Part XXXIII

It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz

that the little musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some

small necessary household purchase. The key was always left in a

secret hiding-place in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle

happened to be away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her

return.

When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's door one afternoon

there was no response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered

and found the apartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had

been quite filled up, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to

talk about Robert, that she sought out her friend.

She had worked at her canvas—a young Italian character

study—all the morning, completing the work without the model; but

there had been many interruptions, some incident to her modest

housekeeping, and others of a social nature.

Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too

public thoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had

neglected her much of late. Besides, she was consumed with

curiosity to see the little house and the manner in which it was

conducted. She wanted to hear all about the dinner party; Monsieur

Ratignolle had left so early. What had happened after he left?

The champagne and grapes which Edna sent over were TOO delicious.

She had so little appetite; they had refreshed and toned her stomach.

Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in that little house,

and the boys? And then she made Edna promise to go to her when her hour

of trial overtook her.

"At any time—any time of the day or night, dear," Edna

assured her.

Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said:

"In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to

act without a certain amount of reflection which is necessary in

this life. That is the reason I want to say you mustn't mind if I

advise you to be a little careful while you are living here alone.

Why don't you have some one come and stay with you? Wouldn't

Mademoiselle Reisz come?"

"No; she wouldn't wish to come, and I shouldn't want her

always with me."

"Well, the reason—you know how evil-minded the world is—some

one was talking of Alcee Arobin visiting you. Of course, it

wouldn't matter if Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation.

Monsieur Ratignolle was telling me that his attentions alone are

considered enough to ruin a woman s name."

"Does he boast of his successes?" asked Edna, indifferently,

squinting at her picture.

"No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as

that goes. But his character is so well known among the men. I

shan't be able to come back and see you; it was very, very

imprudent to-day."

"Mind the step!" cried Edna.

"Don't neglect me," entreated Madame Ratignolle; "and don't

mind what I said about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you.

"Of course not," Edna laughed. "You may say anything you like

to me." They kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not

far to go, and Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk

down the street.

Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made

their "party call." Edna felt that they might have dispensed

with the formality. They had also come to invite her to play

vingt-et-un one evening at Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early,

to dinner, and Mr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home.

Edna accepted in a half-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired

of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman.

Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle

Reisz, and stayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of

repose invade her with the very atmosphere of the shabby,

unpretentious little room.

Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops

and across the river. The window frame was filled with pots of

flowers, and she sat and picked the dry leaves from a rose

geranium. The day was warm, and the breeze which blew from the

river was very pleasant. She removed her hat and laid it on the

piano. She went on picking the leaves and digging around the

plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heard Mademoiselle

Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, who came in,

bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she deposited in the

adjoining room, and went away.

Edna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with

one hand the bars of a piece of music which lay open before her.

A half-hour went by. There was the occasional sound of people

going and coming in the lower hall. She was growing interested in

her occupation of picking out the aria, when there was a second rap

at the door. She vaguely wondered what these people did when they

found Mademoiselle's door locked.

"Come in," she called, turning her face toward the door. And

this time it was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She

attempted to rise; she could not have done so without betraying the

agitation which mastered her at sight of him, so she fell back upon

the stool, only exclaiming, "Why, Robert!"

He came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what

he was saying or doing.

"Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen—oh! how well you look!

Is Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you."

"When did you come back?" asked Edna in an unsteady voice,

wiping her face with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on

the piano stool, and he begged her to take the chair by the window.

She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool.

"I returned day before yesterday," he answered, while he

leaned his arm on the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant

sound.

"Day before yesterday!" she repeated, aloud; and went on

thinking to herself, "day before yesterday," in a sort of an

uncomprehending way. She had pictured him seeking her at the very

first hour, and he had lived under the same sky since day before

yesterday; while only by accident had he stumbled upon her.

Mademoiselle must have lied when she said, "Poor fool, he loves

you."

"Day before yesterday," she repeated, breaking off a spray of

Mademoiselle's geranium; "then if you had not met me here to-day

you wouldn't—when—that is, didn't you mean to come and see me?"

"Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so

many things—" he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle's music

nervously. "I started in at once yesterday with the old firm.

After all there is as much chance for me here as there was

there—that is, I might find it profitable some day. The Mexicans were

not very congenial."

So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial;

because business was as profitable here as there; because of any

reason, and not because he cared to be near her. She remembered

the day she sat on the floor, turning the pages of his letter,

seeking the reason which was left untold.

She had not noticed how he looked—only feeling his presence;

but she turned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had

been absent but a few months, and was not changed. His hair—the

color of hers—waved back from his temples in the same way as

before. His skin was not more burned than it had been at Grand Isle.

She found in his eyes, when he looked at her for one silent moment,

the same tender caress, with an added warmth and entreaty which had

not been there before the same glance which had penetrated to the

sleeping places of her soul and awakened them.

A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert's return, and

imagined their first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither

he had sought her out at once. She always fancied him expressing

or betraying in some way his love for her. And here, the reality

was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing

geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around

on the piano stool, saying:

"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's

absence; it's a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your

moving—mother told me yesterday. I should think you would have

gone to New York with him, or to Iberville with the children,

rather than be bothered here with housekeeping. And you are going

abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have you at Grand Isle next summer;

it won't seem—do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often

spoke of you in the few letters she wrote."

"Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you

went away?" A flush overspread his whole face.

"I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest

to you."

"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her

hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through

the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation.

"Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked

Robert.

"No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable

not to come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert

picked up his hat.

"Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna.

"Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as

if suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should

miss the pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door

and put the key back in its hiding-place.

They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and

sidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen.

Part of the distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking,

passed the Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn

asunder. Robert had never known the house, and looked at it with

interest.

"I never knew you in your home," he remarked.

"I am glad you did not."

"Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner,

and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he

followed her into the little house.

"You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all

alone, and it is so long since I have seen you. There is so much

I want to ask you."

She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making

some excuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered

something about an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp

on the table; it was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the

lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone out of it,

he threw his hat aside and seated himself.

"Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!" he

exclaimed. All the softness came back. She laughed, and went and

put her hand on his shoulder.

"This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert.

I'll go tell Celestine." She hurried away to tell Celestine to set

an extra place. She even sent her off in search of some added

delicacy which she had not thought of for herself. And she

recommended great care in dripping the coffee and having the omelet

done to a proper turn.

When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines,

sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He

picked up a photograph, and exclaimed:

"Alcee Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?"

"I tried to make a sketch of his head one day," answered Edna,

"and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house.

I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with

my drawing materials."

"I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with it."

"Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning them.

They don't amount to anything." Robert kept on looking at the picture.

"It seems to me—do you think his head worth drawing?

Is he a friend of Mr. Pontellier's? You never said you knew him."

"He isn't a friend of Mr. Pontellier's; he's a friend of mine.

I always knew him—that is, it is only of late that I know him

pretty well. But I'd rather talk about you, and know what you have

been seeing and doing and feeling out there in Mexico." Robert

threw aside the picture.

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle;

the quiet, grassy street of the Cheniere; the old fort at

Grande Terre. I've been working like a machine, and feeling like

a lost soul. There was nothing interesting."

She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes

from the light.

"And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling

all these days?" he asked.

"I've been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle;

the quiet, grassy street of the Cheniere Caminada; the old

sunny fort at Grande Terre. I've been working with a little more

comprehension than a machine, and still feeling like a lost soul.

There was nothing interesting."

"Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel," he said, with feeling,

closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They

remained in silence till old Celestine announced dinner.