Alcée 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 naïveté. 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 bang, 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!” ejaculated 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.