Part XXII

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 semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is,

upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than

skill—leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants

and younger contemporaries—and 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 among these.

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 eye-glasses 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 brightness but none of their penetration.

"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough

fiber—of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and

finally blow away. I came to consult—no, not precisely to

consult—to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her."

"Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I

saw her—I think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the

picture of health, it seemed to me."

"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 you'd help me."

"How does she act?" inquired the Doctor.

"Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier,

throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go

to the dickens."

"Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier.

We've got to consider—"

"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole

attitude—toward me and everybody and everything—has 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; and—you understand—we meet in the morning at the

breakfast table."

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his

thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his

cushioned fingertips.

"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?"

"Doing! Parbleu!"

"Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating

of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women—super-spiritual

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 street-cars, 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 family

antecedents, is there?"

"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. Margaret—you know

Margaret—she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the

youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a

couple of weeks from now."

"Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor,

foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people

for a while; it will do her good."

"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 the recollection.

"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 organism—a 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 pass happily over, especially if you let her alone.

Send her around to see me."

"Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it,"

objected Mr. Pontellier.

"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 Thursday?" he asked, rising

to take his leave.

"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some

engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know.

Otherwise, you may expect me."

Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:

"I am going to New York on business 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 laughed.

"No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave

such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in

your blood."

"What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his

hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you

advise me to take Edna along?"

"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 months—possibly longer, but it will pass;

have patience."

"Well, good-by, a jeudi, " said Mr. Pontellier, as he let

himself out.

The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation

to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too

well to make such a blunder as that.

He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while

meditatively looking out into the garden.