Part XXXVI

There was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner,

with a few green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept

all day on the stone step in the sun, and an old mulatresse

slept her idle hours away in her chair at the open window, till,

some one happened to knock on one of the green tables. She had

milk and cream cheese to sell, and bread and butter. There was no

one who could make such excellent coffee or fry a chicken so

golden brown as she.

The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of

fashion, and so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in

search of pleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it

accidentally one day when the high-board gate stood ajar. She

caught sight of a little green table, blotched with the checkered

sunlight that filtered through the quivering leaves overhead.

Within she had found the slumbering mulatresse, the drowsy cat,

and a glass of milk which reminded her of the milk she had tasted

in Iberville.

She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes

taking a book with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees

when she found the place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet

dinner there alone, having instructed Celestine beforehand to

prepare no dinner at home. It was the last place in the city where

she would have expected to meet any one she knew.

Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a

modest dinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book,

stroking the cat, which had made friends with her—she was not

greatly astonished to see Robert come in at the tall garden gate.

"I am destined to see you only by accident," she said, shoving

the cat off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease,

almost embarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

"I almost live here," she said.

"I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche's good

coffee. This is the first time since I came back."

"She'll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner.

There's always enough for two—even three." Edna had intended to be

indifferent and as reserved as he when she met him; she had reached

the determination by a laborious train of reasoning, incident to

one of her despondent moods. But her resolve melted when she saw

him before designing Providence had led him into her path.

"Why have you kept away from me, Robert?" she asked, closing

the book that lay open upon the table.

"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me

to idiotic subterfuges?" he exclaimed with sudden warmth. "I

suppose there's no use telling you I've been very busy, or that

I've been sick, or that I've been to see you and not found you at

home. Please let me off with any one of these excuses."

"You are the embodiment of selfishness," she said. "You save

yourself something—I don't know what—but there is some selfish

motive, and in sparing yourself you never consider for a moment

what I think, or how I feel your neglect and indifference. I

suppose this is what you would call unwomanly; but I have got into

a habit of expressing myself. It doesn't matter to me, and you may

think me unwomanly if you like."

"No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe

not intentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into

disclosures which can result in nothing; as if you would have me

bare a wound for the pleasure of looking at it, without the

intention or power of healing it."

"I'm spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You

haven't eaten a morsel."

"I only came in for a cup of coffee." His sensitive face was

all disfigured with excitement.

"Isn't this a delightful place?" she remarked. "I am so glad

it has never actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet,

here. Do you notice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It's so

out of the way; and a good walk from the car. However, I don't

mind walking. I always feel so sorry for women who don't like to

walk; they miss so much—so many rare little glimpses of life; and

we women learn so little of life on the whole.

"Catiche's coffee is always hot. I don't know how she

manages it, here in the open air. Celestine's coffee gets cold

bringing it from the kitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps!

How can you drink it so sweet? Take some of the cress with your chop;

it's so biting and crisp. Then there's the advantage of being able to

smoke with your coffee out here. Now, in the city—aren't you going to smoke?"

"After a while," he said, laying a cigar on the table.

"Who gave it to you?" she laughed.

"I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a

whole box." She was determined not to be personal again and make

him uncomfortable.

The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when

he smoked his cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little

about her. He looked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he

told her the end, to save her the trouble of wading through it, he

said.

Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after

dusk when they reached the little "pigeon-house." She did not ask

him to remain, which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to

stay without the discomfort of blundering through an excuse which

he had no intention of considering. He helped her to light the

lamp; then she went into her room to take off her hat and to bathe

her face and hands.

When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and

magazines as before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head

back on the chair as if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment

beside the table, arranging the books there. Then she went across

the room to where he sat. She bent over the arm of his chair and

called his name.

"Robert," she said, "are you asleep?"

"No," he answered, looking up at her.

She leaned over and kissed him—a soft, cool, delicate kiss,

whose voluptuous sting penetrated his whole being-then she moved

away from him. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding

her close to him. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his

cheek against her own. The action was full of love and tenderness.

He sought her lips again. Then he drew her down upon the sofa

beside him and held her hand in both of his.

"Now you know," he said, "now you know what I have been

fighting against since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me

away and drove me back again."

"Why have you been fighting against it?" she asked. Her face

glowed with soft lights.

"Why? Because you were not free; you were Leonce Pontellier's

wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife;

but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help

telling you so." She put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then

against his cheek, rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His

face was warm and flushed.

"There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and

longing for you."

"But not writing to me," she interrupted.

"Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost

my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way

becoming my wife."

"Your wife!"

"Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared."

"Then you must have forgotten that I was Leonce Pontellier's wife."

"Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things,

recalling men who had set their wives free,

we have heard of such things."

"Yes, we have heard of such things."

"I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here—"

"When you got here you never came near me!" She was still

caressing his cheek.

"I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if

you had been willing."

She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if

she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the

forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips.

"You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time

dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier

setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions

to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say,

'Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh

at you both."

His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked.

There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say

that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with

a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs.

Pontellier to go to her immediately.

"Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes—to

wait for me. I'll go back with her."

"Let me walk over with you," offered Robert.

"No," she said; "I will go with the servant. She went into

her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once

more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her

arms about his neck.

"Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her

with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his

caress, and strained her to him.

"I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It

was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream.

Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have

suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my

Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the

world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will

wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?"

"Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded.

"Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me."

"I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here."

She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her

seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had

enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the

longing to hold her and keep her.