Part XXVI

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

self-consciousness. 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 gave him the opportunity.

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 good-humored

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 animalism

that stirred impatiently within her.

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 to reach Edna's spirit

and set it free.

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

mantelpiece.

"Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising

from her knees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright

enough; I can let the fire alone."

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, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move

away from my house on Esplanade Street."

"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 artificial flowers in their accustomed place.

"Aren't you astonished?"

"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 four-room

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, anyway—like

home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants.

I am tired bothering with them."

"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."

"What does your husband say?"

"I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning.

He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so."

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 herself.

"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 her while the young woman read the letter.

The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, 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 and handed it to Edna.

"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with

delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his

letters?"

"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."

"Why do you show me his letters, then?"

"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 places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation.

"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."

"But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when."

"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 pages this way

and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold.

"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 fellow-men. It seems to me if

I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary

caliber worthy of my devotion."

"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 controls the world's money markets?'

"You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you

in love with Robert?"

"Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it,

and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots.

"Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you

ought not to?"

Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees

before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her

two hands.

"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 straighten from having played

baseball too energetically in his youth. Because—"

"Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will

you do when he comes back?" she asked.

"Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive."

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 her way home.

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.

Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness.