The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle
said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been
unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken
charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in
bed and asleep for two hours.
The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him
up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other
chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill
humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker,
began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names,
soothing him to sleep.
It was not more than nine o’clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the
children.
Léonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had
wanted to start at once for the _Chênière_. But Monsieur Farival had
assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue,
that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had
thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein’s,
looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to
securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame
Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away
late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She
carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to
remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested
above all things to be left alone.
When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and
Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child
comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged
from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.
“Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert—since
early this morning?” she said at parting.
“All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night.”
He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did
not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.
Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband’s return. She had no desire
to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the
Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices
reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her
mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover
wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer
of her life. She could only realize that she herself—her present
self—was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing
with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in
herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet
suspect.
She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to
her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong
day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted
that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he
was not absolutely required to leave her.
As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert
had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with “Ah! _si tu savais_,”
and every verse ended with “_si tu savais_.”
Robert’s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice,
the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.