Part XIII

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 pages of her velvet

prayer-book.

"I felt giddy and almost overcome," Edna said, lifting her

hands instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from

her forehead. "I couldn't have stayed through the service." They

were outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of

solicitude.

"It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let

alone staying. Come over to Madame Antoine's; you can rest there."

He took her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and

continuously down into her face.

How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering

through the reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line

of little gray, weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the

orange trees. It must always have been God's day on that low,

drowsy island, Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged

fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced

Acadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which was nothing more

than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in the ground.

The water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was not cold

to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly

revived and refreshed her.

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 comfortably.

The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big,

four-posted bed, snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small

side room which looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the

shed, where there was a disabled boat lying keel upward.

Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had,

but she supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert

to be seated and wait for him. But he went and sat outside the

door and smoked. Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front

room preparing dinner. She was boiling mullets over a few red

coals in the huge fireplace.

Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her

clothes, removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face,

her neck and arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She

took off her shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very

center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus

in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel

lingering about the sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong

limbs that ached a little. She ran her fingers through her

loosened hair for a while. She looked at her round arms as she

held them straight up and rubbed them one after the other,

observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the first

time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped

her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep.

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 on—Tonie'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,

muffled sounds lulling her senses.

When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept

long and soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame

Antoine's step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room.

Even the chickens had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The

mosquito bar was drawn over her; the old woman had come in while

she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed,

and looking between the curtains of the window, she saw by the

slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced.

Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against

the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a

book. 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

face glowed.

When she had completed her toilet she walked into the

adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there

was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and

a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of

wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf,

tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the

wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of

doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree,

threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up.

An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and

joined her under the orange tree.

"How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole

island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up,

leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did

Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand

Isle disappear from the earth?"

He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.

"You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here

to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out

under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent

was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."

"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna,

moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of

Monsieur Farival and the others?"

"Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they

thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let

them. What was I here for?"

"I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she

seated herself at table.

"Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as

he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had

been left standing on the hearth.

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

"Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am

to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go."

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 loaf.

"The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he

answered.

"The sun will be gone in two hours."

"Well, let it go; who cares!"

They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame

Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to

explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy,

and would not willingly face any woman except his mother.

It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees,

while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to

flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out

like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass.

Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground—that is, he lay upon

the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her

muslin gown.

Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a

bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and

had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch.

And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had

left the Cheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span.

All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island,

gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came

on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering

voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold.

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.