“She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t
notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.”
“For instance?”
“Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me
and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.
‘The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and
prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the
weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.’”
“Whither would you soar?”
“I’m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend
her.”
“I’ve heard she’s partially demented,” said Arobin.
“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied.
“I’m told she’s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you
introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?”
“Oh! talk of me if you like,” cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath
her head; “but let me think of something else while you do.”
“I’m jealous of your thoughts to-night. They’re making you a little
kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if
they were not here with me.” She only looked at him and smiled. His
eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended
across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They
continued silently to look into each other’s eyes. When he leaned
forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.
It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really
responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.
XXVIII
Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one
phase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was
with her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the
shock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband’s
reproach looking at her from the external things around her which he
had provided for her external existence. There was Robert’s reproach
making itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which
had awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding.
She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to
look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up
of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which
assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull
pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed
her, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her
lips.
XXIX
Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his
opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for
quitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house
around the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that
direction. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose
between the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning
following those hours passed in Arobin’s society, Edna set about
securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it.
Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and
lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a
thousand muffled voices bade her begone.
Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired
aside from her husband’s bounty, she caused to be transported to the
other house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own
resources.
Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the
house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and
robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown,
with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to
protect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder,
unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the
front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in
unceremoniously.
“Come down!” he said. “Do you want to kill yourself?” She greeted him
with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation.
If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging
in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised.
He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the
foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to
the situation which confronted him.
“Please come down,” he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at
her.
“No,” she answered; “Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is
working over at the ‘pigeon house’—that’s the name Ellen gives it,
because it’s so small and looks like a pigeon house—and some one has to
do this.”
Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to
tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and
went into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to
control, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as
he could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened
it at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder,
unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna
directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to
wash his hands.
Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather
duster along the carpet when he came in again.
“Is there anything more you will let me do?” he asked.
“That is all,” she answered. “Ellen can manage the rest.” She kept the
young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone
with Arobin.
“What about the dinner?” he asked; “the grand event, the _coup
d’état?_”
“It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the ‘_coup
d’état?_’ Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything—crystal,
silver and gold, Sèvres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I’ll
let Léonce pay the bills. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees the
bills.”
“And you ask me why I call it a _coup d’état?_” Arobin had put on his
coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She
told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.
“When do you go to the ‘pigeon house?’—with all due acknowledgment to
Ellen.”
“Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.”
“Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?” asked Arobin.
“The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a
thing, has parched my throat to a crisp.”
“While Ellen gets the water,” said Edna, rising, “I will say good-by
and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million
things to do and think of.”
“When shall I see you?” asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid
having left the room.
“At the dinner, of course. You are invited.”
“Not before?—not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or
night? or the day after morning or noon? Can’t you see yourself,
without my telling you, what an eternity it is?”
He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway,
looking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him.
“Not an instant sooner,” she said. But she laughed and looked at him
with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to
wait.
XXX
Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in
truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests
invited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted
upon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board,
forgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree
_souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun
would send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only
ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in
the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a
shallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people’s witticisms, and
had thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had
accompanied them. Of course, there was Alcée Arobin; and Mademoiselle
Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets
with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought
himself and his wife’s excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in
the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a
Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through
lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that
she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a
_nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of
Gouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing
special could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet
and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight
they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on
either side of their hostess.
Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs.
Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle
Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle.
There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the
table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin
under strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass
candelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant
roses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had
said there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which
the women wore.
The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion
and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be
collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly
diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes
hoisted at table upon bulky volumes.
“Something new, Edna?” exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed
toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost
sputtered, in Edna’s hair, just over the center of her forehead.
“Quite new; ‘brand’ new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived
this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my
birthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink
my health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail,
composed—would you say ‘composed?’” with an appeal to Miss
Mayblunt—“composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet’s wedding.”
Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a
garnet gem.
“Then, all things considered,” spoke Arobin, “it might not be amiss to
start out by drinking the Colonel’s health in the cocktail which he
composed, on the birthday of the most charming of women—the daughter
whom he invented.”
Mr. Merriman’s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so
contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that
never slackened.
Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched
before her, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare
it to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted
were unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck
to it.
Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the _mets_,
the _entre-mets_, the service, the decorations, even the people. He
looked up from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to
the gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and
Arobin, lawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm
personal friend, who permitted Arobin’s name to decorate the firm’s
letterheads and to appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street.
“There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,” said
Arobin, “that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these
days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.” Monsieur
Ratignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she
considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set
the previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in
French, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but
characteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the
symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians
of New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be
centered upon the delicacies placed before her.
Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin’s remark about inquisitive people
reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles
Hotel—but as Mr. Merriman’s stories were always lame and lacking point,
his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to
ask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought
the week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking “books”
with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon
current literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man
privately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to
think it extremely clever.
Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm
and impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her
attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating
herself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier
and more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy
indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the
occasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an
agreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption to the
conversation. Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could
be heard; the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of
jessamine that came through the open windows.
The golden shimmer of Edna’s satin gown spread in rich folds on either
side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It
was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints
that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something
in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head
against the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the
regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.
But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking
her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her
like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition.
It was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to
issue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over
her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision
the presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense
of the unattainable.
The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around
the circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people
together with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to
break the pleasant charm. At ten o’clock he excused himself. Madame
Ratignolle was waiting for him at home. She was _bien souffrante_, and
she was filled with vague dread, which only her husband’s presence
could allay.
Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to
escort her to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good,
rich wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed
pleasantly to all as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the
shoulder, and whispered: “_Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage_.” She had
been a little bewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her
cushions, and Monsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her
away.
Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she
had finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor’s black
curls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a
glass of champagne to the light.
As if a magician’s wand had touched him, the garland of roses
transformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the
color of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing
fire.
“_Sapristi!_” exclaimed Arobin.
But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took
from the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had
covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it
across the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black,
conventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to
him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he
continued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of
champagne.
“Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!” exclaimed Miss
Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him.
“‘There was a graven image of Desire
Painted with red blood on a ground of gold.’”
murmured Gouvernail, under his breath.
The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed
volubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a
reverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead.
“Sing,” entreated Mrs. Highcamp. “Won’t you sing to us?”
“Let him alone,” said Arobin.
“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman; “let him have it out.”
“I believe he’s paralyzed,” laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the
youth’s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his
lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she
laid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy
handkerchief.
“Yes, I’ll sing for you,” he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs.
Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the
ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning
an instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing:
“Ah! si tu savais!”
“Stop!” she cried, “don’t sing that. I don’t want you to sing it,” and
she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to
shatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin’s legs and
some of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp’s black gauze gown. Victor
had lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not
in earnest, for he laughed and went on:
“Ah! si tu savais
Ce que tes yeux me disent”—
“Oh! you mustn’t! you mustn’t,” exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her
chair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth.
He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips.
“No, no, I won’t, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn’t know you meant it,” looking
up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a
pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his
head and flung it across the room.
“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.”
Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands.
Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it
was time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it
could be so late.
Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her
daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and
sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention
to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented
itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not.
The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness
had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna’s
disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony
of the night.
XXXI
“Well?” questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others
had departed.
“Well,” she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling
the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated.
“What next?” he asked.
“The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have
dismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot
around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the
morning to straighten things up.”
He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights.
“What about upstairs?” he inquired.
“I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched.
We had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my
wrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room.”
He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows.
She hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found
her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on.
When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through
the front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried
for Edna. He helped her down the steps.
“Will you have a spray of jessamine?” he asked, breaking off a few
blossoms as he passed.
“No; I don’t want anything.”
She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm,
which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the
other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving
in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown.
There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and
the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk.
The “pigeon house” stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_
that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon
which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly
into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room
for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced.
Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in
making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on
the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting,
covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful
pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise
to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them
during Edna’s absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small
passage were the dining-room and kitchen.
Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a
certain pitch—too tight—and something inside of me had snapped.” She
rested her head against the table upon her bare arm.
“You want to rest,” he said, “and to be quiet. I’ll go; I’ll leave you
and let you rest.”
