The Awakening ....................................................................................................................................................1

Kate Chopin.............................................................................................................................................1

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A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over:

He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the

mockingbird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with

Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an

He walked down the gallery and across the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun cottages one with

the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were the

property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the

He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to

the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of

reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached

Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials

and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before.

Mr. Pontellier wore eyeglasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he

stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely

Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise

than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages. The

chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from

"Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yardboy

whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a diningroom servant

whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her

starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was

walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the pension had gone over to the

Cheniere Caminada in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the wateroaks

playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon

Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his

gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly

between the gaunt trunks of the wateroaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far

away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its

pinklined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage,

the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each

"What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge

"You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal

property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them

critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which

she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,

understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them

upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled

"What is it?" asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense;

some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing

when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up,

saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards.

"Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay

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

"Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over

"Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt

in his vest pocket; there was a tendollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early

dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the

size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding goodby to him.

Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to

Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She

had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of

Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the

depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain

frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging.

Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in

his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his afterdinner smoke.

This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike his companion. A

cleanshaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested

no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the

Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palmleaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert

sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around them;

their amusing adventure out in the waterit had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the

trees, the people who had gone to the Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the

Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant."

Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier

talked a little about herself for the same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of

his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to

Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in

New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave him no small value as a

He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times,

before Robert could remember, "the house" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its

dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the "Quartier Francais," it

enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.

Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky

bluegrass country. She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been

lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to

be married. Robert was interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father

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

"I see Leonce isn't coming back," she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had

disappeared. Robert supposed he was not, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein's.

When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended the steps and strolled over toward

the croquet players, where, during the halfhour before dinner, he amused himself with the little Pontellier

It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein's hotel. He was in an excellent

humor, in high spirits, and very talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when

he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had

gathered during the day. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal

of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever

else happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half

He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of his existence, evinced so little

Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very

much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were

resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the

youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.

Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever and needed looking after.

Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing

had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He

He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place

to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He

could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on the street, and staying at home to see

Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the

bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he

questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep.

Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve

of her peignoir. Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a

pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair

It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the

house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a wateroak, and the

everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the

The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir no longer served to dry

them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the

shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she

went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why

she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed

never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion

An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled

her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day.

It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband,

lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a

good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her

The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the

The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to

the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the

Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat

impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet

Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening

before. She liked money as well as most women, and, accepted it with no little satisfaction.

"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!" she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she

"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her goodby.

The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them.

Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say

goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway

A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled

with friandises, with luscious and toothsome bitsthe finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious

Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving

them when away from home. The pates and fruit were brought to the diningroom; the bonbons were passed

around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that

Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none

It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's

wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than

perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement.

If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's

arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eves and the sand out of his

mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles

with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mothertots. The quadroon

nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and

part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed.

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a motherwoman. The motherwomen seemed to prevail that summer at

Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real

or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their

husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering

Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and

charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was

Adele Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the

bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her

charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spungold hair that comb nor confining pin could

restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could

only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout,

but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted

her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than

hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper

middle finger as she sewed away on the little nightdrawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.

Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with

her in the afternoons. She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She

had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of nightdrawers.

She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut outa marvel of construction, fashioned

to enclose a baby's body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an

Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and insidious

Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of her children, and she could

not see the use of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But

she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she

spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's directions she had cut a pattern of the

Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also occupied her former

position on the upper step, leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she

That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were

not too rich; whether it could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years. About

every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one.

She was always talking about her "condition." Her "condition" was in no way apparent, and no one would

have known a thing about it but for her persistence in making it the subject of conversation.

Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted upon nougat during the

entirebut seeing the color mount into Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself and changed the subject.

Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at home in the society of Creoles; never

before had she been thrown so intimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun's.

They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom existed the most amicable relations. A

characteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly was their entire

absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her, though she had no

difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn and

Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard Madame Ratignolle relating to old

Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of one of her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was

growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting color back from her cheeks. Oftener

than once her coming had interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group

A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read it, she did so with profound

astonishment. She felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done

so,to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openly criticised and freely discussed

at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.

They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoonMadame Ratignolle sewing away, often

stopping to relate a story or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands; Robert and Mrs.

Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, glances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced

He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought anything of it. Many had predicted that

Robert would devote himself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was eleven

years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some fair

dame or damsel. Sometimes it was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some interesting

For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne's presence. But she died

between summers; then Robert posed as an inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame

Ratignolle for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to vouchsafe.

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

"Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?" murmured Robert. "She knew that I adored her

once, and she let me adore her. It was `Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby

sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and read Daudet to me while I sew.'"

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

"You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene, then it WAS like a

"Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous," she interjoined, with excessive naivete. That made them all

laugh. The right hand jealous of the left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the Creole husband

is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which has become dwarfed by disuse.

Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his one time hopeless passion for Madame

Ratignolle; of sleepless nights, of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge.

He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. She never knew precisely what to

make of it; at that moment it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion

was earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love to Madame Ratignolle, without any

thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It

Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional

way. She liked the dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other employment afforded her.

She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that lady seemed a more tempting

subject than at that moment, seated there like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day

Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. Pontellier, that he might watch her work.

She handled her brushes with a certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close acquaintance

with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed her work with close attention, giving forth little

ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle.

During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against Mrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she

repulsed him. Once again he repeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his

part; yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him

quietly but firmly. He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance to Madame

Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of

Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch critically she drew a broad smudge of

The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at the respectful distance which they

required her to observe. Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought to

detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest. They had only come to

investigate the contents of the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them,

each holding out two chubby hands scooplike, in the vain hope that they might be filled; and then away they

The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that came up from the south, charged with

the seductive odor of the sea. Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the oaks.

Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread all neatly together in the roll,

which she pinned securely. She complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan.

She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne, while Robert plied the fan with unnecessary vigor.

The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if there were not a little imagination

responsible for its origin, for the rose tint had never faded from her friend's face.

She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace and majesty which

queens are sometimes supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her

white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond,

encircling arms. Though, as everybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a pin!

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

"Oh, no," she answered, with a tone of indecision. "I'm tired; I think not." Her glance wandered from his face

away toward the Gulf, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.

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

He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door, and put it on her head. They

descended the steps, and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the breeze

Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with Robert, she should in the first place

have declined, and in the second place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory impulses

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

At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy

anguish which had overcome her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to

recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous

weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twentyeightperhaps more wisdom than

But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly

disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!

The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to

wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.

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

Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic hitherto contrary to her nature. Even

as a child she had lived her own small life all within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended

instinctively the dual lifethat outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.

That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of reserve that had always enveloped her.

There may have beenthere must have beeninfluences, both subtle and apparent, working in their several

ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the influence of Adele Ratignolle. The excessive

physical charm of the Creole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility to beauty. Then

the candor of the woman's whole existence, which every one might read, and which formed so striking a

contrast to her own habitual reservethis might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use

in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.

The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm, under the huge white sunshade.

Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratignolle to leave the children behind, though she could not induce her to

relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele begged to be allowed to slip into the depths of her

The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a long, sandy path, upon which a

sporadic and tangled growth that bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There

were acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away still, vegetable gardens abounded,

with frequent small plantations of orange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened from

The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the more feminine and matronly

figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier's physique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long,

clean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into splendid poses; there was no suggestion of

the trim, stereotyped fashionplate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in passing, might not

cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more feeling and discernment he would have recognized the

noble beauty of its modeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which made Edna Pontellier

She wore a cool muslin that morningwhite, with a waving vertical line of brown running through it; also a

white linen collar and the big straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat rested any

way on her yellowbrown hair, that waved a little, was heavy, and clung close to her head.

Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze veil about her head. She wore

dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that protected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness of

ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which she wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty

There were a number of bathhouses along the beach, of rough but solid construction, built with small,

protecting galleries facing the water. Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun's

possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential paraphernalia of the bath and whatever

other conveniences the owners might desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just

strolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the water. The Pontellier and Ratignolle

Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit. Unlocking the door of her bathroom she

went inside, and soon emerged, bringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two huge

hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the front of the building.

The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by side, with their backs against the pillows

and their feet extended. Madame Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicate

handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried suspended somewhere about her

person by a long, narrow ribbon. Edna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan

from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her companion. It was very warm, and for a while

they did nothing but exchange remarks about the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a

choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered the skirts of the two women and kept them

for a while engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hairpins and hatpins. A few persons

were sporting some distance away in the water. The beach was very still of human sound at that hour. The

lady in black was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighboring bathhouse. Two young lovers

were exchanging their hearts' yearnings beneath the children's tent, which they had found unoccupied.

Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest upon the sea. The day was clear and

carried the gaze out as far as the blue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the

horizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and others to the south seemed almost

"Of whomof what are you thinking?" asked Adele of her companion, whose countenance she had been

watching with a little amused attention, arrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized and

"Nothing," returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: "How stupid! But it seems to me it is the

reply we make instinctively to such a question. Let me see," she went on, throwing back her head and

narrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. "Let me see. I was really not conscious

"Oh! never mind!" laughed Madame Ratignolle. "I am not quite so exacting. I will let you off this time. It is

"But for the fun of it," persisted Edna. "First of all, the sight of the water stretching so far away, those

motionless sails against the blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. The hot

wind beating in my face made me thinkwithout any connection that I can trace of a summer day in

Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as the ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass,

which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, beating the tall

"I don't remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big field. My sunbonnet obstructed the view.

I could see only the stretch of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without coming to the

end of it. I don't remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I must have been entertained.

"Likely as not it was Sunday," she laughed; "and I was running away from prayers, from the Presbyterian

service, read in a spirit of gloom by my father that chills me yet to think of."

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

"No! oh, no!" Edna hastened to say. "I was a little unthinking child in those days, just following a misleading

impulse without question. On the contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold upon me;

after I was twelve and untiluntilwhy, I suppose until now, though I never thought much about itjust

driven along by habit. But do you know," she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and

leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion, "sometimes I feel this

summer as if I were walking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided."

Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was near her. Seeing that the hand was

not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand,

The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent herself readily to the Creole's gentle

caress. She was not accustomed to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in

others. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal through force of unfortunate habit. Her

older sister, Margaret, was matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and housewifely

responsibilities too early in life, their mother having died when they were quite young, Margaret was not

effusive; she was practical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether accidentally or not, they

seemed to have been all of one typethe selfcontained. She never realized that the reserve of her own

character had much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friend at school had been one of

rather exceptional intellectual gifts, who wrote finesounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to

imitate; and with her she talked and glowed over the English classics, and sometimes held religious and

Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly disturbed her without causing any

outward show or manifestation on her part. At a very early ageperhaps it was when she traversed the ocean

of waving grassshe remembered that she had been passionately enamored of a dignified and sadeyed

cavalry officer who visited her father in Kentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor

remove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon's, with a lock of black hair failing across

the forehead. But the cavalry officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence.

At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman who visited a lady on a

neighboring plantation. It was after they went to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be

married to the young lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of afternoons in a buggy.

Edna was a little miss, just merging into her teens; and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing,

nothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But he, too, went the way of dreams.

She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed to be the climax of her fate. It

was when the face and figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The

persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty

The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one may possess the portrait of a tragedian

without exciting suspicion or comment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the presence

of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as she handed the photograph around and dwelt upon

the fidelity of the likeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold glass passionately.

Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this respect resembling many other marriages

which masquerade as the decrees of Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met him. He

fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his suit with an earnestness and an ardor which left

nothing to be desired. He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy

of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her

father and her sister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives

The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the

devoted wife of a man who worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in the

world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm of romance and dreams.

But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry officer and the engaged young man and a

few others; and Edna found herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, realizing

with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would sometimes gather them passionately to

her heart; she would sometimes forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with their

grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding their happiness and welfare, she did not miss

them except with an occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though she did not admit

this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which

Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer day when they sat with faces

turned to the sea. But a good part of it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's

shoulder. She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the unaccustomed taste of

There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by a troop of children, searching for

them. The two little Pontelliers were with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little girl in his arms.

There were other children beside, and two nursemaids followed, looking disagreeable and resigned.

The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw

the cushions and rug into the bathhouse. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood there

in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging their vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only

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

Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she complained of cramp in her limbs and

"Do me a favor, Robert," spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as soon as she and Robert had started

their slow, homeward way. She looked up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of

"Granted; as many as you like," he returned, glancing down into her eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and

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

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

His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began to beat it impatiently against his leg as

he walked. "Why shouldn't she take me seriously?" he demanded sharply. "Am I a comedian, a clown, a

jackinthebox? Why shouldn't she? You Creoles! I have no patience with you! Am I always to be regarded

as a feature of an amusing programme? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she has

discernment enough to find in me something besides the blagueur. If I thought there was any doubt"

"Oh, enough, Robert!" she broke into his heated outburst. "You are not thinking of what you are saying. You

speak with about as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the

sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing,

you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives

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

"Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head. "You ought to feel that such

"It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you" he went on, unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: "Now if I

were like Arobinyou remember Alcee Arobin and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?" And he related

the story of Alcee Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about the tenor of the French Opera, who

received letters which should never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs.

Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten.

Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered

helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatiencehe called it rudenesswith

"You made one mistake, Adele," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier

ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might

then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. Au revoir. But you look tired," he

added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with

She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen,

which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her

the goldenbrown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer.

She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his

hands. She told him he was a bon garcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the

The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were leaning toward each other as the

wateroaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been

turned upsidedown, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them,

looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert

scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The

young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and

a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a

man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical.

Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewingmachine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her

hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be

Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his

pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the

leaves. The sewingmachine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, bygone make. In

"I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf

over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.

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

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

Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The

Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and

brothera tete montee, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break.

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

"If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame

Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a

more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early

"What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middleaged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for

the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun

"I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the

workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter,

clatter!"and if you still have the intention of joining him"bang! clatter, clatter, bang!

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

"Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never

starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?"

Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or

threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some

one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark

green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows,

and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.

It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame

Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down

to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of

Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about

in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in

the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a

Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were

lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier

had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt.

Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was

nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.

At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of

fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at

their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed

"Allez vousen! Sapristi!" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed

sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that

summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted

upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees

were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the

entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the

Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had heard many times at winter

A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at

the same time watched her daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no

apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black

tulle and black silk tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped, stood out like

fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of grace, and her little blackshod toes twinkled as

But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who

gaily consented to play for the others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an

expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music on account of the

children, she said; because she and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and

Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the brief period when

one or the other should be whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced together,

The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with shrieks and protests as they were

dragged away. They had been permitted to sit up till after the icecream, which naturally marked the limit of

The icecream was passed around with cakegold and silver cake arranged on platters in alternate slices; it

had been made and frozen during the afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the

supervision of Victor. It was pronounced a great successexcellent if it had only contained a little less

vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of

portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about recommending it and urging every one to

After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with Robert, and once with Monsieur

Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the

gallery and seated herself on the low windowsill, where she commanded a view of all that went on in the

hall and could look out toward the Gulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up,

and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, restless water.

"Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?" asked Robert, coming out on the porch where she was.

Of course Edna would like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat her.

"I'll ask her," he said. "I'll tell her that you want to hear her. She likes you. She will come." He turned and

hurried away to one of the far cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging a

chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining

cottage was endeavoring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had

quarreled with almost every one, owing to a temper which was selfassertive and a disposition to trample

upon the rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty.

She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an awkward, imperious little bow as she

went in. She was a homely woman, with a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had

absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with a bunch of artificial violets pinned to

"Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play," she requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still

before the piano, not touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A general

air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling

down, and a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus signaled

out for the imperious little woman's favor. She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle

Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains, well rendered, had a way of evoking

pictures in her mind. She sometimes liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or

practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled "Solitude." It was a short, plaintive, minor

strain. The name of the piece was something else, but she called it "Solitude." When she heard it there came

before her imagination the figure of a man standing beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked.

His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging its flight away from

Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire gown, taking mincing dancing

steps as she came down a long avenue between tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play,

The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano sent a keen tremor down Mrs.

Pontellier's spinal column. It was not the first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the first

time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth.

She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and blaze before her imagination. She

waited in vain. She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions

themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid

Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away, stopping for neither,

thanks nor applause. As she passed along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.

"Well, how did you like my music?" she asked. The young woman was unable to answer; she pressed the

hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She patted

"You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!" and she went shuffling and sidling on down the

But she was mistaken about "those others." Her playing had aroused a fever of enthusiasm. "What passion!"

"What an artist!" "I have always said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!" "That last prelude!

It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But some one, perhaps it was Robert,

At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice. There was not one but was ready to

follow when he led the way. He did not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered

behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold themselves apart. He walked

between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.

The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands. Edna

could hear Robert's voice behind them, and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not

join them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day,

redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She

missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a

The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed; some of them sang. There was

a band playing down at Klein's hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There

were strange, rare odors abroad a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and damp, newplowed earth,

mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon

the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows. The white light of the moon

Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now, and swelled

lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy

Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and

women; in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he

was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread

hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her.

But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who of a sudden realizes its powers,

and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with overconfidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did

shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water.

A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the

working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to

Her unlookedfor achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated

"How easy it is!" she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was

nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their

sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone.

She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of

water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to

Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any

great distance that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her

unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided

A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an

She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, "I

Edna went at once to the bathhouse, and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before

the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She

waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain

"Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun, who was

amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.

Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert.

"You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life. But it isn't

unpleasant. A thousand emotions have swept through me tonight. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't

mind what I'm saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again as Mademoiselle

Reisz's playing moved me tonight. I wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a

night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, halfhuman beings. There must be spirits

"There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't you know this was the twentyeighth of August?"

"Yes. On the twentyeighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shiningthe moon must

be shininga spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating

vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours

into realms of the semicelestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back,

disheartened, into the sea. But tonight he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her

from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her

"Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but

the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he

had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own

admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white

skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly,

as though her thoughts were elsewheresomewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake

Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree.

"No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the

hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an overdainty woman. She was not

much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no catlike suggestion of

voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body.

"Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of

"If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the windowsill over at

"Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?"

"Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure

pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.

When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her.

He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak.

No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant

When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said goodnight. She did not answer him. He

thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked

"What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he

discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not

"No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his.

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

"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?"

She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she

would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of

submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through

"Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty.

"This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the

With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had

blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She

wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of

course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded,

"Leonce, go to bed, " she said I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak

Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which

he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the

gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet

on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another

glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once

more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars.

Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream,

to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the

exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which

The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The

moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and

Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly

"Yes, dear," he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. "Just as soon as I have finished my

She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible,

that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her halfawakened senses of something unattainable. She

was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her

faculties. However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within.

She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for

Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who intended to go over to the

Cheniere for mass, were moving about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already

strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayerbook, velvet and goldclasped, and her

Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more

than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella

The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewingmachine was sweeping the galleries with long,

absentminded strokes of the broom. Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.

He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had never asked for him. She had never

seemed to want him before. She did not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding

his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything extraordinary in the situation. But his face

They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no time to wait for any nicety of service.

They stood outside the window and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and ate

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

"Wasn't it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you up?" she laughed. "Do I have to think of

everything?as Leonce says when he's in a bad humor. I don't blame him; he'd never be in a bad humor if it

They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see the curious procession moving toward the

wharfthe lovers, shoulder to shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old

Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her

Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one present understood what they said. Her

name was Mariequita. She had a round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and

she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide

them. Edna looked at her feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.

Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room. In reality he was annoyed at

having old Monsieur Farival, who considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he he would not quarrel

with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one

moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making "eyes" at

The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The lady in black was counting her beads

for the third time. Old Monsieur Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of

Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and

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

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

The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the

pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the

water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed

sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath.

Sailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some

anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been looseninghad snapped the night before when

the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to

her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were

covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly.

"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun

She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun,

listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort.

"We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We

"Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to

you in which of these islands the treasures are hiddendirect you to the very spot, perhaps."

"And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure

we could dig up. I think you would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It

is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly."

They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and

Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita walked away with her basket of

shrimps, casting a look of childish ill humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.

A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the

lights on the altar swayed before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her

composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and reach the open air. She

arose, climbing over Robert's feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up,

but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back into his seat. He whispered an

anxious inquiry of the lady in black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon the

"I felt giddy and almost overcome," Edna said, lifting her hands instinctively to her head and pushing her

straw hat up from her forehead. "I couldn't have stayed through the service." They were outside in the shadow

"It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone staying. Come over to Madame Antoine's;

you can rest there." He took her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her

How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the reeds that grew in the saltwater

pools! The long line of little gray, weatherbeaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must

always have been God's day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged

fence made of seadrift, to ask for water. A youth, a mildfaced Acadian, was drawing water from the

cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in the ground. The

water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face,

Madame Antoine's cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them with all the native hospitality, as

she would have opened her door to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across

the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand that the lady who accompanied

him was ill and desired to rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of her

The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, fourposted bed, snowwhite, invited one to repose. It

stood in a small side room which looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a

Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she supposed he would soon be back, and she

invited Robert to be seated and wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame

Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boiling mullets over a few red coals

Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing the greater part of them. She bathed

her face, her neck and arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and

stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a

strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the sheets and mattress! She

stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She

looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one after the other, observing closely,

as if it were something she saw for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped

She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things about her. She could hear Madame

Antoine's heavy, scraping tread as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were

clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she half heard the voices of

Robert and Tonie talking under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her

sleepy eyes. The voices went onTonie's slow, Acadian drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. She

understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the other drowsy,

When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and soundly. The voices were hushed

under the shed. Madame Antoine's step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens

had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over her; the old woman had come in

while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the

window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced. Robert was out there

under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a

book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become of the rest of the party. She peeped out

at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows.

Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box of poudre de riz

within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the

little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her

When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was

there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one,

with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it

with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went

softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the lowhanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did

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

"How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must

have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie

"You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred

years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled

"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has

"Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I

"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 among sundry pans and

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

He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean

repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the

mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her

appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her.

"Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty

They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a

thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly

It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the

western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque

Edna and Robert both sat upon the groundthat is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking

Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all

And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the Cheniere Caminada, and then for the

briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the

Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering

When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in

the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.

The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the

hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken

charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours.

The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him

along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor.

Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all

Leonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the

Cheniere. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that

Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He

had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities,

exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he

would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a

bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was

When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito

bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from

"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robertsince early this morning?" she said at

He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but

Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel

like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices

reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand

Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of

her life. She could only realize that she herselfher present selfwas in some way different from the other

self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that

She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her to think he might have grown

tired of being with her the livelong day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he

had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to leave her.

As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they crossed the bay. It

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

When Edna entered the diningroom one evening a little late, as was her habit, an unusually animated

conversation seemed to be going on. Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was

predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste,

and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She

As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had been served when she entered the

room, several persons informed her simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon

down and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her all the morning, and had never

even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one

say he was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing of, though she was surprised

when he did not join her later in the afternoon, when she went down to the beach.

She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided. Edna's face was a blank

picture of bewilderment, which she never thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a

smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. "When is he going?" she asked of

"Tonight!" "This very evening!" "Did you ever!" "What possesses him!" were some of the replies she

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "How can a person start off from Grand Isle to Mexico at a moment's notice, as

"I said all along I was going to Mexico; I've been saying so for years!" cried Robert, in an excited and

irritable tone, with the air of a man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects.

"Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going tonight," she called out. "Really, this table

is getting to be more and more like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. SometimesI hope

God will forgive mebut positively, sometimes I wish Victor would lose the power of speech."

Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, of which he failed to see the benefit

to anybody, except that it might afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself.

Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in midocean in his earliest youth and

drowned. Victor thought there would be more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim

for making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a trifle hysterical; Robert called his

"There's nothing much to explain, mother," he said; though he explained, neverthelesslooking chiefly at

Ednathat he could only meet the gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and

such a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet was going out with his luggerload of

vegetables that night, which gave him an opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time.

"At what time this afternoon?" persisted the old gentleman, with nagging determination, as if he were

"At four o'clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival," Robert replied, in a high voice and with a lofty air, which

She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking the flaky bits of a court bouillon

The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speak in whispers of matters which they

rightly considered were interesting to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a pair of

prayerbeads of curious workmanship from Mexico, with very special indulgence attached to them, but she

had never been able to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. Father Fochel

of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that

Robert would interest himself, and discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to the indulgence

Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in dealing with the Mexicans, who,

she considered, were a treacherous people, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no

injustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally but one Mexican, who made and sold

excellent tamales, and whom she would have trusted implicitly, so softspoken was he. One day he was

arrested for stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not.

Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote about a Mexican girl who served

chocolate one winter in a restaurant in Dauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival,

Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at that rate. She herself could think of

"Quite ready. I shall only take a handbag, and shall pack my trunk in the city."

He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna, having finished her black coffee, left

She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy after leaving the outer air. But she did

not mind; there appeared to be a hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began to set

the toiletstand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the quadroon, who was in the adjoining room

putting the children to bed. She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of chairs,

and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She changed her gown for a more comfortable and

commodious wrapper. She rearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then she went

They were very playful and inclined to talkto do anything but lie quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the

quadroon away to her supper and told her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a story.

Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their wakefulness. She left them in heated argument,

speculating about the conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the following night.

The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to have Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with

them over at the house till Mr. Robert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, that

she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the house later. She started to dress again, and

got as far advanced as to remove her peignoir. But changing her mind once more she resumed the peignoir,

and went outside and sat down before her door. She was overheated and irritable, and fanned herself

energetically for a while. Madame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter.

"All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me," replied Edna, "and moreover, I hate shocks

and surprises. The idea of Robert starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it were a

matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all morning when he was with me."

"Yes," agreed Madame Ratignolle. "I think it was showing us allyou especiallyvery little consideration.

It wouldn't have surprised me in any of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must say I

should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn't

"No," said Edna, a little sullenly. "I can't go to the trouble of dressing again; I don't feel like it."

"You needn't dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your waist. Just look at me!"

"No," persisted Edna; "but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended if we both stayed away."

Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna goodnight, and went away, being in truth rather desirous of joining in the

general and animated conversation which was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.

He lit a match and looked at his watch. "In twenty minutes," he said. The sudden and brief flare of the match

emphasized the darkness for a while. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the porch.

"This will do," he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took it off again, and wiping his face with his

"Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some time, and feel all the more

"That's one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never known one to speak otherwise of

"This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don't like it. I don't understand your motive for

silence and mystery, never saying a word to me about it this morning." He remained silent, not offering to

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

"I don't want to part in any ill humor," she said. "But can't you understand? I've grown used to seeing you, to

having you with me all the time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don't even offer an

excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of how pleasant it would be to see you in the city

"So was I," he blurted. "Perhaps that's the" He stood up suddenly and held out his hand. "Goodby, my

dear Mrs. Pontellier; goodby. You won'tI hope you won't completely forget me." She clung to his hand,

How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something more emphatic than "I will, thank

He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, for he descended the steps and went to

join Beaudelet, who was out there with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked away in

the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet's voice; Robert had apparently not even spoken a word of

Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to hide, even from herself as she would

have hidden from another, the emotion which was troublingtearingher. Her eyes were brimming with

For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she had felt incipiently as a child, as a

girl in her earliest teens, and later as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the

poignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability. The past was nothing to her; offered

no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate.

The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that

she had lost that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened

"Do you miss your friend greatly?" asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning as she came creeping up behind

Edna, who had just left her cottage on her way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she

had acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle drew near its close, she felt that she

could not give too much time to a diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she

knew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulder and spoke to her, the woman

seemed to echo the thought which was ever in Edna's mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly possessed

Robert's going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning out of everything. The conditions

of her life were in no way changed, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems to

be no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywherein others whom she induced to talk about him.

She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun's room, braving the clatter of the old sewingmachine. She

sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed around the room at the pictures and

photographs hanging upon the wall, and discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined

with the keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment concerning the many figures and

There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in her lap, a roundfaced infant with a

fist in his mouth. The eyes alone in the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the age of

five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the

portrait in his first long trousers; while another interested her, taken when he left for college, looking thin,

longfaced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions. But there was no recent picture, none which

suggested the Robert who had gone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him.

"Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for them himself! He found wiser use for

his money, he says," explained Madame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New

Orleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to look for it either on the table or the

The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and attraction for Edna; the envelope, its

size and shape, the postmark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening it.

There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his

trunk in good shape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to

all. There was no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish

the book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there on

the table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her.

Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her husband, when he came down the

"It's very dull without him," she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a

dozen questions or more. Where had they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone "in" and

had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about? Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which

Mr. Pontellier thought were promising. How did he look? How did he seemgrave, or gay, or how? Quite

cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a

Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted in playing in the sun when they

might be under the trees. She went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not being

It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making of Robert the object of conversation

and leading her husband to speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way

resembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to feel. She had all her life

long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken

the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had

a right to them and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she

would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument;

the two women did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to

"I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I

wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend,

"I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the unessential," said Madame

Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than

She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that lady, following her to the beach,

tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend.

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

"Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the surf all summer,"

"I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that

Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them

thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to

the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle

offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she

bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment

in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly

impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to

"She must feel very lonely without her son," said Edna, desiring to change the subject. "Her favorite son, too.

"Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for

Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the

ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and

keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to

see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me

often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert

"I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter

"Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom

Victor considered that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking

with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basketI don't remember what;and he became so insulting

and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good

"Mariequitayes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that

Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have listened to her venom so long.

For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she

donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent. The water

was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and

invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait

But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's

appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city,

and wrote her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in her pocket.

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

"Well," agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, "rather pleasant, if it hadn't been for the mosquitoes and

The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. It was a large, double

cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was

painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the yard, which was kept

scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within

doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The softest carpets and rugs covered the

floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment

and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the

table were the envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier.

Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its various appointments and details, to

see that nothing was amiss. He greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived

genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace curtainno matter whatafter he

On Tuesday afternoonsTuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's reception daythere was a constant stream of

callerswomen who came in carriages or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance

permitted. A lightcolored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a diminutive silver tray for the reception of

cards, admitted them. A maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate, as they

might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained in the drawingroom the entire

afternoon receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their wives.

This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed since her marriage, six years

before. Certain evenings during the week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.

Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten o'clock, and rarely returned before

He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few weeks after their return from Grand

Isle. They were alone together. The boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet could

be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the quadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs.

Pontellier did not wear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress. Mr. Pontellier,

who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he served the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.

"Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?" he asked. He tasted his soup and began to season it

"There were a good many," replied Edna, who was eating her soup with evident satisfaction. "I found their

"Out!" exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation in his voice as he laid down the

vinegar cruet and looked at her through his glasses. "Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What

"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse," said her husband, somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of

"Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people don't do such things; we've got to

observe les convenances if we ever expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you had

to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable explanation for your absence.

"This soup is really impossible; it's strange that woman hasn't learned yet to make a decent soup. Any

The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver tray, which was covered with ladies'

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

"`The Misses Delasidas.' I worked a big deal in futures for their father this morning; nice girls; it's time they

were getting married. `Mrs. Belthrop.' I tell you what it is, Edna; you can't afford to snub Mrs. Belthrop.

Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His business is worth a good, round sum to me. You'd

better write her a note. `Mrs. James Highcamp.' Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the

better. `Madame Laforce.' Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor old soul. 'Miss Wiggs,' `Mrs. Eleanor

"Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. "Why are you taking the thing so seriously and making

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

The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she did not mind a little scorched taste.

The roast was in some way not to his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were

"It seems to me," he said, "we spend money enough in this house to procure at least one meal a day which a

"Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They need looking after, like any other

class of persons that you employ. Suppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office, just let them run things

"Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from table without having eaten a morsel

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

She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her very unhappy. On a few previous

occasions she had been completely deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into

the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room and studied the cookbook

during an entire evening, finally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that,

But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes

flamed with some inward fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her room, having

It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She

went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery

and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous

outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet, halfdarkness

which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above

and the stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned

back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its whole length, without stopping, without resting.

She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from

her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there,

she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a

In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung it upon the tiles of the hearth. She

wanted to destroy something. The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.

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

"Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma'am," insisted the young woman, picking up bits of the

broken vase that were scattered upon the carpet. "And here's your ring, ma'am, under the chair."

The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked Edna if she would not meet him in

"I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce. Don't let us get anything new; you are too extravagant. I don't

"The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it," he said. He regretted that she did

not feel inclined to go with him and select new fixtures. He kissed her goodby, and told her she was not

looking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale and very quiet.

She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently picked a few sprays of jessamine that

grew upon a trellis near by. She inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her white

morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small "express wagon," which they had filled

with blocks and sticks. The quadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a fictitious

animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was crying his wares in the street.

Edna looked straight before her with a selfabsorbed expression upon her face. She felt no interest in

anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were

She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook concerning her blunders of the

previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly fitted.

Mr. Pontellier's arguments were usually convincing with those whom he employed. He left home feeling

quite sure that he and Edna would sit down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner

Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She could see their shortcomings and

defects, which were glaring in her eyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor. Finally

she gathered together a few of the sketchesthose which she considered the least discreditable; and she

carried them with her when, a little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and

distinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her face, and her forehead was smooth,

white, and polished beneath her heavy, yellowbrown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a

small, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, halfhidden in her hair.

As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was still under the spell of her infatuation.

She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an

obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or

recalled in any special or peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her

thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity

Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's. Their intimacy, begun at Grand Isle, had not declined, and

they had seen each other with some frequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no great

distance from Edna's home, on the corner of a side street, where Monsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a

drug store which enjoyed a steady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before him, and

Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an enviable reputation for integrity and

clearheadedness. His family lived in commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side

within the porte cochere. There was something which Edna thought very French, very foreign, about their

whole manner of living. In the large and pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the

Ratignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soiree musicale, sometimes diversified by

cardplaying. There was a friend who played upon the 'cello. One brought his flute and another his violin,

while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon the piano with various degrees of taste

and agility. The Ratignolles' soirees musicales were widely known, and it was considered a privilege to be

Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had returned that morning from the laundry.

She at once abandoned her occupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into her

"`Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business," she explained to Edna, who apologized for interrupting

her. And she summoned a young black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very careful in

checking off the list which she handed her. She told her to notice particularly if a fine linen handkerchief of

Monsieur Ratignolle's, which was missing last week, had been returned; and to be sure to set to one side such

Then placing an arm around Edna's waist, she led her to the front of the house, to the salon, where it was cool

Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a neglige which left her arms almost

"Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day," said Edna with a smile when they were seated. She

produced the roll of sketches and started to unfold them. "I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I wanted

to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you think it worth while to take it up again and study

She knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion in such a matter would be next to valueless, that she herself had

not alone decided, but determined; but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help her

"Immense, I tell you," persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the sketches one by one, at close range, then

holding them at arm's length, narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. "Surely, this Bavarian

peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never have I seen anything more lifelike. One might

Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her friend's praise, even realizing, as

she did, its true worth. She retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, who

appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly exhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up

Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the earth. His cheerfulness was unbounded,

and it was matched by his goodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife spoke

English with an accent which was only discernible through its unEnglish emphasis and a certain carefulness

and deliberation. Edna's husband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles understood each

other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings into one has been accomplished on this sphere it was

As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, "Better a dinner of herbs," though it did not take her

long to discover that it was no dinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every way

Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her looking not so well as at Grand Isle, and

he advised a tonic. He talked a good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and neighborhood

gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that gave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he

uttered. His wife was keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the better to listen,

Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little glimpse of domestic harmony which had

been offered her, gave her no regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she could

see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame

Ratignolle,a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind

contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of

life's delirium. Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by "life's delirium." It had crossed her thought like

Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to have stamped upon her wedding ring

and smashed the crystal vase upon the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile

expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at

home, and did not return the visits of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectual efforts to

conduct her household en bonne menagere, going and coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was

Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a certain tacit submissiveness in his

wife. But her new and unexpected line of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her

absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontellier became rude, Edna grew

"It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household, and the mother of children, to spend

in an atelier days which would be better employed contriving for the comfort of her family."

"Then in God's name paint! but don't let the family go to the devil. There's Madame Ratignolle; because she

keeps up her music, she doesn't let everything else go to chaos. And she's more of a musician than you are a

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

It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced

mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming

herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear

Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office. Edna went up to her ateliera

bright room in the top of the house. She was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing

anything, however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. For a time she had the whole household

enrolled in the service of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation

soon lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their

entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the housemaid

took charge of the children, and the drawingroom went undusted. But the housemaid, too, served her term

as model when Edna perceived that the young woman's back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and

that her hair, loosened from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While Edna worked she sometimes sang

It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the water, the flapping sail. She could see

the glint of the moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A subtle

current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold upon the brushes and making her eyes burn.

There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing,

when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some

perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered

many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,when it did not seem worth while to be

glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like

worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave

It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She had not forgotten the rather

disagreeable impression left upon her by their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see

herabove all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early in the afternoon she started upon her

quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, and looking up her

address in the city directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The

directory which fell into her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the number indicated,

Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes who had chambres garnies

to let. They had been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a Mademoiselle Reisz. In

fact, they knew nothing of any of their neighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction, they

assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions with Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a

neighboring grocery store, feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the proprietor.

He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know her, he informed his questioner. In

truth, he did not want to know her at all, or anything concerning herthe most disagreeable and unpopular

woman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had left the neighborhood, and was equally

Edna's desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since these unlookedfor obstacles had arisen

to thwart it. She was wondering who could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurred to

her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so. She knew it was useless to ask Madame

Ratignolle, who was on the most distant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing concerning

her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing herself upon the subject as the corner grocer.

Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the middle of November. And she also

Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before the door and lower windows. The iron

bars were a relic of the old regime, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side was a high

fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the street was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side

It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her hands upon her apron, was close at his

heels. Before she saw them Edna could hear them in altercation, the womanplainly an anomalyclaiming

the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to answer the bell.

Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made no attempt to conceal either his

astonishment or his delight. He was a darkbrowed, goodlooking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling

his mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black woman to go at once and inform

Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier desired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty

when she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her interrupted task of weeding the garden.

Whereupon Victor administered a rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity and

incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was, the rebuke was convincing, for the

Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side porch, where there were chairs, a wicker

lounge, and a small table. She seated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to rock

gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew up his chair beside her. He at once explained

that the black woman's offensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not there to take her in

hand. He had only come up from the island the morning before, and expected to return next day. He stayed all

winter at the island; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got things ready for the summer visitors.

But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, and every now and again he drummed

up a pretext to bring him to the city. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn't want his

mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillant with recollections. Of course, he

couldn't think of telling Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending such things.

But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through the shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a

beauty! Certainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not know him if she

supposed he was one to let an opportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the youngster amused her.

She must have betrayed in her look some degree of interest or entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and

Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored story but for the timely

That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the summer. Her eyes beamed an effusive

welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier go inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not

been there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet children? Had Mrs. Pontellier

Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother's chair, where he commanded a view of

Edna's face. He had taken her parasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled it

above him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that it was so dull coming back to the

city; that she saw so few people now; that even Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, had

so much to occupy him and engage his time; then it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge

and winked mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severe

There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they told her. Victor said it was really not

worth while to go inside for the letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He

remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when put to the test.

One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of Mexico. He had met Montel, who was

doing everything toward his advancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over the one he

had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the

buildings, the people and their habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent his love to the

family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she would affectionately remember him to all his

friends. That was about the substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a message for her, she

would have received it. The despondent frame of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake

Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the address, regretting that she would

not consent to stay and spend the remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some

Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held it over her while he walked to the car

with her. He entreated her to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential. She

laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should have been dignified and reserved.

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

Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose apartments up under the roof was

to discourage the approach of beggars, peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front

room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it did not make so much

difference. They often admitted into the room a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the

light and air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent of the river, the

masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment.

In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline stove on which she cooked her

meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her

belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use.

When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's front room door and entered, she discovered that person

standing beside the window, engaged in mending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician

laughed all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles of

the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace

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

"I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy

sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there,

and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is la belle dame? Always

handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers,

holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm.

"Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought: `She will never come. She promised as those women in society

always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier."

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

The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her

gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the

promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had

declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray

which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa.

"I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed

"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well

have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."

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

"It was written about you, not to you. `Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?' he asks. `As Mrs.

Pontellier says,' or `as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' `If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that

Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to

know how it affects her,' and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society."

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

"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist

includes much; one must possess many giftsabsolute giftswhich have not been acquired by one's own

effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul."

"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count

"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling

The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee

cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's

Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of

her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and

imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu.

Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by

the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering lovenotes of Isolde's song, and

The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantasticturbulent, insistent,

plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the

night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air.

Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her.

She arose in some agitation to take her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at the

"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 stooped and picked it up. It was

crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and

One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician,

Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semiretired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He

bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skillleaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and

younger contemporariesand was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him

by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were

Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back

from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's

study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eyeglasses as Mr. Pontellier

entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning.

"Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was

quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their

"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiberof that old Creole race of Pontelliers that

dry up and finally blow away. I came to consultno, not precisely to consultto talk to you about Edna. I

"Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw herI think it was a week agowalking

"Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two

hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps

"Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the

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

"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitudetoward me and everybody and

everythinghas changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a

woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of

myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of

notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; andyou understandwe meet in the morning

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair

"Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of

pseudointellectual womensuperspiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them."

"That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned

her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in

the streetcars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it."

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

"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have

heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses

literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaretyou know

Margaretshe has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way,

"Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among

"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable

spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at

"Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her,

and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organisma sensitive

and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an

inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to

cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some

passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will

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

"Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come

"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I

"I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field

proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he

"No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever

"What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good

"By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure

you. It may take a month, two, three monthspossibly longer, but it will pass; have patience."

The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he

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

Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply

attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His

coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions.

He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might

make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one

immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And his suggestions on the

question of dresswhich too often assumes the nature of a problemwere of inestimable value to his

fatherinlaw. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna's hands, and in his society

she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army,

and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair and

mustache were white and silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his

coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. Edna and her father

looked very distinguished together, and excited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his

arrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter

very seriously. If her talent had been tenfold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced

as he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only

Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the cannon's mouth in days gone by. He

resented the intrusion of the children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in their

mother's bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them away with an expressive action of the foot,

loath to disturb the fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.

Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him, having promised him a treat in her

piano playing; but Mademoiselle declined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale at the

Ratignolles'. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel, installing him as the guest of

honor and engaging him at once to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might select.

Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive manner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion

of compliments, till the Colonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled,

There were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale; but she would never have felt moved

to any kittenish display to attract their noticeto any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward them.

Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy selected them, and she was glad when a lull in

the music gave them an opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the glance of strange

Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soirees musicales. He considered them bourgeois, and found more

diversion at the club. To Madame Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her soirees was too "heavy," too

far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier's

"It's a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn't stay home more in the evenings. I think you would be morewell, if you

"Oh! dear no!" said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. "What should I do if he stayed home? We wouldn't

She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but he did not antagonize her. She

discovered that he interested her, though she realized that he might not interest her long; and for the first time

in her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He kept her busy serving him and

ministering to his wants. It amused her to do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the children to do

anything for him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed, and thought it was the expression of a

The Colonel drank numerous "toddies" during the course of the day, which left him, however, imperturbed.

He was an expert at concocting strong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic

names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that it devolved upon Edna to procure for

When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of

that morbid condition which her husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. She

and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when they seated themselves at table were still

occupied with the events of the afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had not kept pace

with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing in what he called "the good old times" when the

Lecompte stables flourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not be left out and

seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from

impressing him with this trumpedup knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on his last

venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them. Besides, they had met some very charming people,

according to the Colonel's impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, who were there

with Alcee Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the hours in a fashion that warmed him to think of.

Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, and was even rather inclined to

discourage it as a pastime, especially when he considered the fate of that bluegrass farm in Kentucky. He

endeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and only succeeded in arousing the ire and

opposition of his fatherinlaw. A pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father's

He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and noted a subtle change which had

transformed her from the listless woman he had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant

with the forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression in her glance or gesture.

The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was cold, and under their beneficent

influence the threatened unpleasantness melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine.

Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing plantation experiences, recollections

of old Iberville and his youth, when he hunted `possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed the

pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in mischievous idleness.

The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things, related a somber episode of those dark

and bitter days, in which he had acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the

Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and curious story of the waning of a woman's

love, seeking strange, new channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce unrest. It was

one of the many little human documents which had been unfolded to him during his long career as a

physician. The story did not seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of a woman

who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and never came back. They were lost amid the

Baratarian Islands, and no one ever heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was a pure

invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a

dream she had had. But every glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel the hot breath

of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of the pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the

beating of birds' wings, rising startled from among the reeds in the saltwater pools; they could see the faces

of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown.

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

Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the night was chill and murky. The Doctor

doubled his oldfashioned cloak across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his

fellowcreatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so seldom unfolds itself to unanointed*

eyes. He was sorry he had accepted Pontellier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest

and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives thrust upon him.

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

Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the subject of her refusal to attend her

sister's wedding. Mr. Pontellier declined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his authority. He was

following Doctor Mandelet's advice, and letting her do as she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for

her lack of filial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His

arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would accept any excuseforgetting that

Edna had offered none. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure Margaret would

Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off with his wedding garments and his

bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders, his Bible reading, his "toddies" and ponderous oaths.

Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on his way to New York and endeavor

by every means which money and love could devise to atone somewhat for Edna's incomprehensible action.

"You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce," asserted the Colonel. "Authority, coercion are what is

needed. Put your foot down good and hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it."

The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into her grave. Mr. Pontellier had a

Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband's leaving home as she had been over the departure of

her father. As the day approached when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting

and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his repeated expressions of an ardent

attachment. She was solicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his

clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle would have done under similar

circumstances. She cried when he went away, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was quite certain she

But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found herself alone. Even the children were

gone. Old Madame Pontellier had come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The old

madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected during Leonce's absence; she hardly

ventured to think so. She was hungry for themeven a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want them

to be wholly "children of the pavement," she always said when begging to have them for a space. She wished

them to know the country, with its streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young. She

wished them to taste something of the life their father had lived and known and loved when he, too, was a

When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but

very delicious came over her. She walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it

for the first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them

before. And she perambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to see if windows and

shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were like new acquaintances; she approached them in a

familiar spirit, and made herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna called to the

maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming,

picking dead, dry leaves. The children's little dog came out, interfering, getting in her way. She scolded him,

laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight.

Edna plucked all the bright flowers she could find, and went into the house with them, she and the little dog.

Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had never before perceived. She went in

to give directions to the cook, to say that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they would

require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries. She told the cook that she herself would

be greatly occupied during Mr. Pontellier's absence, and she begged her to take all thought and responsibility

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 large diningroom looked solemn and shadowy.

The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repasta luscious tenderloin broiled a point. The wine

tasted good; the marron glace seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a

She thought a little sentimentally about Leonce and the children, and wondered what they were doing. As she

gave a dainty scrap or two to the doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was

beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable advances, and showed his

Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she grew sleepy. She realized that she had

neglected her reading, and determined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that her time

After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled comfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of

When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed the sun to mellow and temper her

mood to the sticking point. She had reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way,

working, when in the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, and striving not toward

On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the friends she had made at Grand Isle.

Or else she stayed indoors and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort

and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promise

broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh

She went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp called for her one bright afternoon

in Arobin's drag. Mrs. Highcamp was a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the

forties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a daughter who served her as a pretext

for cultivating the society of young men of fashion. Alcee Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar figure

at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom

failed to awaken a corresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listened to his

goodhumored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little insolent. He possessed a good figure, a

pleasing face, not overburdened with depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the conventional

He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her father. He had met her before on other

occasions, but she had seemed to him unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs.

Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witness the turf event of the season.

There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse as well as Edna, but there was

certainly none who knew it better. She sat between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She

laughed at Arobin's pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. The race horse was a friend and

intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the blue grass paddock

revived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that she was talking like her father as

the sleek geldings ambled in review before them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favored her.

The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eves, and it got into her blood and into her brain like an

intoxicant. People turned their heads to look at her, and more than one lent an attentive car to her utterances,

hoping thereby to secure the elusive but everdesired "tip." Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which

drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stare and

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

The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of Arobin to enliven things. Mrs.

Highcamp deplored the absence of her daughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had

missed by going to the "Dante reading" instead of joining them. The girl held a geranium leaf up to her nose

and said nothing, but looked knowing and noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, baldheaded man, who

only talked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of delicate courtesy and

consideration toward her husband. She addressed most of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the

library after dinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; while the younger people went

into the drawingroom near by and talked. Miss Highcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the

piano. She seemed to have apprehended all of the composer's coldness and none of his poetry. While Edna

When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offer to escort her, looking down at

his slippered feet with tactless concern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was

late when they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to enter for a second to light his

cigarettehis match safe was empty. He filled his match safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left her,

Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the Highcamp dinner, though of excellent

quality, had lacked abundance. She rummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some

crackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. Edna felt extremely restless and excited.

She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and munched a cracker.

She wanted something to happensomething, anything; she did not know what. She regretted that she had

not made Arobin stay a half hour to talk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But

there was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for hours in a sort of monotonous agitation.

In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to write her regular letter to her husband;

and she decided to do so next day and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide awake

composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote next day. When the maid awoke her in

the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal

Street, while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded an Esplanade Street car:

When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna in his drag, Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He

said they would pick her up. But as that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she was

not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the meeting of a branch Folk Lore Society,

and regretted that she could not accompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were

She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the fashionable acquaintances from whom she had

withdrawn herself. She thought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not leave the house,

except to take a languid walk around the block with her husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would

have laughed at such a request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for some

The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came back upon her like a remittent fever. Her

talk grew familiar and confidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner invited easy

confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one which he always endeavored to ignore

He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. They laughed and talked; and before

it was time to go he was telling her how different life might have been if he had known her years before. With

ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, illdisciplined boy he had been, and impulsively drew up his

cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of Paris when

he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A

quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand.

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

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

He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, vanishing self in her, yet drew all her

awakening sensuousness. He saw enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said

"No," she said. "I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all the money I've won, and I've got to work

"Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning may I come up to your atelier?

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

"No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? I don't like you," she went on in a high,

excited pitch, attempting to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity, and she

"I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have I offended you? What have I done? Can't

you forgive me?" And he bent and pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw

"Mr. Arobin," she complained, "I'm greatly upset by the excitement of the afternoon; I'm not myself. My

manner must have misled you in some way. I wish you to go, please." She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone.

He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, looking into the dying fire. For a moment

"Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier," he said finally. "My own emotions have done that. I

couldn't help it. When I'm near you, how could I help it? Don't think anything of it, don't bother, please. You

see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. If you let me come back, Ioh!

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

Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was alone she looked mechanically at

the back of her hand which he had kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She

felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into an act of infidelity, and realizes the

significance of the act without being wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely

She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her husband seemed to her now like a

She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin was absolutely nothing to her. Yet his presence, his

manners, the warmth of his glances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a

Alcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a

cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her, absurd that she should have taken his action so seriously, so

dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own

selfconsciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she replied to

it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the impression that she had in a susceptible moment

yielded to his influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed. She was provoked at his

having written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said

she would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination and his business

He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his disarming naivete. And then there was

scarcely a day which followed that she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in

pretexts. His attitude became one of goodhumored subservience and tacit adoration. He was ready at all

times to submit to her moods, which were as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They

became intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He sometimes talked in a way that

astonished her at first and brought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the

There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was

then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed

It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's

apartments under the roof. Her clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she

entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room

indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and

dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the

"Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before the stove. "Now it will

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

"You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But would you rather have a taste of

brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold." A piece of red flannel was

wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head on one side.

"I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and overshoes. She drank the

liquor from the glass as a man would have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said,

"Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish

her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening

in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby

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

"Just two steps away," laughed Edna, "in a little fourroom house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so

inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never

seemed like mine, anywaylike home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired

"That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you

have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself.

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

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

"Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own

from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races,

and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in

force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence.

However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or

nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me

and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence."

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

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

Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had

prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would

be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way

adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than

"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it,

Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be

merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being.

If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of Edna's visits, she

would give her the letter unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted

The little stove was roaring; it was redhot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went

forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven

"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I

"Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to

you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is

trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him."

"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle

approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it

in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark

"Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped

Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?"

"That he was coming back? No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did not come long ago."

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

"But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the

"If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry

hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me

he would have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high

enough to attract the notice of his fellowmen. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never

"Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in

love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's

twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: `Go

to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.'

Or, `I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, `This financier, who

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

Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing

"Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and

his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't

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

She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which

had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on

She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a

card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses.

Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to

move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving,

regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna

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

"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night

imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that

fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes

"One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and thinktry to determine what

character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a

devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about

"Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman

you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was

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

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

"She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself

"Well, for instance, when I left her today, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if

my wings were strong, she said. `The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice

must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'

"I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I

"Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something

"I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if

they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were

very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon

her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she

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

Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of the multitudinous emotions which

had assailed her. There was with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the

unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband's reproach looking at her from the external things

around her which he had provided for her external existence. There was Robert's reproach making itself felt

by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there

was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to took upon and

comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting

sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because

it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to

Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna

hastened her preparations for quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around

the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of

deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following

those hours passed in Arobin's society, Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements

for occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the

portals of some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone.

Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from her husband's bounty, she

caused to be transported to the other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own

Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the housemaid when he looked in during

the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown,

with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was

mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the front

"Come down!" he said. "Do you want to kill yourself?" She greeted him with affected carelessness, and

If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been

He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing attitudes, just as he bent

"No," she answered; "Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the `pigeon house'that's

the name Ellen gives it, because it's so small and looks like a pigeon houseand some one has to do this."

Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought

him one of her dustcaps, and went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when

she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could not refrain from

smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures

and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dustcap and

Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he came in

"That is all," she answered. "Ellen can manage the rest." She kept the young woman occupied in the

"It will be day after tomorrow. Why do you call it the `coup d'etat?' Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of

everythingcrystal, silver and gold, Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I'll let Leonce pay

"And you ask me why I call it a coup d'etat?" Arobin had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if

his cravat was plumb. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.

"Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?" asked Arobin. "The dust in the curtains, if you will

"While Ellen gets the water," said Edna, rising, "I will say goodby and let you go. I must get rid of this

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

"Not before?not tonight or tomorrow morning or tomorrow noon or night? or the day after morning or

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

"Not an instant sooner," she said. But she laughed and looked at him with eyes that at once gave him courage

Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a very small affair and very

select, in so much as the guests invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted

upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that

Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree souffrante and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame

Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a

There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the thirties; her husband, a jovial

fellow, something of a shallowpate, who laughed a good deal at other people's witticisms, and had thereby

made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there was Alcee Arobin;

and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace

trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife's excuses. Victor Lebrun, who

happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no

longer in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought

and said that she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She had come

with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing

special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the

tenth, and at halfpast eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of

Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss

There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an effect of splendor conveyed

by a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lacework. There were wax candles, in massive brass

candelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and red, abounded. There

were silver and gold, as she had said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which the

The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and replaced by the most commodious

and luxurious which could be collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly

diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon bulky

"Something new, Edna?" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed toward a magnificent cluster of

diamonds that sparkled, that almost sputtered, in Edna's hair, just over the center of her forehead.

"Quite new; `brand' new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived this morning from New York. I may

as well admit that this is my birthday, and that I am twentynine. In good time I expect you to drink my

health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, composedwould you say `composed?'" with

an appeal to Miss Mayblunt"composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet's wedding."

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

"Then, all things considered," spoke Arobin, "it might not be amiss to start out by drinking the Colonel's

health in the cocktail which he composed, on the birthday of the most charming of womenthe daughter

Mr. Merriman's laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so contagious that it started the dinner

Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before her, just to look at. The color was

marvelous! She could compare it to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted were

Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the mets, the entremets, the service, the

decorations, even the people. He looked up from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to the

gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and Arobin, lawyers. The young man admitted

that Laitner was a warm personal friend, who permitted Arobin's name to decorate the firm's letterheads and

"There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding," said Arobin, "that one is really forced as a

matter of convenience these days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not." Monsieur Ratignolle

stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she considered the symphony concerts up to the

standard which had been set the previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in

French, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but characteristic. Mademoiselle had only

disagreeable things to say of the symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians of

New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be centered upon the delicacies placed before

Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin's remark about inquisitive people reminded him of a man from Waco the

other day at the St. Charles Hotelbut as Mr. Merriman's stories were always lame and lacking point, his

wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to ask if he remembered the name of the

author whose book she had bought the week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking "books"

with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current literary topics. Her husband told

the story of the Waco man privately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to think it

Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm and impetuous volubility of her

lefthand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating

herself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier and more vivacious than Mrs.

Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the

occasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeable accompaniment rather than

an interruption to the conversation. Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the

sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through the open windows.

The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her. There was a soft fall of

lace encircling her shoulders. It was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one

may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in her whole appearance when

she leaned her head against the highbacked chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman,

But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking her; the hopelessness which so often

assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It

was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast cavern wherein

discords waited. There came over her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the

presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable.

The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around the circle like a mystic cord,

holding and binding these people together with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break

the pleasant charm. At ten o'clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle was waiting for him at home. She

was bien souffrante, and she was filled with vague dread, which only her husband'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 her head, for she bowed pleasantly to all as

she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and whispered: "Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez

sage." She had been a little bewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her cushions, and Monsieur

Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she had finished the garland, she laid

it lightly upon Victor's black curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of

As if a magician's wand had touched him, the garland of roses transformed him into a vision of Oriental

beauty. His cheeks were the color of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire.

But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took from the back of her chair a white

silken scarf, with which she had covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across

the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, conventional evening dress. He did not seem to

mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued to gaze with

"Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!" exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, losing herself in a

"`There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold.'" murmured Gouvernail,

The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed volubility into silence. He seemed to have

abandoned himself to a reverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead.

"I believe he's paralyzed," laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the youth's chair, she took the glass

from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it

"Yes, I'll sing for you," he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his

head, and looking up at the ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an

"Stop!" she cried, "don't sing that. I don't want you to sing it," and she laid her glass so impetuously and

blindly upon the table as to shatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin's legs and some of it

trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp's black gauze gown. Victor had lost all idea of courtesy, or else he

"Oh! you mustn't! you mustn't," exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her chair she got up, and going behind

him placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips.

"No, no, I won't, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn't know you meant it," looking up at her with caressing eyes. The

touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung

Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail

suddenly conceived the notion that it was time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how

Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, who she knew would be

charmed to meet him and talk French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and

intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Arobin were

The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness had fallen upon the broad, beautiful

street. The voices of Edna's disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the

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

"Well," she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling the need to relax her muscles after

"The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have dismissed them. The house has to be

closed and locked, and I shall trot around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning to

"I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. We had better look; you might take a

candle and see. And bring me my wrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room."

He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. She hated to shut in the smoke and

the fumes of the wine. Arobin found her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on.

When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through the front door, Arobin locking it and

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

She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which he offered her, holding up the

weight of her satin train with the other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in

and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway train

somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk.

The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow parterre that had been somewhat neglected.

There was a small front porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened

directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants, in which old

Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and

homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting,

covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with

flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during

Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the diningroom and kitchen.

"Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitchtoo tightand

something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm.

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

He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a

certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over

"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past

"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could

feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the

He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to

When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere,

he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which

he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he

begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of

scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to

consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It

might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their menage on

a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects.

But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon

her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his

The same mail which brought. to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructionsthe most minute

instructionsto a wellknown architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long

contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence.

Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything

movable, in shortto places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over

to the artisans. There was to be an additiona small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood

flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement.

Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were

contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was

undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had

Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided 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

The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a home, while she herself invested

it with a charm which it reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the

social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward

relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look

with her own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content to

After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week with her children in Iberville. They

were delicious February days, with all the summer's promise hovering in the air.

How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when she felt their little arms clasping her;

their hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry

eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to tell their mother! About the pigs,

the cows, the mules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper;

picking pecans with Lidie's little black brood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand

times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette

She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the darkies laying the cane, to thrash the

pecan trees, and catch fish in the back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of

herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They listened, breathless, when she told

them the house in Esplanade Street was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling the

place with clatter. They wanted. to know where their bed was; what had been done with their rockinghorse;

and where did Joe sleep, and where had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they were fired with a

desire to see the little house around the block. Was there any place to play? Were there any boys next door?

Raoul, with pessimistic foreboding, was convinced that there were only girls next door. Where would they

sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them the fairies would fix it all right.

The old Madame was charmed with Edna's visit, and showered all manner of delicate attentions upon her.

She was delighted to know that the Esplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the

It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She carried away with her the sound of their

voices and the touch of their cheeks. All along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her like the

memory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city the song no longer echoed in her soul.

It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that the little musician was absent, giving

a lesson or making some small necessary household purchase. The key was always left in a secret

hidingplace in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to be away, Edna would usually

When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's door one afternoon there was no response; so unlocking the door,

as usual, she entered and found the apartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled up,

and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that she sought out her friend.

She had worked at her canvasa young Italian character studyall the morning, completing the work

without the model; but there had been many interruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and

Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public thoroughfares, she said. She

complained that Edna had neglected her much of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the

little house and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear all about the dinner party;

Monsieur Ratignolle had left so early. What had happened after he left? The champagne and grapes which

Edna sent over were TOO delicious. She had so little appetite; they had refreshed and toned her stomach.

Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in that little house, and the boys? And then she made

"In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without a certain amount of reflection

which is necessary in this life. That is the reason I want to say you mustn't mind if I advise you to be a little

careful while you are living here alone. Why don't you have some one come and stay with you? Wouldn't

"Well, the reasonyou know how evilminded the world issome one was talking of Alcee Arobin

visiting you. Of course, it wouldn't matter if Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur

Ratignolle was telling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a woman s name."

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

"No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes. But his character is so well known among

the men. I shan't be able to come back and see you; it was very, very imprudent today."

"Don't neglect me," entreated Madame Ratignolle; "and don't mind what I said about Arobin, or having some

"Of course not," Edna laughed. "You may say anything you like to me." They kissed each other goodby.

Madame Ratignolle had not far to go, and Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the

Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their "party call." Edna felt that they

might have dispensed with the formality. They had also come to invite her to play vingtetun one evening at

Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and Mr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her

home. Edna accepted in a halfhearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs.

Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and stayed there alone, waiting for her,

feeling a kind of repose invade her with the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room.

Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the housetops and across the river. The window frame was

filled with pots of flowers, and she sat and picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm,

and the breeze which blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed her hat and laid it on the piano. She

went on picking the leaves and digging around the plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heard

Mademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, who came in, bringing a small bundle of

Edna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one hand the bars of a piece of music which lay

open before her. A halfhour went by. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in the

lower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking out the aria, when there was a second rap

at the door. She vaguely wondered what these people did when they found Mademoiselle's door locked.

"Come in," she called, turning her face toward the door. And this time it was Robert Lebrun who presented

himself. She attempted to rise; she could not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered her

at sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming, "Why, Robert!"

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

"Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happenoh! how well you look! Is Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never

"When did you come back?" asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping her face with her handkerchief. She

seemed ill at ease on the piano stool, and he begged her to take the chair by the window.

"I returned day before yesterday," he answered, while he leaned his arm on the keys, bringing forth a crash of

"Day before yesterday!" she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking to herself, "day before yesterday," in a sort

of an uncomprehending way. She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had lived under

the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by accident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle

"Day before yesterday," she repeated, breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle's geranium; "then if you had not

"Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many things" he turned the leaves of

Mademoiselle's music nervously. "I started in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is as much

chance for me here as there was therethat is, I might find it profitable some day. The Mexicans were not

So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because business was as profitable here as

there; because of any reason, and not because he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on the

floor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which was left untold.

She had not noticed how he lookedonly feeling his presence; but she turned deliberately and observed him.

After all, he had been absent but a few months, and was not changed. His hairthe color of herswaved

back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more burned than it had been at Grand

Isle. She found in his eyes, when he looked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an

added warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the

A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and imagined their first meeting. It was usually at her

home, whither he had sought her out at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way

his love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium

leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying:

"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell

me; and your movingmother told me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with

him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with housekeeping. And you are going

abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seemdo you see much of

"Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" A flush overspread his whole

"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat

"No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come back till late." She drew on her

"Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his

speech, "and I should miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key

They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks encumbered with the cheap

display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the

Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and

"Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming

"You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it is so long since I have seen you.

She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about his mother who expected

him; he even muttered something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it

was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamplight, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of

"Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and

"This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell

Celestine to set an extra place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she had not

thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet done to

When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great

"I tried to make a sketch of his head one day," answered Edna, "and he thought the photograph might help

me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing

"Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don't amount to anything."

"It seems to medo you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? You never said you

"He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine. I always knew himthat is, it is only of late that I

know him pretty well. But I'd rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doing and

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street of the Cheniere; the old

fort at Grande Terre. I've been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy street of the Cheniere

Caminada; the old sunny fort at Grande Terre. I've been working with a little more comprehension than a

"Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel," he said, with feeling, closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair.

The diningroom was very small. Edna's round mahogany would have almost filled it. As it was there was

but a step or two from the little table to the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that

A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of dinner. There was no return to

personalities. Robert related incidents of his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest

him, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary quality, except for the few delicacies

which she had sent out to purchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana tignon twisted about her head, hobbled in

and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and she lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert,

He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, and when he came back he found that

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

"You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed

"I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle," he said, not looking at her, but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco

pouch, which he laid upon the table, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork of a

"You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch," said Edna, picking up the pouch and examining the

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

"They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very picturesque, with their black eyes and their

"What was she likethe one who gave you the pouch? You must have known her very well."

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

"Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know and hear about the people you met, and

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

"It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and kind." He thrust the pouch back in his

Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that the card party was postponed on account

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

"But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in Mexico. I thought I should never get away

"Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hatbands and things for you?" asked Edna.

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

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

"I've been imposing myself long enough," said Robert, rising, and shaking hands with Edna. "Please convey

"Fine fellow, that Lebrun," said Arobin when Robert had gone. "I never heard you speak of him."

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

"I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's," she said. "If you see her, tell her so. But perhaps I had better write. I

think I shall write now, and say that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me."

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

Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to write the note. Arobin lit a cigar and

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

"What do you want to do?" he asked, throwing aside the paper. "Do you want to go out for a walk or a drive

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

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

"I have said it before, but I don't think I ever came so near meaning it," he answered with a smile. There were

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

She stayed alone in a kind of reveriea sort of stupor. Step by step she lived over every instant of the time

she had been with Robert after he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz's door. She recalled his words, his looks.

How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A visiona transcendently seductive vision of a

Mexican girl arose before her. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come back. He

had not said he would come back. She had been with him, had heard his voice and touched his hand. But

The morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her no denialonly the promise of

excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, with bright eyes full of speculation. "He loves you, poor fool." If she

could but get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered about the rest? She felt she had been

childish and unwise the night before in giving herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the motives

which no doubt explained Robert's reserve. They were not insurmountable; they would not hold if he really

loved her; they could not hold against her own passion, which he must come to realize in time. She pictured

him going to his business that morning. She even saw how he was dressed; how he walked down one street,

and turned the corner of another; saw him bending over his desk, talking to people who entered the office,

going to his lunch, and perhaps 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 go away as he had done the night before. But how delicious

it would be to have him there with her! She would have no regrets, nor seek to penetrate his reserve if he still

Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her a delicious printed scrawl from Raoul,

expressing his love, asking her to send him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten

A letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back early in March, and then they would get

ready for that journey abroad which he had promised her so long, which he felt now fully able to afford; he

felt able to travel as people should, without any thought of small economiesthanks to his recent

Much to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written at midnight from the club. It was to say good

morning to her, to hope she had slept well, to assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she in some faintest

All these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in a cheerful frame of mind, promising them

She answered her husband with friendly evasiveness, not with any fixed design to mislead him, only

because all sense of reality had gone out of her life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited the

Edna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a picture dealer, who asked her if it were

She said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for some Parisian studies to reach him in time for the

Robert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did not come the following day, nor the next.

Each morning she awoke with hope, and each night she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seek

him out. But far from yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasion which might throw her in his way.

She did not go to Mademoiselle Reisz's nor pass by Madame Lebrun's, as she might have done if he had still

When Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she wentout to the lake, on the Shell Road. His

horses were full of mettle, and even a little unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along,

and the quick, sharp sound of the horses' hoofs on the hard road. They did not stop anywhere to eat or to

drink. Arobin was not needlessly imprudent. But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna's little

It was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing whim with Arobin to see her and be with

her. He had detected the latent sensuality, which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature's

There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there hope when she awoke in the

There was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with a few green tables under the orange trees.

An old cat slept all day on the stone step in the sun, and an old mulatresse slept her idle hours away in her

chair at the open window, till, some one happened to knock on one of the green tables. She had milk and

cream cheese to sell, and bread and butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee or fry a

The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion, and so quiet as to have escaped the

notice of those in search of pleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day when the

highboard gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green table, blotched with the checkered sunlight that

filtered through the quivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumbering mulatresse, the drowsy

cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of the milk she had tasted in Iberville.

She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a book with her, and sitting an hour or

two under the trees when she found the place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there alone,

having instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at home. It was the last place in the city where

Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest dinner late in the afternoon, looking into

an open book, stroking the cat, which had made friends with hershe was not greatly astonished to see

"I am destined to see you only by accident," she said, shoving the cat off the chair beside her. He was

"I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche's good coffee. This is the first time since I came back."

"She'll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There's always enough for twoeven three." Edna

had intended to be indifferent and as reserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by

a laborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods. But her resolve melted when she saw

"Why have you kept away from me, Robert?" she asked, closing the book that lay open upon the table.

"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to idiotic subterfuges?" he exclaimed with

sudden warmth. "I suppose there's no use telling you I've been very busy, or that I've been sick, or that I've

been to see you and not found you at home. Please let me off with any one of these excuses."

"You are the embodiment of selfishness," she said. "You save yourself somethingI don't know whatbut

there is some selfish motive, and in sparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I think, or how I

feel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would call unwomanly; but I have got into a

habit of expressing myself. It doesn't matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like."

"No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe not intentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing

me into disclosures which can result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound for the pleasure of

"I'm spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven't eaten a morsel."

"I only came in for a cup of coffee." His sensitive face was all disfigured with excitement.

"Isn't this a delightful place?" she remarked. "I am so glad it has never actually been discovered. It is so quiet,

so sweet, here. Do you notice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It's so out of the way; and a good walk

from the car. However, I don't mind walking. I always feel so sorry for women who don't like to walk; they

miss so muchso many rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life on the whole.

"Catiche's coffee is always hot. I don't know how she manages it, here in the open air. Celestine's coffee gets

cold bringing it from the kitchen to the diningroom. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet? Take

some of the cress with your chop; it's so biting and crisp. Then there's the advantage of being able to smoke

"I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a whole box." She was determined not to be personal

The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked his cigar. He stroked her silky fur,

and talked a little about her. He looked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to save her

Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when they reached the little

"pigeonhouse." She did not ask him to remain, which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without

the discomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of considering. He helped her to

light the lamp; then she went into her room to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands.

When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines as before; he sat off in the

shadow, leaning his head back on the chair as if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table,

arranging the books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bent over the arm of his chair

She leaned over and kissed hima soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose voluptuous sting penetrated his whole

beingthen she moved away from him. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to him.

She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her own. The action was full of love and

tenderness. He sought her lips again. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand in

"Now you know," he said, "now you know what I have been fighting against since last summer at Grand Isle;

"Why have you been fighting against it?" she asked. Her face glowed with soft lights.

"Why? Because you were not free; you were Leonce Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were

ten times his wife; but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help 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 face

"Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild

"Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we

"I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing."

She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She

"You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak

of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I

give myself where I choose. If he were to say, 'Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should

There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come

around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to

"Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yesto wait for me. I'll go back with her."

"No," she said; "I will go with the servant. She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in

again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck.

"Goodby, my sweet Robert. Tell me goodby." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before

"I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a

lifelong, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered,

suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other.

Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter

"Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me."

"I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said goodby

again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of

Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully,

dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a

comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not

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 the past week, as she lived a great

distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for

Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the store to the apartments above. The

children were all sleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in

her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white peignoir, holding a handkerchief tight in

her hand with a nervous clutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard and unnatural.

All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and plaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a

golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white apron and cap, was urging her to

"There is no use, there is no use," she said at once to Edna. "We must get rid of Mandelet; he is getting too

old and careless. He said he would be here at halfpast seven; now it must be eight. See what time it is,

The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any situation too seriously, especially a

situation withwhich she was so familiar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame only

set her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gather in beads on her white forehead. After a

moment or two she uttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled in a ball. She

appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water.

"This is too much!" she cried. "Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is Alphonse? Is it possible I am to be

"Neglected, indeed!" exclaimed the nurse. Wasn't she there? And here was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt,

a pleasant evening at home to devote to her? And wasn't Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant

through the hall? And Josephine was quite sure she had heard Doctor Mandelet's coupe. Yes, there it was,

Adele consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little low couch next to her bed.

Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle's upbraidings. He was accustomed to them at such

He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon and entertain him. But Madame

Ratignolle would not consent that Edna should leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she

Edna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her own like experiences seemed far away,

unreal, and only half remembered. She recalled faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a

stupor which had deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a little new life to which she had given being,

She began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. She might have invented a pretext for

staying away; she might even invent a pretext now for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony,

with a flaming, outspoken revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed the scene of torture.

She was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leaned over her friend to kiss her and softly

say goodby. Adele, pressing her cheek, whispered in an exhausted voice: "Think of the children, Edna. Oh

Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The Doctor's coupe had returned for him and stood

before the porte cochere. She did not wish to enter the coupe, and told Doctor Mandelet she would walk; she

was not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his carriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier's, and he started to

Upaway up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the stars were blazing. The air was mild and

caressing, but cool with the breath of spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy,

measured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absentminded way, as she had walked one night at

Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had gone ahead of her and she was striving to overtake them.

"You shouldn't have been there, Mrs. Pontellier," he said. "That was no place for you. Adele is full of whims

at such times. There were a dozen women she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt that

"Oh, well!" she answered, indifferently. "I don't know that it matters after all. One has to think of the children

"Perhapsno, I am not going. I'm not going to be forced into doing things. I don't want to go abroad. I want

to be let alone. Nobody has any rightexcept children, perhapsand even then, it seems to meor it did

seem" She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency of her thoughts, and stopped abruptly.

"The trouble is," sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning intuitively, "that youth is given up to illusions. It

seems to be a provision of Nature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes no account of

moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create, and which we feel obliged to maintain at any

"Yes," she said. "The years that are gone seem like dreamsif one might go on sleeping and dreamingbut

to wake up and findoh! well! perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a

"It seems to me, my dear child," said the Doctor at parting, holding her hand, "you seem to me to be in

trouble. I am not going to ask for your confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it to me,

perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand, And I tell you there are not many who wouldnot

"Some way I don't feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. Don't think I am ungrateful or that I don't

appreciate your sympathy. There are periods of despondency and suffering which take possession of me. But

I don't want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample

upon the lives, the hearts, the prejudices of othersbut no matterstill, I shouldn't want to trample upon the

little lives. Oh! I don't know what I'm saying, Doctor. Good night. Don't blame me for anything."

"Yes, I will blame you if you don't come and see me soon. We will talk of things you never have dreamt of

talking about before. It will do us both good. I don't want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good

She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat upon the step of the porch. The night was quiet

and soothing. All the tearing emotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away from her like a somber,

uncomfortable garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid of. She went back to that hour before Adele had

sent for her; and her senses kindled afresh in thinking of Robert's words, the pressure of his arms, and the

feeling of his lips upon her own. She could picture at that moment no greater bliss on earth than possession of

the beloved one. His expression of 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 the intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be

asleep perhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep that she might arouse him

Still, she remembered Adele's voice whispering, "Think of the children; think of them." She meant to think of

them; that determination had driven into her soul like a death woundbut not tonight. Tomorrow would

Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere at hand. The house was empty. But he had

Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa. Then she stretched herself out there,

never uttering a sound. She did not sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. She was

still awake in the morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen door and came in to light the fire.

Victor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a corner of one of the galleries.

Mariequita sat near by, dangling her legs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the toolbox. The

sun was beating down upon them. The girl had covered her head with her apron folded into a square pad.

They had been talking for an hour or more. She was never tired of hearing Victor describe the dinner at Mrs.

Pontellier's. He exaggerated every detail, making it appear a veritable Lucullean feast. The flowers were in

tubs, he said. The champagne was quaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from the foam could have

presented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing with beauty and diamonds at the head

of the board, while the other women were all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable charms.

She got it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs. Pontellier, and he gave her evasive answers, framed

so as to confirm her belief. She grew sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off and leave him to his fine

ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about her at the Cheniere; and since it was the fashion to be in love

with married people, why, she could run away any time she liked to New Orleans with Celina's husband.

Celina's husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it to her, Victor intended to hammer his head

into a jelly the next time he encountered him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. She dried her

They were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city life when Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped

around the corner of the house. The two youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they

considered to be an apparition. But it was really she in flesh and blood, looking tired and a little

"I walked up from the wharf", she said, "and heard the hammering. I supposed it was you, mending the porch.

It's a good thing. I was always tripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and deserted

It took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come in Beaudelet's lugger, that she had come

"There's nothing fixed up yet, you see. I'll give you my room; it's the only place."

"And if you can stand Philomel's cooking," he went on, "though I might try to get her mother while you are

Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel's mother might come for a few days, and money enough.

Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once suspected a lovers' rendezvous. But

Victor's astonishment was so genuine, and Mrs. Pontellier's indifference so apparent, that the disturbing

notion did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated with the greatest interest this woman who gave the

most sumptuous dinners in America, and who had all the men in New Orleans at her feet.

"What time will you have dinner?" asked Edna. "I'm very hungry; but don't get anything extra."

"I'll have it ready in little or no time," he said, bustling and packing away his tools. "You may go to my room

"Thank you", said Edna. "But, do you know, I have a notion to go down to the beach and take a good wash

"Well, I might go down and trydip my toes in. Why, it seems to me the sun is hot enough to have warmed

the very depths of the ocean. Could you get me a couple of towels? I'd better go right away, so as to be back

Mariequita ran over to Victor's room, and returned with some towels, which she gave to Edna.

"I hope you have fish for dinner," said Edna, as she started to walk away; "but don't do anything extra if you

"Run and find Philomel's mother," Victor instructed the girl. "I'll go to the kitchen and see what I can do. By

Edna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticing anything special except that the sun was

hot. She was not dwelling upon any particular train of thought. She had done all the thinking which was

necessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa till morning.

She had said over and over to herself: "Today it is Arobin; tomorrow it will be some one else. It makes no

difference to me, it doesn't matter about Leonce Pontellierbut Raoul and Etienne!" She understood now

clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to Adele Ratignolle that she would give up the

Despondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never lifted. There was no one thing in

the world that she desired. There was no human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she

even realized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought of him would melt out of her existence,

leaving her alone. The children appeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had

overpowered and sought to drag her into the soul's slavery for the rest of her days. But she knew a way to

elude them. She was not thinking of these things when she walked down to the beach.

The water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with the million lights of the sun. The voice of the

sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of

solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, there was no living thing in sight. A bird with a broken

wing was beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water.

Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its accustomed peg.

She put it on, leaving her clothing in the bathhouse. But when she was there beside the sea, absolutely

alone, she cast the unpleasant, pricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she stood naked in

the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that invited her.

How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how delicious! She felt like some newborn

The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents about her ankles. She walked out.

The water was chill, but she walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and reached out

with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.

She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and recalled the terror that seized her at the

fear of being unable to regain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on, thinking of the

bluegrass meadow that she had traversed when a little child, believing that it had no beginning and no end.

She thought of Leonce and the children. They were a part of her life. But they need not have thought that they

could possess her, body and soul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if she

knew! "And you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame! The artist must possess the courageous

"Goodbybecause I love you." He did not know; he did not understand. He would never understand.

Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have understood if she had seen himbut it was too late; the shore was far

She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her

father's voice and her sister Margaret's. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore

tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees, and