mind off her sufferings.Edna began to feel uneasy. She was seizedwith a vague dread. Her own like experiencesseemed far away, unreal, and only halfremembered. She recalled faintly an ecstasyof pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a stuporwhich had deadened sensation, and anawakening to find a little new life to which shehad given being, added to the greatunnumbered multitude of souls that come andgo.

She began to wish she had not come; herpresence was not necessary. She might haveinvented a pretext for staying away; she mighteven invent a pretext now for going. But Ednadid not go. With an inward agony, with aflaming, outspoken revolt against the ways ofNature, she witnessed the scene of torture.She was still stunned and speechless withemotion when later she leaned over her friendto kiss her and softly say good-by. Adele,pressing her cheek, whispered in anexhausted voice: "Think of the children, Edna.Oh think of the children! Remember them!"

XXXVIIIEdna still felt dazed when she got outside inthe open air. The Doctor's coupe had returnedfor him and stood before the porte cochere.She did not wish to enter the coupe, and toldDoctor Mandelet she would walk; she was notafraid, and would go alone. He directed hiscarriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier's, andhe started to walk home with her.Up--away up, over the narrow street betweenthe tall houses, the stars were blazing. The airwas mild and caressing, but cool with thebreath of spring and the night. They walkedslowly, the Doctor with a heavy, measuredtread and his hands behind him; Edna, in anabsent-minded way, as she had walked onenight at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had goneahead of her and she was striving to overtakethem."You shouldn't have been there, Mrs.

Pontellier," he said. "That was no place for you.Adele is full of whims at such times. Therewere a dozen women she might have had withher, unimpressionable women. I felt that it wascruel, cruel. You shouldn't have gone.""Oh, well!" she answered, indifferently. "Idon't know that it matters after all. One has tothink of the children some time or other; thesooner the better.""When is Leonce coming back?""Quite soon. Some time in March.""And you are going abroad?""Perhaps--no, I am not going. I'm not going tobe forced into doing things. I don't want to goabroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody has anyright--except children, perhaps--and eventhen, it seems to me--or it did seem--" She feltthat her speech was voicing the incoherency ofher thoughts, and stopped abruptly.

"The trouble is," sighed the Doctor, graspingher meaning intuitively, "that youth is given upto illusions. It seems to be a provision ofNature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race.And Nature takes no account of moralconsequences, of arbitrary conditions whichwe create, and which we feel obliged tomaintain at any cost.""Yes," she said. "The years that are goneseem like dreams--if one might go on sleepingand dreaming--but to wake up and find--oh!well! perhaps it is better to wake up after all,even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe toillusions all one's life.""It seems to me, my dear child," said theDoctor at parting, holding her hand, "youseem to me to be in trouble. I am not going toask for your confidence. I will only say that ifever you feel moved to give it to me, perhaps Imight help you. I know I would understand,And I tell you there are not many who

The night was quiet and soothing. All thetearing emotion of the last few hours seemedto fall away from her like a somber,uncomfortable garment, which she had but toloosen to be rid of. She went back to that hourbefore Adele had sent for her; and her senseskindled afresh in thinking of Robert's words,the pressure of his arms, and the feeling of hislips upon her own. She could picture at thatmoment no greater bliss on earth thanpossession of the beloved one. His expressionof love had already given him to her in part.When she thought that he was there at hand,waiting for her, she grew numb with theintoxication of expectancy. It was so late; hewould be asleep perhaps. She would awakenhim with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleepthat she might arouse him with her caresses.Still, she remembered Adele's voicewhispering, "Think of the children; think ofthem." She meant to think of them; thatdetermination had driven into her soul like adeath wound--but not to-night. To-morrow

XXXIXVictor, with hammer and nails and scraps ofscantling, was patching a corner of one of thegalleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling herlegs, watching him work, and handing himnails from the tool-box. The sun was beatingdown upon them. The girl had covered herhead with her apron folded into a square pad.They had been talking for an hour or more.She was never tired of hearing Victor describethe dinner at Mrs. Pontellier's. He exaggeratedevery detail, making it appear a veritableLucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, hesaid. The champagne was quaffed from hugegolden goblets. Venus rising from the foamcould have presented no more entrancing aspectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing withbeauty and diamonds at the head of the board,while the other women were all of themyouthful houris, possessed of incomparablecharms. She got it into her head that Victor wasin love with Mrs. Pontellier, and he gave her

evasive answers, framed so as to confirm herbelief. She grew sullen and cried a little,threatening to go off and leave him to his fineladies. There were a dozen men crazy abouther at the Cheniere; and since it was thefashion to be in love with married people,why, she could run away any time she liked toNew Orleans with Celina's husband.Celina's husband was a fool, a coward, and apig, and to prove it to her, Victor intended tohammer his head into a jelly the next time heencountered him. This assurance was veryconsoling to Mariequita. She dried her eyes,and grew cheerful at the prospect.They were still talking of the dinner and theallurements of city life when Mrs. Pontellierherself slipped around the corner of the house.The two youngsters stayed dumb withamazement before what they considered to bean apparition. But it was really she in flesh andblood, looking tired and a little travel-stained.

"I walked up from the wharf", she said, "andheard the hammering. I supposed it was you,mending the porch. It's a good thing. I wasalways tripping over those loose planks lastsummer. How dreary and deserted everythinglooks!"It took Victor some little time to comprehendthat she had come in Beaudelet's lugger, thatshe had come alone, and for no purpose but torest."There's nothing fixed up yet, you see. I'llgive you my room; it's the only place.""Any corner will do," she assured him."And if you can stand Philomel's cooking," hewent on, "though I might try to get her motherwhile you are here. Do you think she wouldcome?" turning to Mariequita.Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel'smother might come for a few days, and money

enough.Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make herappearance, the girl had at once suspected alovers' rendezvous. But Victor's astonishmentwas so genuine, and Mrs. Pontellier'sindifference so apparent, that the disturbingnotion did not lodge long in her brain. Shecontemplated with the greatest interest thiswoman who gave the most sumptuous dinnersin America, and who had all the men in NewOrleans at her feet."What time will you have dinner?" askedEdna. "I'm very hungry; but don't get anythingextra.""I'll have it ready in little or no time," he said,bustling and packing away his tools. "You maygo to my room to brush up and rest yourself.Mariequita will show you.""Thank you", said Edna. "But, do you know, Ihave a notion to go down to the beach and

take a good wash and even a little swim,before dinner?""The water is too cold!" they both exclaimed."Don't think of it.""Well, I might go down and try--dip my toesin. Why, it seems to me the sun is hot enoughto have warmed the very depths of the ocean.Could you get me a couple of towels? I'd bettergo right away, so as to be back in time. Itwould be a little too chilly if I waited till thisafternoon."Mariequita ran over to Victor's room, andreturned with some towels, which she gave toEdna."I hope you have fish for dinner," said Edna,as she started to walk away; "but don't doanything extra if you haven't.""Run and find Philomel's mother," Victorinstructed the girl. "I'll go to the kitchen and

see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women haveno consideration! She might have sent meword."Edna walked on down to the beach rathermechanically, not noticing anything specialexcept that the sun was hot. She was notdwelling upon any particular train of thought.She had done all the thinking which wasnecessary after Robert went away, when shelay awake upon the sofa till morning.She had said over and over to herself:"To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow it will be someone else. It makes no difference to me, itdoesn't matter about Leonce Pontellier--butRaoul and Etienne!" She understood nowclearly what she had meant long ago when shesaid to Adele Ratignolle that she would give upthe unessential, but she would never sacrificeherself for her children.Despondency had come upon her there in thewakeful night, and had never lifted. There was

no one thing in the world that she desired.There was no human being whom she wantednear her except Robert; and she even realizedthat the day would come when he, too, and thethought of him would melt out of her existence,leaving her alone. The children appearedbefore her like antagonists who had overcomeher; who had overpowered and sought to dragher into the soul's slavery for the rest of herdays. But she knew a way to elude them. Shewas not thinking of these things when shewalked down to the beach.The water of the Gulf stretched out beforeher, gleaming with the million lights of the sun.The voice of the sea is seductive, neverceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring,inviting the soul to wander in abysses ofsolitude. All along the white beach, up anddown, there was no living thing in sight. A birdwith a broken wing was beating the air above,reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down,down to the water.

Edna had found her old bathing suit stillhanging, faded, upon its accustomed peg.She put it on, leaving her clothing in thebath-house. But when she was there beside thesea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant,pricking garments from her, and for the firsttime in her life she stood naked in the open air,at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beatupon her, and the waves that invited her.How strange and awful it seemed to standnaked under the sky! how delicious! She feltlike some new-born creature, opening its eyesin a familiar world that it had never known.The foamy wavelets curled up to her whitefeet, and coiled like serpents about her ankles.She walked out. The water was chill, but shewalked on. The water was deep, but she liftedher white body and reached out with a long,sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea issensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, closeembrace.

She went on and on. She remembered thenight she swam far out, and recalled the terrorthat seized her at the fear of being unable toregain the shore. She did not look back now,but went on and on, thinking of the blue-grassmeadow that she had traversed when a littlechild, believing that it had no beginning andno end.Her arms and legs were growing tired.She thought of Leonce and the children. Theywere a part of her life. But they need not havethought that they could possess her, body andsoul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would havelaughed, perhaps sneered, if she knew! "Andyou call yourself an artist! What pretensions,Madame! The artist must possess thecourageous soul that dares and defies."Exhaustion was pressing upon andoverpowering her.

"Good-by--because I love you." He did notknow; he did not understand. He would neverunderstand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet wouldhave understood if she had seen him--but itwas too late; the shore was far behind her, andher strength was gone.She looked into the distance, and the oldterror flamed up for an instant, then sankagain. Edna heard her father's voice and hersister Margaret's. She heard the barking of anold dog that was chained to the sycamore tree.The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as hewalked across the porch. There was the hum ofbees, and the musky odor of pinks filled theair.

*****BEYOND THE BAYOUThe bayou curved like a crescent around thepoint of land on which La Folle's cabin stood.Between the stream and the hut lay a bigabandoned field, where cattle were pasturedwhen the bayou supplied them with waterenough. Through the woods that spread backinto unknown regions the woman had drawnan imaginary line, and past this circle shenever stepped. This was the form of her onlymania.She was now a large, gaunt black woman,past thirty-five. Her real name was Jacqueline,but every one on the plantation called her LaFolle, because in childhood she had beenfrightened literally "out of her senses," andhad never wholly regained them.It was when there had been skirmishing and

sharpshooting all day in the woods. Eveningwas near when P'tit Maitre, black with powderand crimson with blood, had staggered intothe cabin of Jacqueline's mother, his pursuersclose at his heels. The sight had stunned herchildish reason.She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for therest of the quarters had long since beenremoved beyond her sight and knowledge.She had more physical strength than mostmen, and made her patch of cotton and cornand tobacco like the best of them. But of theworld beyond the bayou she had long knownnothing, save what her morbid fancyconceived.People at Bellissime had grown used to herand her way, and they thought nothing of it.Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did notwonder that La Folle had not crossed thebayou, but had stood upon her side of it,wailing and lamenting.

P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime.He was a middle-aged man, with a family ofbeautiful daughters about him, and a little sonwhom La Folle loved as if he had been herown. She called him Cheri, and so did everyone else because she did.None of the girls had ever been to her whatCheri was. They had each and all loved to bewith her, and to listen to her wondrous storiesof things that always happened "yonda, beyon'de bayou."But none of them had stroked her black handquite as Cheri did, nor rested their headsagainst her knee so confidingly, nor fallenasleep in her arms as he used to do. For Cherihardly did such things now, since he hadbecome the proud possessor of a gun, and hadhad his black curls cut off.That summer--the summer Cheri gave LaFolle two black curls tied with a knot of redribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou that

even the little children at Bellissime were ableto cross it on foot, and the cattle were sent topasture down by the river. La Folle was sorrywhen they were gone, for she loved thesedumb companions well, and liked to feel thatthey were there, and to hear them browsingby night up to her own enclosure.It was Saturday afternoon, when the fieldswere deserted. The men had flocked to aneighboring village to do their week's trading,and the women were occupied with householdaffairs,--La Folle as well as the others. It wasthen she mended and washed her handful ofclothes, scoured her house, and did herbaking.In this last employment she never forgotCheri. To-day she had fashioned croquignolesof the most fantastic and alluring shapes forhim. So when she saw the boy come trudgingacross the old field with his gleaming little newrifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly tohim, "Cheri! Cheri!"

But Cheri did not need the summons, for hewas coming straight to her. His pockets allbulged out with almonds and raisins and anorange that he had secured for her from thevery fine dinner which had been given thatday up at his father's house.He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. Whenhe had emptied his pockets, La Folle patted hisround red cheek, wiped his soiled hands onher apron, and smoothed his hair. Then shewatched him as, with his cakes in his hand, hecrossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin,and disappeared into the wood.He had boasted of the things he was going todo with his gun out there."You think they got plenty deer in the wood,La Folle?" he had inquired, with the calculatingair of an experienced hunter."Non, non!" the woman laughed. "Don't you

look fo' no deer, Cheri. Dat's too big. But youbring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo' herdinner to-morrow, an' she goin' be satisfi'.""One squirrel ain't a bite. I'll bring you mo' 'anone, La Folle," he had boasted pompously ashe went away.When the woman, an hour later, heard thereport of the boy's rifle close to the wood'sedge, she would have thought nothing of it if asharp cry of distress had not followed thesound.She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds inwhich they had been plunged, dried themupon her apron, and as quickly as hertrembling limbs would bear her, hurried to thespot whence the ominous report had come.It was as she feared. There she found Cheristretched upon the ground, with his riflebeside him. He moaned piteously:--

"I'm dead, La Folle! I'm dead! I'm gone!""Non, non!" she exclaimed resolutely, as sheknelt beside him. "Put you' arm 'roun' La Folle'snake, Cheri. Dat's nuttin'; dat goin' be nuttin'."She lifted him in her powerful arms.Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward.He had stumbled,--he did not know how. Heonly knew that he had a ball lodgedsomewhere in his leg, and he thought that hisend was at hand. Now, with his head upon thewoman's shoulder, he moaned and wept withpain and fright."Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can'stan' it, La Folle!""Don't cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!"the woman spoke soothingly as she coveredthe ground with long strides. "La Folle goin'mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin' come make monCheri well agin."

She had reached the abandoned field. As shecrossed it with her precious burden, shelooked constantly and restlessly from side toside. A terrible fear was upon her,--the fear ofthe world beyond the bayou, the morbid andinsane dread she had been under sincechildhood.When she was at the bayou's edge she stoodthere, and shouted for help as if a lifedepended upon it:--"Oh, P'tit Maitre! P'tit Maitre! Venez donc! Ausecours! Au secours!"No voice responded. Cheri's hot tears werescalding her neck. She called for each andevery one upon the place, and still no answercame.She shouted, she wailed; but whether hervoice remained unheard or unheeded, noreply came to her frenzied cries. And all thewhile Cheri moaned and wept and entreated

to be taken home to his mother.La Folle gave a last despairing look aroundher. Extreme terror was upon her. She claspedthe child close against her breast, where hecould feel her heart beat like a muffledhammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ransuddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou,and never stopped till she had climbed theopposite shore.She stood there quivering an instant as sheopened her eyes. Then she plunged into thefootpath through the trees.She spoke no more to Cheri, but mutteredconstantly, "Bon Dieu, ayez pitie La Folle! BonDieu, ayez pitie moi!"Instinct seemed to guide her. When thepathway spread clear and smooth enoughbefore her, she again closed her eyes tightlyagainst the sight of that unknown and terrifyingworld.

A child, playing in some weeds, caught sightof her as she neared the quarters. The littleone uttered a cry of dismay."La Folle!" she screamed, in her piercingtreble. "La Folle done cross de bayer!"Quickly the cry passed down the line ofcabins."Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!"Children, old men, old women, young oneswith infants in their arms, flocked to doors andwindows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle.Most of them shuddered with superstitiousdread of what it might portend. "She totin'Cheri!" some of them shouted.Some of the more daring gathered about her,and followed at her heels, only to fall back withnew terror when she turned her distorted faceupon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the

saliva had gathered in a white foam on herblack lips.Some one had run ahead of her to where P'titMaitre sat with his family and guests upon thegallery."P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou!Look her! Look her yonda totin' Cheri!" Thisstartling intimation was the first which they hadof the woman's approach.She was now near at hand. She walked withlong strides. Her eyes were fixed desperatelybefore her, and she breathed heavily, as atired ox.At the foot of the stairway, which she couldnot have mounted, she laid the boy in hisfather's arms. Then the world that had lookedred to La Folle suddenly turned black,--likethat day she had seen powder and blood.She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining

arm could reach her, she fell heavily to theground.When La Folle regained consciousness, shewas at home again, in her own cabin and uponher own bed. The moon rays, streaming inthrough the open door and windows, gavewhat light was needed to the old blackmammy who stood at the table concocting atisane of fragrant herbs. It was very late.Others who had come, and found that thestupor clung to her, had gone again. P'titMaitre had been there, and with him DoctorBonfils, who said that La Folle might die.But death had passed her by. The voice wasvery clear and steady with which she spoke toTante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in acorner."Ef you will give me one good drink tisane,Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'm goin' sleep, me."

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully,that old Lizette without compunction stolesoftly away, to creep back through the moonlitfields to her own cabin in the new quarters.The first touch of the cool gray morningawoke La Folle. She arose, calmly, as if notempest had shaken and threatened herexistence but yesterday.She donned her new blue cottonade andwhite apron, for she remembered that this wasSunday. When she had made for herself a cupof strong black coffee, and drunk it with relish,she quitted the cabin and walked across theold familiar field to the bayou's edge again.She did not stop there as she had alwaysdone before, but crossed with a long, steadystride as if she had done this all her life.When she had made her way through thebrush and scrub cottonwood-trees that linedthe opposite bank, she found herself upon the

order of a field where the white, burstingcotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed for acresand acres like frosted silver in the early dawn.La Folle drew a long, deep breath as shegazed across the country. She walked slowlyand uncertainly, like one who hardly knowshow, looking about her as she went.The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamorof voices to pursue her, were quiet now. Noone was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birdsthat darted here and there from hedges wereawake, and singing their matins.When La Folle came to the broad stretch ofvelvety lawn that surrounded the house, shemoved slowly and with delight over thespringy turf, that was delicious beneath hertread.She stopped to find whence came thoseperfumes that were assailing her senses withmemories from a time far gone.

There they were, stealing up to her from thethousand blue violets that peeped out fromgreen, luxuriant beds. There they were,showering down from the big waxen bells ofthe magnolias far above her head, and fromthe jessamine clumps around her.There were roses, too, without number. Toright and left palms spread in broad andgraceful curves. It all looked like enchantmentbeneath the sparkling sheen of dew.When La Folle had slowly and cautiouslymounted the many steps that led up to theveranda, she turned to look back at theperilous ascent she had made. Then shecaught sight of the river, bending like a silverbow at the foot of Bellissime. Exultationpossessed her soul.La Folle rapped softly upon a door near athand. Cheri's mother soon cautiously openedit. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the

astonishment she felt at seeing La Folle."Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?""Oui, madame. I come ax how my po' li'leCheri do, 's mo'nin'.""He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr.Bonfils says it will be nothing serious. He'ssleeping now. Will you come back when heawakes?""Non, madame. I'm goin' wait yair tell Cheriwake up." La Folle seated herself upon thetopmost step of the veranda.A look of wonder and deep content crept intoher face as she watched for the first time thesun rise upon the new, the beautiful worldbeyond the bayou.

MA'AME PELAGIEIWhen the war began, there stood on CoteJoyeuse an imposing mansion of red brick,shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majesticlive-oaks surrounded it.Thirty years later, only the thick walls werestanding, with the dull red brick showing hereand there through a matted growth of clingingvines. The huge round pillars were intact; so tosome extent was the stone flagging of hall andportico. There had been no home so statelyalong the whole stretch of Cote Joyeuse. Everyone knew that, as they knew it had costPhilippe Valmet sixty thousand dollars tobuild, away back in 1840. No one was indanger of forgetting that fact, so long as hisdaughter Pelagie survived. She was a queenly,white-haired woman of fifty. "Ma'ame Pelagie,"they called her, though she was unmarried, as

was her sister Pauline, a child in Ma'amePelagie's eyes; a child of thirty-five.The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin,almost within the shadow of the ruin. Theylived for a dream, for Ma'ame Pelagie's dream,which was to rebuild the old home.It would be pitiful to tell how their days werespent to accomplish this end; how the dollarshad been saved for thirty years and thepicayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enoughgathered! But Ma'ame Pelagie felt sure oftwenty years of life before her, and countedupon as many more for her sister. And whatcould not come to pass in twenty--inforty--years?Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two woulddrink their black coffee, seated upon thestone-flagged portico whose canopy was theblue sky of Louisiana. They loved to sit there inthe silence, with only each other and thesheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of

the old times and planning for the new; whilelight breezes stirred the tattered vines high upamong the columns, where owls nested."We can never hope to have all just as it was,Pauline," Ma'ame Pelagie would say; "perhapsthe marble pillars of the salon will have to bereplaced by wooden ones, and the crystalcandelabra left out. Should you be willing,Pauline?""Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing." It wasalways, "Yes, Sesoeur," or "No, Sesoeur," "Justas you please, Sesoeur," with poor littleMam'selle Pauline. For what did she rememberof that old life and that old spendor? Only afaint gleam here and there; thehalf-consciousness of a young, uneventfulexistence; and then a great crash. That meantthe nearness of war; the revolt of slaves;confusion ending in fire and flame throughwhich she was borne safely in the strong armsof Pelagie, and carried to the log cabin whichwas still their home. Their brother, Leandre,

had known more of it all than Pauline, and notso much as Pelagie. He had left themanagement of the big plantation with all itsmemories and traditions to his older sister,and had gone away to dwell in cities. That wasmany years ago. Now, Leandre's businesscalled him frequently and upon long journeysfrom home, and his motherless daughter wascoming to stay with her aunts at Cote Joyeuse.They talked about it, sipping their coffee onthe ruined portico. Mam'selle Pauline wasterribly excited; the flush that throbbed intoher pale, nervous face showed it; and shelocked her thin fingers in and out incessantly."But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur?Where shall we put her? How shall we amuseher? Ah, Seigneur!""She will sleep upon a cot in the room next toours," responded Ma'ame Pelagie, "and live aswe do. She knows how we live, and why welive; her father has told her. She knows we

have money and could squander it if we chose.Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is atrue Valmet."Then Ma'ame Pelagie rose with statelydeliberation and went to saddle her horse, forshe had yet to make her last daily roundthrough the fields; and Mam'selle Paulinethreaded her way slowly among the tangledgrasses toward the cabin.The coming of La Petite, bringing with her asshe did the pungent atmosphere of an outsideand dimly known world, was a shock to thesetwo, living their dream-life. The girl was quiteas tall as her aunt Pelagie, with dark eyes thatreflected joy as a still pool reflects the light ofstars; and her rounded cheek was tinged likethe pink crepe myrtle. Mam'selle Paulinekissed her and trembled. Ma'ame Pelagielooked into her eyes with a searching gaze,which seemed to seek a likeness of the past inthe living present.

And they made room between them for thisyoung life.

IILa Petite had determined upon trying to fitherself to the strange, narrow existence whichshe knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It wentwell enough at first. Sometimes she followedMa'ame Pelagie into the fields to note how thecotton was opening, ripe and white; or to countthe ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. Butoftener she was with her aunt Pauline, assistingin household offices, chattering of her briefpast, or walking with the older womanarm-in-arm under the trailing moss of the giantoaks.Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyantthat summer, and her eyes were sometimes asbright as a bird's, unless La Petite were awayfrom her side, when they would lose all otherlight but one of uneasy expectancy. The girlseemed to love her well in return, and calledher endearingly Tan'tante. But as the time wentby, La Petite became very quiet,--not listless,

ut thoughtful, and slow in her movements.Then her cheeks began to pale, till they weretinged like the creamy plumes of the whitecrepe myrtle that grew in the ruin.One day when she sat within its shadow,between her aunts, holding a hand of each,she said: "Tante Pelagie, I must tell yousomething, you and Tan'tante." She spoke low,but clearly and firmly. "I love youboth,--please remember that I love you both.But I must go away from you. I can't live anylonger here at Cote Joyeuse."A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline'sdelicate frame. La Petite could feel the twitchof it in the wiry fingers that were intertwinedwith her own. Ma'ame Pelagie remainedunchanged and motionless. No human eyecould penetrate so deep as to see thesatisfaction which her soul felt. She said: "Whatdo you mean, Petite? Your father has sent youto us, and I am sure it is his wish that youremain."

"My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and suchwill not be his wish when he knows. Oh!" shecontinued with a restless, movement, "it is asthough a weight were pressing me backwardhere. I must live another life; the life I livedbefore. I want to know things that arehappening from day to day over the world,and hear them talked about. I want my music,my books, my companions. If I had known noother life but this one of privation, I suppose itwould be different. If I had to live this life, Ishould make the best of it. But I do not have to;and you know, tante Pelagie, you do not needto. It seems to me," she added in a whisper,"that it is a sin against myself. Ah,Tan'tante!--what is the matter with Tan'tante?"It was nothing; only a slight feeling offaintness, that would soon pass. She entreatedthem to take no notice; but they brought hersome water and fanned her with a palmettoleaf.

But that night, in the stillness of the room,Mam'selle Pauline sobbed and would not becomforted. Ma'ame Pelagie took her in herarms."Pauline, my little sister Pauline," sheentreated, "I never have seen you like thisbefore. Do you no longer love me? Have wenot been happy together, you and I?""Oh, yes, Sesoeur.""Is it because La Petite is going away?""Yes, Sesoeur.""Then she is dearer to you than I!" spokeMa'ame Pelagie with sharp resentment. "ThanI, who held you and warmed you in my armsthe day you were born; than I, your mother,father, sister, everything that could cherishyou. Pauline, don't tell me that."Mam'selle Pauline tried to talk through her

sobs."I can't explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don'tunderstand it myself. I love you as I havealways loved you; next to God. But if La Petitegoes away I shall die. I can't understand,--helpme, Sesoeur. She seems--she seems like asaviour; like one who had come and taken meby the hand and was leading mesomewhere-somewhere I want to go."Ma'ame Pelagie had been sitting beside thebed in her peignoir and slippers. She held thehand of her sister who lay there, and smootheddown the woman's soft brown hair. She saidnot a word, and the silence was broken onlyby Mam'selle Pauline's continued sobs. OnceMa'ame Pelagie arose to mix a drink oforange-flower water, which she gave to hersister, as she would have offered it to anervous, fretful child. Almost an hour passedbefore Ma'ame Pelagie spoke again. Then shesaid:--

"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now,and sleep. You will make yourself ill. La Petitewill not go away. Do you hear me? Do youunderstand? She will stay, I promise you."Mam'selle Pauline could not clearlycomprehend, but she had great faith in theword of her sister, and soothed by the promiseand the touch of Ma'ame Pelagie's strong,gentle hand, she fell asleep.

IIIMa'ame Pelagie, when she saw that her sisterslept, arose noiselessly and stepped outsideupon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She didnot linger there, but with a step that washurried and agitated, she crossed the distancethat divided her cabin from the ruin.The night was not a dark one, for the sky wasclear and the moon resplendent. But light ordark would have made no difference toMa'ame Pelagie. It was not the first time shehad stolen away to the ruin at night-time, whenthe whole plantation slept; but she neverbefore had been there with a heart so nearlybroken. She was going there for the last timeto dream her dreams; to see the visions thathitherto had crowded her days and nights, andto bid them farewell.There was the first of them, awaiting her uponthe very portal; a robust old white-haired man,

chiding her for returning home so late. Thereare guests to be entertained. Does she notknow it? Guests from the city and from thenear plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. Shehad been abroad with Felix, and they did notnotice how the time was speeding. Felix isthere; he will explain it all. He is there besideher, but she does not want to hear what he willtell her father.Ma'ame Pelagie had sunk upon the benchwhere she and her sister so often came to sit.Turning, she gazed in through the gapingchasm of the window at her side. The interiorof the ruin is ablaze. Not with the moonlight,for that is faint beside the other one--thesparkle from the crystal candelabra, whichnegroes, moving noiselessly and respectfullyabout, are lighting, one after the other. Howthe gleam of them reflects and glances fromthe polished marble pillars!The room holds a number of guests. There isold Monsieur Lucien Santien, leaning against

one of the pillars, and laughing at somethingwhich Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till hisfat shoulders shake. His son Jules is withhim--Jules, who wants to marry her. Shelaughs. She wonders if Felix has told her fatheryet. There is young Jerome Lafirme playing atcheckers upon the sofa with Leandre. LittlePauline stands annoying them and disturbingthe game. Leandre reproves her. She beginsto cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse,who is not far off, limps across the room to pickher up and carry her away. How sensitive thelittle one is! But she trots about and takes careof herself better than she did a year or twoago, when she fell upon the stone hall floorand raised a great "bo-bo" on her forehead.Pelagie was hurt and angry enough about it;and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to bebrought and laid thick upon the tiles, till thelittle one's steps were surer."Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline." She wassaying it aloud--"faire mal a Pauline."

But she gazes beyond the salon, back into thebig dining hall, where the white crepe myrtlegrows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It hasstruck Ma'ame Pelagie full on the breast. Shedoes not know it. She is beyond there in thedining hall, where her father sits with a groupof friends over their wine. As usual they aretalking politics. How tiresome! She has heardthem say "la guerre" oftener than once. Laguerre. Bah! She and Felix have somethingpleasanter to talk about, out under the oaks, orback in the shadow of the oleanders.But they were right! The sound of a cannon,shot at Sumter, has rolled across the SouthernStates, and its echo is heard along the wholestretch of Cote Joyeuse.Yet Pelagie does not believe it. Not till LaRicaneuse stands before her with bare, blackarms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuseand of brazen impudence. Pelagie wants to killher. But yet she will not believe. Not till Felixcomes to her in the chamber above the dining

hall--there where that trumpet vinehangs--comes to say good-by to her. The hurtwhich the big brass buttons of his new grayuniform pressed into the tender flesh of herbosom has never left it. She sits upon the sofa,and he beside her, both speechless with pain.That room would not have been altered. Eventhe sofa would have been there in the samespot, and Ma'ame Pelagie had meant all along,for thirty years, all along, to lie there upon itsome day when the time came to die.But there is no time to weep, with the enemyat the door. The door has been no barrier.They are clattering through the halls now,drinking the wines, shattering the crystal andglass, slashing the portraits.One of them stands before her and tells her toleave the house. She slaps his face. How thestigma stands out red as blood upon hisblanched cheek!Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are

earing down upon her motionless figure. Shewants to show them how a daughter ofLouisiana can perish before her conquerors.But little Pauline clings to her knees in anagony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved."Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline." Again sheis saying it aloud--"faire mal a Pauline."The night was nearly spent; Ma'ame Pelagiehad glided from the bench upon which shehad rested, and for hours lay prone upon thestone flagging, motionless. When she draggedherself to her feet it was to walk like one in adream. About the great, solemn pillars, oneafter the other, she reached her arms, andpressed her cheek and her lips upon thesenseless brick."Adieu, adieu!" whispered Ma'ame Pelagie.There was no longer the moon to guide hersteps across the familiar pathway to the cabin.The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that

swung low in the east. The bats had ceased tobeat their wings about the ruin. Even themocking-bird that had warbled for hours in theold mulberry-tree had sung himself asleep.That darkest hour before the day was mantlingthe earth. Ma'ame Pelagie hurried through thewet, clinging grass, beating aside the heavymoss that swept across her face, walking ontoward the cabin-toward Pauline. Not once didshe look back upon the ruin that brooded likea huge monster--a black spot in the darknessthat enveloped it.

IVLittle more than a year later thetransformation which the old Valmet place hadundergone was the talk and wonder of CoteJoyeuse. One would have looked in vain forthe ruin; it was no longer there; neither wasthe log cabin. But out in the open, where thesun shone upon it, and the breezes blew aboutit, was a shapely structure fashioned fromwoods that the forests of the State hadfurnished. It rested upon a solid foundation ofbrick.Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery satLeandre smoking his afternoon cigar, andchatting with neighbors who had called. Thiswas to be his pied a terre now; the homewhere his sisters and his daughter dwelt. Thelaughter of young people was heard out underthe trees, and within the house where La Petitewas playing upon the piano. With theenthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the

keys strains that seemed marvelously beautifulto Mam'selle Pauline, who stood enrapturednear her. Mam'selle Pauline had been touchedby the re-creation of Valmet. Her cheek was asfull and almost as flushed as La Petite's. Theyears were falling away from her.Ma'ame Pelagie had been conversing withher brother and his friends. Then she turnedand walked away; stopping to listen awhile tothe music which La Petite was making. But itwas only for a moment. She went on aroundthe curve of the veranda, where she foundherself alone. She stayed there, erect, holdingto the banister rail and looking out calmly inthe distance across the fields.She was dressed in black, with the whitekerchief she always wore folded across herbosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silverdiadem from her brow. In her deep, dark eyessmouldered the light of fires that would neverflame. She had grown very old. Years insteadof months seemed to have passed over her

since the night she bade farewell to hervisions.Poor Ma'ame Pelagie! How could it bedifferent! While the outward pressure of ayoung and joyous existence had forced herfootsteps into the light, her soul had stayed inthe shadow of the ruin.

DESIREE'S BABYAs the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondedrove over to L'Abri to see Desiree and thebaby.It made her laugh to think of Desiree with ababy. Why, it seemed but yesterday thatDesiree was little more than a baby herself;when Monsieur in riding through the gatewayof Valmonde had found her lying asleep in theshadow of the big stone pillar.The little one awoke in his arms and began tocry for "Dada." That was as much as she coulddo or say. Some people thought she mighthave strayed there of her own accord, for shewas of the toddling age. The prevailing beliefwas that she had been purposely left by aparty of Texans, whose canvas-coveredwagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferrythat Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation.In time Madame Valmonde abandoned every

speculation but the one that Desiree had beensent to her by a beneficent Providence to bethe child of her affection, seeing that she waswithout child of the flesh. For the girl grew tobe beautiful and gentle, affectionate andsincere,--the idol of Valmonde.It was no wonder, when she stood one dayagainst the stone pillar in whose shadow shehad lain asleep, eighteen years before, thatArmand Aubigny riding by and seeing herthere, had fallen in love with her. That was theway all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck bya pistol shot. The wonder was that he had notloved her before; for he had known her sincehis father brought him home from Paris, a boyof eight, after his mother died there. Thepassion that awoke in him that day, when hesaw her at the gate, swept along like anavalanche, or like a prairie fire, or likeanything that drives headlong over allobstacles.Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and

wanted things well considered: that is, thegirl's obscure origin. Armand looked into hereyes and did not care. He was reminded thatshe was nameless. What did it matter about aname when he could give her one of the oldestand proudest in Louisiana? He ordered thecorbeille from Paris, and contained himselfwith what patience he could until it arrived;then they were married.Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree andthe baby for four weeks. When she reachedL'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, asshe always did. It was a sad looking place,which for many years had not known thegentle presence of a mistress, old MonsieurAubigny having married and buried his wife inFrance, and she having loved her own land toowell ever to leave it. The roof came downsteep and black like a cowl, reaching outbeyond the wide galleries that encircled theyellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grewclose to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reachingbranches shadowed it like a pall. Young

Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and underit his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, asthey had been during the old master'seasy-going and indulgent lifetime.The young mother was recovering slowly,and lay full length, in her soft white muslinsand laces, upon a couch. The baby was besideher, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep,at her breast. The yellow nurse woman satbeside a window fanning herself.Madame Valmonde bent her portly figureover Desiree and kissed her, holding her aninstant tenderly in her arms. Then she turnedto the child."This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, instartled tones. French was the languagespoken at Valmonde in those days."I knew you would be astonished," laughedDesiree, "at the way he has grown. The littlecochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and

his hands and fingernails,--real finger-nails.Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn't ittrue, Zandrine?"The woman bowed her turbaned headmajestically, "Mais si, Madame.""And the way he cries," went on Desiree, "isdeafening. Armand heard him the other day asfar away as La Blanche's cabin."Madame Valmonde had never removed hereyes from the child. She lifted it and walkedwith it over to the window that was lightest.She scanned the baby narrowly, then lookedas searchingly at Zandrine, whose face wasturned to gaze across the fields."Yes, the child has grown, has changed," saidMadame Valmonde, slowly, as she replaced itbeside its mother. "What does Armand say?"Desiree's face became suffused with a glowthat was happiness itself.

"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in theparish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, tobear his name; though he says not,--that hewould have loved a girl as well. But I know itisn't true. I know he says that to please me.And mamma," she added, drawing MadameValmonde's head down to her, and speaking ina whisper, "he hasn't punished one ofthem--not one of them--since baby is born.Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnthis leg that he might rest from work--he onlylaughed, and said Negrillon was a greatscamp. Oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightensme."What Desiree said was true. Marriage, andlater the birth of his son had softened ArmandAubigny's imperious and exacting naturegreatly. This was what made the gentleDesiree so happy, for she loved himdesperately. When he frowned she trembled,but loved him. When he smiled, she asked nogreater blessing of God. But Armand's dark,

handsome face had not often been disfiguredby frowns since the day he fell in love with her.When the baby was about three months old,Desiree awoke one day to the conviction thatthere was something in the air menacing herpeace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It hadonly been a disquieting suggestion; an air ofmystery among the blacks; unexpected visitsfrom far-off neighbors who could hardlyaccount for their coming. Then a strange, anawful change in her husband's manner, whichshe dared not ask him to explain. When hespoke to her, it was with averted eyes, fromwhich the old love-light seemed to have goneout. He absented himself from home; andwhen there, avoided her presence and that ofher child, without excuse. And the very spiritof Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of himin his dealings with the slaves. Desiree wasmiserable enough to die.She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in herpeignoir, listlessly drawing through her

fingers the strands of her long, silky brownhair that hung about her shoulders. The baby,half naked, lay asleep upon her own greatmahogany bed, that was like a sumptuousthrone, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One ofLa Blanche's little quadroon boys--half nakedtoo--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan ofpeacock feathers. Desiree's eyes had beenfixed absently and sadly upon the baby, whileshe was striving to penetrate the threateningmist that she felt closing about her. She lookedfrom her child to the boy who stood besidehim, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" Itwas a cry that she could not help; which shewas not conscious of having uttered. The bloodturned like ice in her veins, and a clammymoisture gathered upon her face.She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy;but no sound would come, at first. When heheard his name uttered, he looked up, and hismistress was pointing to the door. He laidaside the great, soft fan, and obediently stoleaway, over the polished floor, on his bare

tiptoes.She stayed motionless, with gaze rivetedupon her child, and her face the picture offright.Presently her husband entered the room, andwithout noticing her, went to a table andbegan to search among some papers whichcovered it."Armand," she called to him, in a voice whichmust have stabbed him, if he was human. Buthe did not notice. "Armand," she said again.Then she rose and tottered towards him."Armand," she panted once more, clutchinghis arm, "look at our child. What does it mean?tell me."He coldly but gently loosened her fingersfrom about his arm and thrust the hand awayfrom him. "Tell me what it means!" she crieddespairingly.

"It means," he answered lightly, "that thechild is not white; it means that you are notwhite."A quick conception of all that this accusationmeant for her nerved her with unwontedcourage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I amwhite! Look at my hair, it is brown; and myeyes are gray, Armand, you know they aregray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist."Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand,"she laughed hysterically."As white as La Blanche's," he returnedcruelly; and went away leaving her alone withtheir child.When she could hold a pen in her hand, shesent a despairing letter to Madame Valmonde."My mother, they tell me I am not white.Armand has told me I am not white. For God'ssake tell them it is not true. You must know it isnot true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so

unhappy, and live."The answer that came was brief:"My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde;back to your mother who loves you. Come withyour child."When the letter reached Desiree she wentwith it to her husband's study, and laid it openupon the desk before which he sat. She waslike a stone image: silent, white, motionlessafter she placed it there.In silence he ran his cold eyes over thewritten words.He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" sheasked in tones sharp with agonized suspense."Yes, go.""Do you want me to go?"

"Yes, I want you to go."He thought Almighty God had dealt cruellyand unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, thathe was paying Him back in kind when hestabbed thus into his wife's soul. Moreover heno longer loved her, because of theunconscious injury she had brought upon hishome and his name.She turned away like one stunned by a blow,and walked slowly towards the door, hopinghe would call her back."Good-by, Armand," she moaned.He did not answer her. That was his last blowat fate.Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrinewas pacing the sombre gallery with it. Shetook the little one from the nurse's arms withno word of explanation, and descending thesteps, walked away, under the live-oak

anches.It was an October afternoon; the sun was justsinking. Out in the still fields the negroes werepicking cotton.Desiree had not changed the thin whitegarment nor the slippers which she wore. Herhair was uncovered and the sun's rays broughta golden gleam from its brown meshes. Shedid not take the broad, beaten road which ledto the far-off plantation of Valmonde. Shewalked across a deserted field, where thestubble bruised her tender feet, so delicatelyshod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.She disappeared among the reeds andwillows that grew thick along the banks of thedeep, sluggish bayou; and she did not comeback again.

Some weeks later there was a curious sceneenacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the smoothlyswept back yard was a great bonfire. ArmandAubigny sat in the wide hallway thatcommanded a view of the spectacle; and it washe who dealt out to a half dozen negroes thematerial which kept this fire ablaze.A graceful cradle of willow, with all its daintyfurbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which hadalready been fed with the richness of apriceless layette. Then there were silk gowns,and velvet and satin ones added to these;laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets andgloves; for the corbeille had been of rarequality.The last thing to go was a tiny bundle ofletters; innocent little scribblings that Desireehad sent to him during the days of theirespousal. There was the remnant of one backin the drawer from which he took them. But itwas not Desiree's; it was part of an old letterfrom his mother to his father. He read it. She

was thanking God for the blessing of herhusband's love:--"But above all," she wrote, "night and day, Ithank the good God for having so arrangedour lives that our dear Armand will neverknow that his mother, who adores him,belongs to the race that is cursed with thebrand of slavery."

A RESPECTABLE WOMANMrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn thather husband expected his friend, Gouvernail,up to spend a week or two on the plantation.They had entertained a good deal during thewinter; much of the time had also been passedin New Orleans in various forms of milddissipation. She was looking forward to aperiod of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbedtete-a-tete with her husband, when heinformed her that Gouvernail was coming upto stay a week or two.This was a man she had heard much of butnever seen. He had been her husband'scollege friend; was now a journalist, and in nosense a society man or "a man about town,"which were, perhaps, some of the reasons shehad never met him. But she had unconsciouslyformed an image of him in her mind. Shepictured him tall, slim, cynical; with

eye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; andshe did not like him. Gouvernail was slimenough, but he wasn't very tall nor verycynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses norcarry his hands in his pockets. And she ratherliked him when he first presented himself.But why she liked him she could not explainsatisfactorily to herself when she partlyattempted to do so. She could discover in himnone of those brilliant and promising traitswhich Gaston, her husband, had often assuredher that he possessed. On the contrary, he satrather mute and receptive before her chattyeagerness to make him feel at home and inface of Gaston's frank and wordy hospitality.His manner was as courteous toward her as themost exacting woman could require; but hemade no direct appeal to her approval or evenesteem.Once settled at the plantation he seemed tolike to sit upon the wide portico in the shade ofone of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his

cigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston'sexperience as a sugar planter."This is what I call living," he would utter withdeep satisfaction, as the air that swept acrossthe sugar field caressed him with its warm andscented velvety touch. It pleased him also toget on familiar terms with the big dogs thatcame about him, rubbing themselves sociablyagainst his legs. He did not care to fish, anddisplayed no eagerness to go out and killgrosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so.Gouvernail's personality puzzled Mrs.Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, he was alovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days,when she could understand him no better thanat first, she gave over being puzzled andremained piqued. In this mood she left herhusband and her guest, for the most part,alone together. Then finding that Gouvernailtook no manner of exception to her action, sheimposed her society upon him, accompanyinghim in his idle strolls to the mill and walks

along the batture. She persistently sought topenetrate the reserve in which he hadunconsciously enveloped himself."When is he going--your friend?" she one dayasked her husband. "For my part, he tires mefrightfully.""Not for a week yet, dear. I can't understand;he gives you no trouble.""No. I should like him better if he did; if hewere more like others, and I had to plansomewhat for his comfort and enjoyment."Gaston took his wife's pretty face between hishands and looked tenderly and laughingly intoher troubled eyes.They were making a bit of toilet sociablytogether in Mrs. Baroda's dressing-room."You are full of surprises, ma belle," he saidto her. "Even I can never count upon how you

are going to act under given conditions." Hekissed her and turned to fasten his cravatbefore the mirror."Here you are," he went on, "taking poorGouvernail seriously and making a commotionover him, the last thing he would desire orexpect.""Commotion!" she hotly resented. "Nonsense!How can you say such a thing? Commotion,indeed! But, you know, you said he wasclever.""So he is. But the poor fellow is run down byoverwork now. That's why I asked him here totake a rest.""You used to say he was a man of ideas," sheretorted, unconciliated. "I expected him to beinteresting, at least. I'm going to the city in themorning to have my spring gowns fitted. Letme know when Mr. Gouvernail is gone; I shallbe at my Aunt Octavie's."

That night she went and sat alone upon abench that stood beneath a live oak tree at theedge of the gravel walk.She had never known her thoughts or herintentions to be so confused. She could gathernothing from them but the feeling of a distinctnecessity to quit her home in the morning.Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching thegravel; but could discern in the darkness onlythe approaching red point of a lighted cigar.She knew it was Gouvernail, for her husbanddid not smoke. She hoped to remainunnoticed, but her white gown revealed her tohim. He threw away his cigar and seatedhimself upon the bench beside her; without asuspicion that she might object to hispresence."Your husband told me to bring this to you,Mrs. Baroda," he said, handing her a filmy,white scarf with which she sometimes

enveloped her head and shoulders. Sheaccepted the scarf from him with a murmur ofthanks, and let it lie in her lap.He made some commonplace observationupon the baneful effect of the night air at theseason. Then as his gaze reached out into thedarkness, he murmured, half to himself:"'Night of south winds--night of the large fewstars! Still nodding night--'"She made no reply to this apostrophe to thenight, which, indeed, was not addressed toher.Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man,for he was not a self-conscious one. Hisperiods of reserve were not constitutional, butthe result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs.Baroda, his silence melted for the time.He talked freely and intimately in a low,hesitating drawl that was not unpleasant to

hear. He talked of the old college days whenhe and Gaston had been a good deal to eachother; of the days of keen and blind ambitionsand large intentions. Now there was left withhim, at least, a philosophic acquiescence to theexisting order--only a desire to be permittedto exist, with now and then a little whiff ofgenuine life, such as he was breathing now.Her mind only vaguely grasped what he wassaying. Her physical being was for the momentpredominant. She was not thinking of hiswords, only drinking in the tones of his voice.She wanted to reach out her hand in thedarkness and touch him with the sensitive tipsof her fingers upon the face or the lips. Shewanted to draw close to him and whisperagainst his cheek--she did not care what--asshe might have done if she had not been arespectable woman.The stronger the impulse grew to bringherself near him, the further, in fact, did shedraw away from him. As soon as she could do

so without an appearance of too greatrudeness, she rose and left him there alone.Before she reached the house, Gouvernailhad lighted a fresh cigar and ended hisapostrophe to the night.Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night totell her husband--who was also her friend--ofthis folly that had seized her. But she did notyield to the temptation. Beside being arespectable woman she was a very sensibleone; and she knew there are some battles inlife which a human being must fight alone.When Gaston arose in the morning, his wifehad already departed. She had taken an earlymorning train to the city. She did not return tillGouvernail was gone from under her roof.There was some talk of having him backduring the summer that followed. That is,Gaston greatly desired it; but this desireyielded to his wife's strenuous opposition.

However, before the year ended, sheproposed, wholly from herself, to haveGouvernail visit them again. Her husband wassurprised and delighted with the suggestioncoming from her."I am glad, chere amie, to know that you havefinally overcome your dislike for him; truly hedid not deserve it.""Oh," she told him, laughingly, after pressinga long, tender kiss upon his lips, "I haveovercome everything! you will see. This time Ishall be very nice to him."

THE KISSIt was still quite light out of doors, but insidewith the curtains drawn and the smoulderingfire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, theroom was full of deep shadows.Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it hadovertaken him and he did not mind. Theobscurity lent him courage to keep his eyesfastened as ardently as he liked upon the girlwho sat in the firelight.She was very handsome, with a certain fine,rich coloring that belongs to the healthy brunetype. She was quite composed, as she idlystroked the satiny coat of the cat that lay curledin her lap, and she occasionally sent a slowglance into the shadow where her companionsat. They were talking low, of indifferent thingswhich plainly were not the things thatoccupied their thoughts. She knew that heloved her--a frank, blustering fellow without

guile enough to conceal his feelings, and nodesire to do so. For two weeks past he hadsought her society eagerly and persistently.She was confidently waiting for him to declarehimself and she meant to accept him. Therather insignificant and unattractive Brantainwas enormously rich; and she liked andrequired the entourage which wealth couldgive her.During one of the pauses between their talkof the last tea and the next reception the dooropened and a young man entered whomBrantain knew quite well. The girl turned herface toward him. A stride or two brought himto her side, and bending over herchair--before she could suspect his intention,for she did not realize that he had not seen hervisitor--he pressed an ardent, lingering kissupon her lips.Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise,but quickly, and the newcomer stood betweenthem, a little amusement and some defiance

struggling with the confusion in his face."I believe," stammered Brantain, "I see that Ihave stayed too long. I--I had no idea--that is, Imust wish you good-by." He was clutching hishat with both hands, and probably did notperceive that she was extending her hand tohim, her presence of mind had not completelydeserted her; but she could not have trustedherself to speak."Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! Iknow it's deuced awkward for you. But I hopeyou'll forgive me this once--this very firstbreak. Why, what's the matter?""Don't touch me; don't come near me," shereturned angrily. "What do you mean byentering the house without ringing?""I came in with your brother, as I often do," heanswered coldly, in self-justification. "Wecame in the side way. He went upstairs and Icame in here hoping to find you. The

explanation is simple enough and ought tosatisfy you that the misadventure wasunavoidable. But do say that you forgive me,Nathalie," he entreated, softening."Forgive you! You don't know what you aretalking about. Let me pass. It depends upon--agood deal whether I ever forgive you."At that next reception which she and Brantainhad been talking about she approached theyoung man with a delicious frankness ofmanner when she saw him there."Will you let me speak to you a moment ortwo, Mr. Brantain?" she asked with anengaging but perturbed smile. He seemedextremely unhappy; but when she took his armand walked away with him, seeking a retiredcorner, a ray of hope mingled with the almostcomical misery of his expression. She wasapparently very outspoken."Perhaps I should not have sought this

interview, Mr. Brantain; but--but, oh, I havebeen very uncomfortable, almost miserablesince that little encounter the other afternoon.When I thought how you might havemisinterpreted it, and believed things"--hopewas plainly gaining the ascendancy overmisery in Brantain's round, guileless face--"Ofcourse, I know it is nothing to you, but for myown sake I do want you to understand that Mr.Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing.Why, we have always been like cousins--likebrother and sister, I may say. He is mybrother's most intimate associate and oftenfancies that he is entitled to the sameprivileges as the family. Oh, I know it isabsurd, uncalled for, to tell you this;undignified even," she was almost weeping,"but it makes so much difference to me whatyou think of--of me." Her voice had grown verylow and agitated. The misery had alldisappeared from Brantain's face."Then you do really care what I think, MissNathalie? May I call you Miss Nathalie?" They

turned into a long, dim corridor that was linedon either side with tall, graceful plants. Theywalked slowly to the very end of it. When theyturned to retrace their steps Brantain's facewas radiant and hers was triumphant.

Harvy was among the guests at the wedding;and he sought her out in a rare moment whenshe stood alone."Your husband," he said, smiling, "has sentme over to kiss you."A quick blush suffused her face and roundpolished throat. "I suppose it's natural for aman to feel and act generously on an occasionof this kind. He tells me he doesn't want hismarriage to interrupt wholly that pleasantintimacy which has existed between you andme. I don't know what you've been tellinghim," with an insolent smile, "but he has sentme here to kiss you."She felt like a chess player who, by the cleverhandling of his pieces, sees the game takingthe course intended. Her eyes were bright andtender with a smile as they glanced up into his;and her lips looked hungry for the kiss whichthey invited.

"But, you know," he went on quietly, "I didn'ttell him so, it would have seemed ungrateful,but I can tell you. I've stopped kissing women;it's dangerous."Well, she had Brantain and his million left. Aperson can't have everything in this world; andit was a little unreasonable of her to expect it.

A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGSLittle Mrs. Sommers one day found herself theunexpected possessor of fifteen dollars. Itseemed to her a very large amount of money,and the way in which it stuffed and bulged herworn old porte-monnaie gave her a feeling ofimportance such as she had not enjoyed foryears.The question of investment was one thatoccupied her greatly. For a day or two shewalked about apparently in a dreamy state,but really absorbed in speculation andcalculation. She did not wish to act hastily, todo anything she might afterward regret. But itwas during the still hours of the night when shelay awake revolving plans in her mind that sheseemed to see her way clearly toward aproper and judicious use of the money.A dollar or two should be added to the priceusually paid for Janie's shoes, which would

insure their lasting an appreciable time longerthan they usually did. She would buy so and somany yards of percale for new shirt waists forthe boys and Janie and Mag. She had intendedto make the old ones do by skilful patching.Mag should have another gown. She had seensome beautiful patterns, veritable bargains inthe shop windows. And still there would be leftenough for new stockings--two pairsapiece--and what darning that would save for awhile! She would get caps for the boys andsailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her littlebrood looking fresh and dainty and new foronce in their lives excited her and made herrestless and wakeful with anticipation.The neighbors sometimes talked of certain"better days" that little Mrs. Sommers hadknown before she had ever thought of beingMrs. Sommers. She herself indulged in no suchmorbid retrospection. She had no time--nosecond of time to devote to the past. The needsof the present absorbed her every faculty. Avision of the future like some dim, gaunt

monster sometimes appalled her, but luckilyto-morrow never comes.Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value ofbargains; who could stand for hours makingher way inch by inch toward the desiredobject that was selling below cost. She couldelbow her way if need be; she had learned toclutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick toit with persistence and determination till herturn came to be served, no matter when itcame.But that day she was a little faint and tired.She had swallowed a light luncheon--no! whenshe came to think of it, between getting thechildren fed and the place righted, andpreparing herself for the shopping bout, shehad actually forgotten to eat any luncheon atall!She sat herself upon a revolving stool beforea counter that was comparatively deserted,trying to gather strength and courage to

charge through an eager multitude that wasbesieging breastworks of shirting and figuredlawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come overher and she rested her hand aimlessly uponthe counter. She wore no gloves. By degreesshe grew aware that her hand hadencountered something very soothing, verypleasant to touch. She looked down to see thather hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. Aplacard near by announced that they had beenreduced in price from two dollars and fiftycents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; anda young girl who stood behind the counterasked her if she wished to examine their lineof silk hosiery. She smiled, just as if she hadbeen asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds withthe ultimate view of purchasing it. But she wenton feeling the soft, sheeny luxuriousthings--with both hands now, holding them upto see them glisten, and to feel them glideserpent-like through her fingers.Two hectic blotches came suddenly into herpale cheeks. She looked up at the girl.

"Do you think there are any eights-and-a-halfamong these?"There were any number of eights-and-a-half.In fact, there were more of that size than anyother. Here was a light-blue pair; there weresome lavender, some all black and variousshades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommersselected a black pair and looked at them verylong and closely. She pretended to beexamining their texture, which the clerkassured her was excellent."A dollar and ninety-eight cents," she musedaloud. "Well, I'll take this pair." She handed thegirl a five-dollar bill and waited for her changeand for her parcel. What a very small parcel itwas! It seemed lost in the depths of her shabbyold shopping-bag.Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in thedirection of the bargain counter. She took theelevator, which carried her to an upper floor

into the region of the ladies' waiting-rooms.Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged hercotton stockings for the new silk ones whichshe had just bought. She was not goingthrough any acute mental process orreasoning with herself, nor was she striving toexplain to her satisfaction the motive of heraction. She was not thinking at all. She seemedfor the time to be taking a rest from thatlaborious and fatiguing function and to haveabandoned herself to some mechanicalimpulse that directed her actions and freedher of responsibility.How good was the touch of the raw silk to herflesh! She felt like lying back in the cushionedchair and reveling for a while in the luxury ofit. She did for a little while. Then she replacedher shoes, rolled the cotton stockings togetherand thrust them into her bag. After doing thisshe crossed straight over to the shoedepartment and took her seat to be fitted.She was fastidious. The clerk could not make

her out; he could not reconcile her shoes withher stockings, and she was not too easilypleased. She held back her skirts and turnedher feet one way and her head another way asshe glanced down at the polished,pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and anklelooked very pretty. She could not realize thatthey belonged to her and were a part ofherself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit,she told the young fellow who served her, andshe did not mind the difference of a dollar ortwo more in the price so long as she got whatshe desired.It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers hadbeen fitted with gloves. On rare occasionswhen she had bought a pair they were always"bargains," so cheap that it would have beenpreposterous and unreasonable to haveexpected them to be fitted to the hand.Now she rested her elbow on the cushion ofthe glove counter, and a pretty, pleasantyoung creature, delicate and deft of touch,

drew a long-wristed "kid" over Mrs.Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down overthe wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lostthemselves for a second or two in admiringcontemplation of the little symmetrical glovedhand. But there were other places wheremoney might be spent.There were books and magazines piled up inthe window of a stall a few paces down thestreet. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-pricedmagazines such as she had been accustomedto read in the days when she had beenaccustomed to other pleasant things. Shecarried them without wrapping. As well as shecould she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Herstockings and boots and well fitting gloves hadworked marvels in her bearing--had given hera feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging tothe well-dressed multitude.She was very hungry. Another time she wouldhave stilled the cravings for food untilreaching her own home, where she would

have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken asnack of anything that was available. But theimpulse that was guiding her would not sufferher to entertain any such thought.There was a restaurant at the corner. She hadnever entered its doors; from the outside shehad sometimes caught glimpses of spotlessdamask and shining crystal, and soft-steppingwaiters serving people of fashion.When she entered her appearance createdno surprise, no consternation, as she had halffeared it might. She seated herself at a smalltable alone, and an attentive waiter at onceapproached to take her order. She did notwant a profusion; she craved a nice and tastybite--a half dozen blue-points, a plump chopwith cress, a something sweet--acreme-frappee, for instance; a glass of Rhinewine, and after all a small cup of black coffee.While waiting to be served she removed hergloves very leisurely and laid them beside

her. Then she picked up a magazine andglanced through it, cutting the pages with ablunt edge of her knife. It was all veryagreeable. The damask was even morespotless than it had seemed through thewindow, and the crystal more sparkling. Therewere quiet ladies and gentlemen, who did notnotice her, lunching at the small tables like herown. A soft, pleasing strain of music could beheard, and a gentle breeze, was blowingthrough the window. She tasted a bite, and sheread a word or two, and she sipped the amberwine and wiggled her toes in the silkstockings. The price of it made no difference.She counted the money out to the waiter andleft an extra coin on his tray, whereupon hebowed before her as before a princess of royalblood.There was still money in her purse, and hernext temptation presented itself in the shape ofa matinee poster.It was a little later when she entered the

theatre, the play had begun and the houseseemed to her to be packed. But there werevacant seats here and there, and into one ofthem she was ushered, between brilliantlydressed women who had gone there to killtime and eat candy and display their gaudyattire. There were many others who were theresolely for the play and acting. It is safe to saythere was no one present who bore quite theattitude which Mrs. Sommers did to hersurroundings. She gathered in thewhole--stage and players and people in onewide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyedit. She laughed at the comedy and wept--sheand the gaudy woman next to her wept overthe tragedy. And they talked a little togetherover it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyesand sniffled on a tiny square of filmy,perfumed lace and passed little Mrs. Sommersher box of candy.The play was over, the music ceased, thecrowd filed out. It was like a dream ended.People scattered in all directions. Mrs.

Sommers went to the corner and waited for thecable car.A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite toher, seemed to like the study of her small, paleface. It puzzled him to decipher what he sawthere. In truth, he saw nothing-unless he werewizard enough to detect a poignant wish, apowerful longing that the cable car wouldnever stop anywhere, but go on and on withher forever.

THE LOCKETIOne night in autumn a few men weregathered about a fire on the slope of a hill.They belonged to a small detachment ofConfederate forces and were awaiting ordersto march. Their gray uniforms were wornbeyond the point of shabbiness. One of themen was heating something in a tin cup overthe embers. Two were lying at full length alittle distance away, while a fourth was tryingto decipher a letter and had drawn close to thelight. He had unfastened his collar and a goodbit of his flannel shirt front."What's that you got around your neck, Ned?"asked one of the men lying in the obscurity.Ned--or Edmond--mechanically fastenedanother button of his shirt and did not reply.He went on reading his letter.

"Is it your sweet heart's picture?""'Taint no gal's picture," offered the man at thefire. He had removed his tin cup and wasengaged in stirring its grimy contents with asmall stick. "That's a charm; some kind ofhoodoo business that one o' them priests gavehim to keep him out o' trouble. I know themCath'lics. That's how come Frenchy gotpermoted an never got a scratch sence he'sbeen in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?"Edmond looked up absently from his letter."What is it?" he asked."Aint that a charm you got round your neck?""It must be, Nick," returned Edmond with asmile. "I don't know how I could have gonethrough this year and a half without it."The letter had made Edmond heart sick andhome sick. He stretched himself on his back

and looked straight up at the blinking stars.But he was not thinking of them nor of anythingbut a certain spring day when the bees werehumming in the clematis; when a girl wassaying good bye to him. He could see her asshe unclasped from her neck the locket whichshe fastened about his own. It was an oldfashioned golden locket bearing miniatures ofher father and mother with their names and thedate of their marriage. It was her mostprecious earthly possession. Edmond couldfeel again the folds of the girl's soft whitegown, and see the droop of the angel-sleevesas she circled her fair arms about his neck. Hersweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented bythe pain of parting, appeared before him asvividly as life. He turned over, burying his facein his arm and there he lay, still andmotionless.The profound and treacherous night with itssilence and semblance of peace settled uponthe camp. He dreamed that the fair Octaviebrought him a letter. He had no chair to offer

her and was pained and embarrassed at thecondition of his garments. He was ashamed ofthe poor food which comprised the dinner atwhich he begged her to join them.He dreamt of a serpent coiling around histhroat, and when he strove to grasp it the slimything glided away from his clutch. Then hisdream was clamor."Git your duds! you! Frenchy!" Nick wasbellowing in his face. There was whatappeared to be a scramble and a rush ratherthan any regulated movement. The hill sidewas alive with clatter and motion; with suddenup-springing lights among the pines. In theeast the dawn was unfolding out of thedarkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plainbelow."What's it all about?" wondered a big blackbird perched in the top of the tallest tree. Hewas an old solitary and a wise one, yet he wasnot wise enough to guess what it was all about.

So all day long he kept blinking andwondering.The noise reached far out over the plain andacross the hills and awoke the little babes thatwere sleeping in their cradles. The smokecurled up toward the sun and shadowed theplain so that the stupid birds thought it wasgoing to rain; but the wise one knew better."They are children playing a game," thoughthe. "I shall know more about it if I watch longenough."At the approach of night they had all vanishedaway with their din and smoke. Then the oldbird plumed his feathers. At last he hadunderstood! With a flap of his great, blackwings he shot downward, circling toward theplain.A man was picking his way across the plain.He was dressed in the garb of a clergyman.His mission was to administer the consolations

of religion to any of the prostrate figures inwhom there might yet linger a spark of life. Anegro accompanied him, bearing a bucket ofwater and a flask of wine.There were no wounded here; they had beenborne away. But the retreat had been hurriedand the vultures and the good Samaritanswould have to look to the dead.There was a soldier--a mere boy--lying withhis face to the sky. His hands were clutchingthe sward on either side and his finger nailswere stuffed with earth and bits of grass thathe had gathered in his despairing grasp uponlife. His musket was gone; he was hatless andhis face and clothing were begrimed. Aroundhis neck hung a gold chain and locket. Thepriest, bending over him, unclasped the chainand removed it from the dead soldier's neck.He had grown used to the terrors of war andcould face them unflinchingly; but its pathos,someway, always brought the tears to his old,dim eyes.

The angelus was ringing half a mile away.The priest and the negro knelt and murmuredtogether the evening benediction and a prayerfor the dead.

IIThe peace and beauty of a spring day haddescended upon the earth like a benediction.Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow,tortuous stream in central Louisiana, rumbledan old fashioned cabriolet, much the worse forhard and rough usage over country roads andlanes. The fat, black horses went in a slow,measured trot, notwithstanding constanturging on the part of the fat, black coachman.Within the vehicle were seated the fair Octavieand her old friend and neighbor, Judge Pillier,who had come to take her for a morning drive.Octavie wore a plain black dress, severe inits simplicity. A narrow belt held it at the waistand the sleeves were gathered into closefitting wristbands. She had discarded herhoopskirt and appeared not unlike a nun.Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the oldlocket. She never displayed it now. It hadreturned to her sanctified in her eyes; made

precious as material things sometimes are bybeing forever identified with a significantmoment of one's existence.A hundred times she had read over the letterwith which the locket had come back to her.No later than that morning she had againpored over it. As she sat beside the window,smoothing the letter out upon her knee, heavyand spiced odors stole in to her with the songsof birds and the humming of insects in the air.She was so young and the world was sobeautiful that there came over her a sense ofunreality as she read again and again thepriest's letter. He told of that autumn daydrawing to its close, with the gold and the redfading out of the west, and the night gatheringits shadows to cover the faces of the dead. Oh!She could not believe that one of those deadwas her own! with visage uplifted to the graysky in an agony of supplication. A spasm ofresistance and rebellion seized and sweptover her. Why was the spring here with its

flowers and its seductive breath if he wasdead! Why was she here! What further had sheto do with life and the living!Octavie had experienced many suchmoments of despair, but a blessed resignationhad never failed to follow, and it fell then uponher like a mantle and enveloped her."I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poorAunt Tavie," she murmured to herself as shefolded the letter and replaced it in thesecretary. Already she gave herself a littledemure air like her Aunt Tavie. She walkedwith a slow glide in unconscious imitation ofMademoiselle Tavie whom some youthfulaffliction had robbed of earthly compensationwhile leaving her in possession of youth'sillusions.As she sat in the old cabriolet beside thefather of her dead lover, again there came toOctavie the terrible sense of loss which hadassailed her so often before. The soul of her

youth clamored for its rights; for a share in theworld's glory and exultation. She leaned backand drew her veil a little closer about her face.It was an old black veil of her Aunt Tavie's. Awhiff of dust from the road had blown in andshe wiped her cheeks and her eyes with hersoft, white handkerchief, a homemadehandkerchief, fabricated from one of her oldfine muslin petticoats."Will you do me the favor, Octavie,"requested the judge in the courteous tonewhich he never abandoned, "to remove thatveil which you wear. It seems out of harmony,someway, with the beauty and promise of theday."The young girl obediently yielded to her oldcompanion's wish and unpinning thecumbersome, sombre drapery from herbonnet, folded it neatly and laid it upon theseat in front of her."Ah! that is better; far better!" he said in a

tone expressing unbounded relief. "Never putit on again, dear." Octavie felt a little hurt; as ifhe wished to debar her from share and parcelin the burden of affliction which had beenplaced upon all of them. Again she drew forththe old muslin handkerchief.They had left the big road and turned into alevel plain which had formerly been an oldmeadow. There were clumps of thorn treeshere and there, gorgeous in their springradiance. Some cattle were grazing off in thedistance in spots where the grass was tall andluscious. At the far end of the meadow was thetowering lilac hedge, skirting the lane that ledto Judge Pillier's house, and the scent of itsheavy blossoms met them like a soft andtender embrace of welcome.As they neared the house the old gentlemanplaced an arm around the girl's shoulders andturning her face up to him he said: "Do you notthink that on a day like this, miracles mighthappen? When the whole earth is vibrant with

life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, thatheaven might for once relent and give us backour dead?" He spoke very low, advisedly, andimpressively. In his voice was an old quaverwhich was not habitual and there was agitationin every line of his visage. She gazed at himwith eyes that were full of supplication and acertain terror of joy.They had been driving through the lane withthe towering hedge on one side and the openmeadow on the other. The horses hadsomewhat quickened their lazy pace. As theyturned into the avenue leading to the house, awhole choir of feathered songsters fluted asudden torrent of melodious greeting fromtheir leafy hiding places.Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stageof existence which was like a dream, morepoignant and real than life. There was the oldgray house with its sloping eaves. Amid theblur of green, and dimly, she saw familiarfaces and heard voices as if they came from far

across the fields, and Edmond was holdingher. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond,and she felt the beating of his heart against herand the agonizing rapture of his kisses strivingto awake her. It was as if the spirit of life andthe awakening spring had given back the soulto her youth and bade her rejoice.It was many hours later that Octavie drew thelocket from her bosom and looked at Edmondwith a questioning appeal in her glance."It was the night before an engagement," hesaid. "In the hurry of the encounter, and theretreat next day, I never missed it till the fightwas over. I thought of course I had lost it in theheat of the struggle, but it was stolen.""Stolen," she shuddered, and thought of thedead soldier with his face uplifted to the sky inan agony of supplication.Edmond said nothing; but he thought of hismessmate; the one who had lain far back in the

shadow; the one who had said nothing.

A REFLECTIONSome people are born with a vital andresponsive energy. It not only enables them tokeep abreast of the times; it qualifies them tofurnish in their own personality a good bit ofthe motive power to the mad pace. They arefortunate beings. They do not need toapprehend the significance of things. They donot grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fallout of rank and sink by the wayside to be leftcontemplating the moving procession.Ah! that moving procession that has left meby the road-side! Its fantastic colors are morebrilliant and beautiful than the sun on theundulating waters. What matter if souls andbodies are failing beneath the feet of theever-pressing multitude! It moves with themajestic rhythm of the spheres. Its discordantclashes sweep upward in one harmonious tonethat blends with the music of other worlds--tocomplete God's orchestra.

It is greater than the stars--that movingprocession of human energy; greater than thepalpitating earth and the things growingthereon. Oh! I could weep at being left by thewayside; left with the grass and the clouds anda few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in thesociety of these symbols of life's immutability.In the procession I should feel the crushingfeet, the clashing discords, the ruthless handsand stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythmof the march.Salve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and waitby the roadside.

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