Part VIII

"Do me a favor, Robert," spoke the pretty woman at his side,

almost as soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward

way. She looked up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the

encircling shadow of the umbrella which he had lifted.

"Granted; as many as you like," he returned, glancing down

into her eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some

speculation.

"I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone."

"Tiens!" he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh.

"Voila que Madame Ratignolle est jalouse!"

"Nonsense! I'm in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs.

Pontellier alone."

"Why?" he asked; himself growing serious at his companion's

solicitation.

"She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the

unfortunate blunder of taking you seriously."

His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat

he began to beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. "Why

shouldn't she take me seriously?" he demanded sharply. "Am I a

comedian, a clown, a jack-in-the-box? Why shouldn't she? You

Creoles! I have no patience with you! Am I always to be regarded as

a feature of an amusing programme? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take

me seriously. I hope she has discernment enough to find in me

something besides the blagueur. If I thought there was any doubt—"

"Oh, enough, Robert!" she broke into his heated outburst.

"You are not thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about

as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children

down there playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married

women here were ever offered with any intention of being

convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be,

and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of

the people who trust you."

Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law

and the gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hat down vehemently

upon his head. "You ought to feel that such things are not

flattering to say to a fellow."

"Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of

compliments? Ma foi!"

"It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you—" he went on,

unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: "Now if I were like

Arobin-you remember Alcee Arobin and that story of the consul's wife at

Biloxi?" And he related the story of Alcee Arobin and the consul's

wife; and another about the tenor of the French Opera, who received

letters which should never have been written; and still other stories,

grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for

taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten.

Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in

to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before

leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience—he called

it rudeness—with which he had received her well-meant caution.

"You made one mistake, Adele," he said, with a light smile;

"there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me

seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself

seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and

given me subject for some reflection. Au revoir. But you look

tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon?

Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of

Angostura."

She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful

and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a

building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the

house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a

dainty Sevres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer.

She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded

her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him

he was a bon garcon, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and

turned away toward "the house."

The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension.

They were leaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the

sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their

heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they

tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them,

looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign

of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance

for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the

dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was

situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer,

sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf,

and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings

of the room were light, cool, and practical.

Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A

little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the

treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances

which may be avoided of imperiling her health.

Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one

of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began

energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency

with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a

resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone

make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of

desultory conversation.

"Where is Mrs. Pontellier?"

"Down at the beach with the children."

"I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it

down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small

table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight

minutes.

"Where is Victor going with the rockaway?"

"The rockaway? Victor?"

"Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to

drive away somewhere."

"Call him." Clatter, clatter!

Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have

been heard back at the wharf.

"He won't look up."

Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She

waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got

into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.

Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with

annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother—a tete

montee, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no

ax could break.

"Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of

reason into him that he's able to hold."

"If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter,

clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the

conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would

have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not

Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early

years of their married life.

"What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middleaged

gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years

had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had

left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!

"I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer

and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.

"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of

next month,"—clatter, clatter!—"and if you still have

the intention of joining him"—bang! clatter, clatter, bang!

"Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I

wanted—"Clatter, clatter, clatter!

"Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children?

She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get

ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter!

"Where are you going?"

"Where did you say the Goncourt was?"