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PART 6: Chapter XXVI
Alcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity.
It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her, absurd
that she should have taken his action so seriously, so dramatically.
She felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own self-
consciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue
importance to a trivial affair.
If she replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the
impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence.
After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed.
She was provoked at his having written the apology.
She answered in as light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said
she would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the
inclination and his business gave him the opportunity.
He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his disarming naivete.
And then there was scarcely a day which followed that she did not see him or was
not reminded of him. He was prolific in pretexts.
His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit adoration.
He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were as often kind as they
were cold.
She grew accustomed to him. They became intimate and friendly by
imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps.
He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the
crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the
animalism that stirred impatiently within her.
There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as a visit to
Mademoiselle Reisz.
It was then, in the presence of that personality which was offensive to her,
that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free.
It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna
climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof.
Her clothes were dripping with moisture.
She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room.
Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the room
indifferently.
She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the stove.
The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered.
A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece.
"Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her knees before
the stove.
"Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can let the fire alone."
She closed the stove door with a ***, and approaching, assisted in removing Edna's
dripping mackintosh.
"You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot.
But would you rather have a taste of brandy?
I have scarcely touched the bottle which you brought me for my cold."
A piece of red flannel was wrapped around Mademoiselle's throat; a stiff neck
compelled her to hold her head on one side.
"I will take some brandy," said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves and
overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a
man would have done.
Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle,
I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street."
"Ah!" *** the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested.
Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much.
She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its
fastening in her hair.
Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the
shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place.
"Aren't you astonished?"
"Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to
Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?"
"Just two steps away," laughed Edna, "in a little four-room house around the corner.
It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent.
I'm tired looking after that big house.
It never seemed like mine, anyway--like home.
It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants.
I am tired bothering with them."
"That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling me lies.
I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth."
Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself.
"The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine.
Isn't that enough reason?"
"They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious
elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you.
Then let me tell you: It is a caprice.
I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me
by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races,
and I am beginning to sell my sketches.
Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and
individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel
that I have gained in ease and confidence.
However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore.
I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant.
Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do
my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of
freedom and independence."
"What does your husband say?" "I have not told him yet.
I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt.
Perhaps you think so."
Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to me," she
said.
Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a
while in silence.
Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her
allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he
returned.
There would have to be an understanding, an explanation.
Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came,
she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself.
"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!"
Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle.
I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink.
We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once."
And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being.
If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of
Edna's visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited.
And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her while the
young woman read the letter.
The little stove was roaring; it was red- hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled
and sputtered.
Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a
letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna.
"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight.
"Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?"
"Never in the world!
He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so.
Does he write to you? Never a line.
Does he send you a message?
Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and
is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him."
"Why do you show me his letters, then?"
"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything?
Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved
instrument and began to play.
Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the
music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the
dark places of her soul.
It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter
fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?"
She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys.
"Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?"
"That he was coming back?
No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did not come long ago."
"But when, when?" cried Edna, impatiently. "He does not say when."
"He says 'very soon.'
You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter."
"But why? Why is he coming?
Oh, if I thought--" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages
this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold.
"If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and
pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the
floor holding the letter, "it seems to me
he would have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and ability to reach
them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men.
It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary
caliber worthy of my devotion."
"Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or
else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it.
Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted
face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves?
Does she select?
Does she say to herself: 'Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with
presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.'
Or, 'I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?'
Or, 'This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'
"You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine.
Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna.
It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching
it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion.
"Why do you love him when you ought not to?"
Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who
took the glowing face between her two hands.
"Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and
shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and
a square chin, and a little finger which he
can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth.
Because--" "Because you do, in short," laughed
Mademoiselle.
"What will you do when he comes back?" she asked.
"Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive."
She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return.
The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed
bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home.
She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in
Iberville.
She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an
abundance of kisses.
Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him
of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to
give a farewell dinner before leaving,
regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist
her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with
cheerfulness.
Chapter XXVII
"What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening.
"I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was
reclining on the lounge before the fire.
"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"
"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced.
"You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you."
He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the
hair that fell a little over her forehead.
She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively.
"One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and
think--try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know.
By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of
the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I
am.
I must think about it." "Don't.
What's the use?
Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman
you are."
His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin,
which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes!
You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating.
Spare yourself the effort."
"No; I shan't tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I
did." "Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked
irrelevantly.
"The pianist? I know her by sight.
I've heard her play."
"She says *** 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 tonight.
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.
Chapter 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 took 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.
Chapter 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'etat?"
"It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the 'coup d'etat?'
Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything--crystal, silver and gold,
Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in.
I'll let Leonce 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'etat?"
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 tomorrow 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.
Chapter ***
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 Alcee 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.