Part XVI

"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 her.

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

everywhere—in 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 sewing-machine. She sat there and chatted at intervals as

Robert had done. She gazed around the room at the pictures and

photographs hanging upon the wall, and discovered in some corner an

old family album, which she examined with the keenest interest,

appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment concerning the many

figures and faces which she discovered between its pages.

There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby,

seated in her lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth.

The eyes alone in the baby suggested the man. And that was he also

in kilts, at the age of five, wearing long curls and holding a whip

in his hand. It made Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait

in his first long trousers; while another interested her, taken when he

left for college, looking thin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire,

ambition and great intentions. But there was no recent picture,

none which suggested the Robert who had gone away five days ago,

leaving a void and wilderness behind him.

"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 dresser,

or perhaps it was on the mantelpiece.

The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest

interest and attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape,

the post-mark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the

outside before opening it. There were only a few lines, setting

forth that he would leave the city that afternoon, that he had

packed his trunk in good shape, that he was well, and sent her his

love and begged to be affectionately remembered to all. There was

no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that if Mrs.

Pontellier desired to finish the book which he had been reading to

her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there

on the table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had

written to his mother rather than to her.

Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him.

Even her husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's

departure, expressed regret that he had gone.

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

"It's very dull without him," she admitted. Mr. Pontellier

had 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 seem—grave, or gay, or how? Quite cheerful, and wholly

taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier found

altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune

and adventure in a strange, queer country.

Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the

children persisted in playing in the sun when they might be under

the trees. She went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the

quadroon for not being more attentive.

It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she

should be making of Robert the object of conversation and leading

her husband to speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained

for Robert in no way resembled that which she felt for her husband,

or had ever felt, or ever expected to feel. She had all her life

long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never

voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles.

They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the

conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no

one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she

would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one.

Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not

appear to understand each other or to be talking the same language.

Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain.

"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, which is revealing itself to me."

"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 that—your Bible tells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more

than that."

"Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna.

She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the

morning 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," replied the woman,

disagreeably.

"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 people and

requiring them to pay for it.

"She must feel very lonely without her son," said Edna,

desiring to change the subject. "Her favorite son, too. It must

have been quite hard to let him go."

Mademoiselle laughed maliciously.

"Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could 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 hasn't beaten him to death long ago."

"I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered

Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said.

"Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said

Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered

that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking

to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying

her basket—I 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 while. It's about time he

was getting another."

"Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna.

"Mariequita—yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten.

Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!"

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 for her.

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.

"When do you leave?" asked Edna.

"Next Monday; and you?"

"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 Farival twins."