“What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in
bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had
walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did
not reply.
“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her.
“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as
they looked into his.
“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted the steps
and went into their room.
“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone
by.
“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the door.
“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is
this? Why don’t you come in?”
“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.”
“The mosquitoes will devour you.”
“There are no mosquitoes.”
She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience
and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She
would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of
submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as
we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life
which has been portioned out to us.
“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time
fondly, with a note of entreaty.
“No; I am going to stay out here.”
“This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can’t permit you to stay
out there all night. You must come in the house instantly.”
With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the
hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and
resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and
resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that
before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she
remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she
should have yielded, feeling as she then did.
“Léonce, go to bed,” she said, “I mean to stay out here. I don’t wish
to go in, and I don’t intend to. Don’t speak to me like that again; I
shall not answer you.”
Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra
garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and
select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and
went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not
wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the
rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he
went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again
declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier
once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable
interval of time smoked some more cigars.
Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a
delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities
pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake
her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her
helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.
The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the
world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and
the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.
Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She
tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into
the house.
“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her
husband.
“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of
smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.”