Edna’s father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She
was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain
tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming
was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new
direction for her emotions.
He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an
outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at
her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one
immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such
matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress—which too often
assumes the nature of a problem—were of inestimable value to his
father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been
upon Edna’s hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with
a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army,
and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had
always accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky,
emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and
wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his
shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished
together, and excited a good deal of notice during their
perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her
atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very
seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it
would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had
bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability,
which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward
successful achievement.
Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the
cannon’s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the
children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up
there in their mother’s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned
them away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the
fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.
Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him,
having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle
declined the invitation. So together they attended a _soirée musicale_
at the Ratignolles’. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the
Colonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once
to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might
select. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive
manner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the
Colonel’s old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders.
Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of
coquetry.
There were one or two men whom she observed at the _soirée musicale;_
but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract
their notice—to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward
them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy
selected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an
opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the
glance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had
disturbed her.
Mr. Pontellier did not attend these _soirées musicales_. He considered
them _bourgeois_, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame
Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her _soirées_ was too
“heavy,” too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse
flattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier’s club, and she
was frank enough to tell Edna so.
“It’s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn’t stay home more in the evenings. I
think you would be more—well, if you don’t mind my saying it—more
united, if he did.”
“Oh! dear no!” said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. “What should I
do if he stayed home? We wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.”
She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but
he did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her,
though she realized that he might not interest her long; and for the
first time in her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted
with him. He kept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It
amused her to do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the
children to do anything for him which she might do herself. Her husband
noticed, and thought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment
which he had never suspected.
The Colonel drank numerous “toddies” during the course of the day,
which left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting
strong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given
fantastic names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse
ingredients that it devolved upon Edna to procure for him.
When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could
discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her
husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant.
She and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when
they seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of
the afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had
not kept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing
in what he called “the good old times” when the Lecompte stables
flourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not
be left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed
to impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with
this trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on
his last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them.
Besides, they had met some very charming people, according to the
Colonel’s impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp,
who were there with Alcée Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the
hours in a fashion that warmed him to think of.
Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing,
and was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially
when he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He
endeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and
only succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law.
A pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father’s
cause and the Doctor remained neutral.
He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and
noted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman
he had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with
the forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no
repression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some
beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun.
The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was
cold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened
unpleasantness melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine.
Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing
plantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth,
when he hunted ’possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed
the pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in
mischievous idleness.
The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things,
related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had
acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was
the Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and
curious story of the waning of a woman’s love, seeking strange, new
channels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce
unrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been
unfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did
not seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of
a woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and
never came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one
ever heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was
a pure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her.
That, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But
every glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel
the hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of
the pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds’
wings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools;
they could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in
oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown.
The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks
with Edna’s memory that night.
Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the
night was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak
across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his
fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so
seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted
Pontellier’s invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest
and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives
thrust upon him.
“I hope it isn’t Arobin,” he muttered to himself as he walked. “I hope
to heaven it isn’t Alcée Arobin.”