READ STUDY GUIDE: Chapters XXXVI–XXXIX |
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Part XXXVIII
| Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. |
| The Doctor's coupe had returned for him and stood before the |
| porte cochere. She did not wish to enter the coupe, and told |
| Doctor Mandelet she would walk; she was not afraid, and would go |
| alone. He directed his carriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier's, |
| and he started to walk home with her. |
| Up—away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, |
| the stars were blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool |
| with the breath of spring and the night. They walked slowly, the |
| Doctor with a heavy, measured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, |
| in an absent-minded way, as she had walked one night at Grand Isle, |
| as if her thoughts had gone ahead of her and she was striving to |
| overtake them. |
| "You shouldn't have been there, Mrs. Pontellier," he said. |
| "That was no place for you. Adele is full of whims at such times. |
| There were a dozen women she might have had with her, |
| unimpressionable women. I felt that it was cruel, cruel. You |
| shouldn't have gone." |
| "Oh, well!" she answered, indifferently. "I don't know that |
| it matters after all. One has to think of the children some time |
| or other; the sooner the better." |
| "When is Leonce coming back?" |
| "Quite soon. Some time in March." |
| "And you are going abroad?" |
| "Perhaps—no, I am not going. I'm not going to be forced into |
| doing things. I don't want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. |
| Nobody has any right—except children, perhaps—and even then, it |
| seems to me—or it did seem—" She felt that her speech was voicing |
| the incoherency of her thoughts, and stopped abruptly. |
| "The trouble is," sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning |
| intuitively, "that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be |
| a provision of Nature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And |
| Nature takes no account of moral consequences, of arbitrary |
| conditions which we create, and which we feel obliged to maintain |
| at any cost." |
| "Yes," she said. "The years that are gone seem like |
| dreams—if one might go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and |
| find—oh! well! perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to |
| suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one's life." |
| "It seems to me, my dear child," said the Doctor at parting, |
| holding her hand, "you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going |
| to ask for your confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel |
| moved to give it to me, perhaps I might help you. I know I would |
| understand, And I tell you there are not many who would—not many, |
| my dear." |
| "Some way I don't feel moved to speak of things that trouble |
| me. Don't think I am ungrateful or that I don't appreciate your |
| sympathy. There are periods of despondency and suffering which |
| take possession of me. But I don't want anything but my own way. |
| That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample |
| upon the lives, the hearts, the prejudices of others—but no |
| matter-still, I shouldn't want to trample upon the little lives. |
| Oh! I don't know what I'm saying, Doctor. Good night. Don't blame |
| me for anything." |
| "Yes, I will blame you if you don't come and see me soon. |
| We will talk of things you never have dreamt of talking |
| about before. It will do us both good. I don't want you |
| to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good night, my child." |
| She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she |
| sat upon the step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. |
| All the tearing emotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away |
| from her like a somber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to |
| loosen to be rid of. She went back to that hour before Adele had |
| sent for her; and her senses kindled afresh in thinking of Robert's |
| words, the pressure of his arms, and the feeling of his lips upon |
| her own. She could picture at that moment no greater bliss on |
| earth than possession of the beloved one. His expression of love |
| had already given him to her in part. When she thought that he was |
| there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb with the intoxication |
| of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleep perhaps. She |
| would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep that |
| she might arouse him with her caresses. |
| Still, she remembered Adele's voice whispering, "Think of the |
| children; think of them." She meant to think of them; that |
| determination had driven into her soul like a death wound—but not |
| to-night. To-morrow would be time to think of everything. |
| Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was |
| nowhere at hand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a |
| piece of paper that lay in the lamplight: |
| "I love you. Good-by—because I love you." |
| Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on |
| the sofa. Then she stretched herself out there, never uttering a |
| sound. She did not sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp |
| sputtered and went out. She was still awake in the morning, when |
| Celestine unlocked the kitchen door and came in to light the fire. |
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