Part XVII

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 curtain—no matter what—after

he had bought it and placed it among his household gods.

On Tuesday afternoons—Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's

reception day—there was a constant stream of callers—women who

came in carriages or in the street cars, or walked when the air was

soft and distance permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy,

in dress coat and bearing a diminutive silver tray

for the reception of cards, admitted them. A maid,

in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee,

or chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a

handsome reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire

afternoon receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the

evening with their wives.

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 half-past six or seven in

the evening—dinner being served at half-past seven.

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 with pepper, salt,

vinegar, mustard—everything within reach.

"There were a good many," replied Edna, who was eating her

soup with evident satisfaction. "I found their cards when I got

home; I was out."

"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 did you have to do?"

"Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out."

"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse," said her husband,

somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.

"No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all."

"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 free-lunch stand in

town serves a better one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?"

"Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don't remember who was here."

The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny

silver tray, which was covered with ladies' visiting cards. He

handed it to Mrs. Pontellier.

"Give it to Mr. Pontellier," she said.

Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.

Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers,

reading some of them aloud, with comments as he read.

"`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 Boltons.'" He pushed the cards aside.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. "Why are you

taking the thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?"

"I'm not making any fuss over it. But it's just such seeming trifles

that we've got to take seriously; such things count."

The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it.

Edna said she did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was

in some way not to his fancy, and he did not like the manner in

which the vegetables were served.

"It seems to me," he said, "we spend money enough in this

house to procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and

retain his self-respect."

"You used to think the cook was a treasure," returned Edna,

indifferently.

"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 their own way; they'd soon make a

nice mess of me and my business."

"Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeing that her husband

arose from table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of

the highly-seasoned soup.

"I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Good night." He went

into the hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the

house.

She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often

made her very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been

completely deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes

she had gone into the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the

cook. Once she went to her room and studied the cookbook during an

entire evening, finally writing out a menu for the week, which left

her harassed with a feeling that, after all, she had accomplished

no good that was worth the name.

But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced

deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some

inward fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went

to her room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers

that she was indisposed.

It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in

the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went

and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle

of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night

seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky

and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking

herself and finding herself in just such sweet, half-darkness which

met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her

from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and

sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She

turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its

whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in

her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled

into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off

her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying

there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her

small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the

little glittering circlet.

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.

"A vase fell upon the hearth," said Edna. "Never mind; leave

it till morning."

"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."

Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon

her finger.