Allez vous-en!'"

"Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous," she interjoined, with
excessive naivete. That made them all laugh. The right hand

jealous of the left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that
matter, the Creole husband is never jealous; with him the gangrene

passion is one which has become dwarfed by disuse.
Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell

of his one time hopelesspassion for Madame Ratignolle; of
sleepless nights, of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled

when he took his daily plunge. While the lady at the needle kept
up a little running, contemptuous comment:

"Blagueur--farceur--gros bete, va!"
He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs.

Pontellier. She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that
moment it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest

and what proportion was earnest. It was understood that he had
often spoken words of love to Madame Ratignolle, without any

thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had
not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have been

unacceptable and annoying.
Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she

sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the
dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other

employment afforded her.
She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle.

Never had that lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that
moment, seated there like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of

the fading day enriching her splendid color.
Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below

Mrs. Pontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her
brushes with a certain ease and freedom which came, not from long

and close acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude.
Robert followed her work with close attention, giving forth little

ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to
Madame Ratignolle.

"Mais ce n'est pas mal! Elle s'y connait, elle a de la force, oui."
During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head

against Mrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once
again he repeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be

thoughtlessness on his part; yet that was no reason she should
submit to it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him

quietly but firmly. He offered no apology.
The picture completed bore no resemblance to Madame Ratignolle.

She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her.
But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects

satisfying.
Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying

the sketch critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its
surface, and crumpled the paper between her hands.

The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon
following at the respectful distance which they required her to

observe. Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paints and things
into the house. She sought to detain them for a little talk and

some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest. They had only
come to investigate the contents of the bonbon box. They accepted

without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two
chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they might be

filled; and then away they went.
The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and

languorous that came up from the south, charged with the seductive
odor of the sea. Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for

their games under the oaks. Their voices were high and
penetrating.

Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble,
scissors, and thread all neatly together in the roll, which she

pinned securely. She complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier
flew for the cologne water and a fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle's

face with cologne, while Robert plied the fan with unnecessary vigor.
The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help

wondering if there were not a little imaginationresponsible for
its origin, for the rose tint had never faded from her friend's face.

She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of
galleries with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes

supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them
clung about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and

with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond,
encircling arms. Though, as everybody well knew, the doctor had

forbidden her to lift so much as a pin!
"Are you going bathing?" asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It

was not so much a question as a reminder.
"Oh, no," she answered, with a tone of indecision. "I'm

tired; I think not." Her glance wandered from his face away toward
the Gulf, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but

imperative entreaty.
"Oh, come!" he insisted. "You mustn't miss your bath. Come

on. The water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come."
He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg

outside the door, and put it on her head. They descended the
steps, and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low

in the west and the breeze was soft and warm.
VI

Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the
beach with Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and

in the second place have followed in obedience to one of the two
contradictory impulses which impelled her.

A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,--the
light which, showing the way, forbids it.

At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved
her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowyanguish which had

overcome her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.
In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her

position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her
relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This

may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul
of a young woman of twenty-eight--perhaps more wisdom than the Holy

Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman.
But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is

necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing.
How few of us ever emerge from such beginning! How many souls

perish in its tumult!
The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering,

clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in
abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward

contemplation.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea

is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
VII

Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a
characteristic hithertocontrary to her nature. Even as a child

she had lived her own small life all within herself. At a very
early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life--that

outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the

mantle of reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have
been--there must have been--influences, both subtle and apparent,

working in their several ways to induce her to do this; but the
most obvious was the influence of Adele Ratignolle. The excessive

physical charm of the Creole had first attracted her, for Edna had
a sensuous susceptibility to beauty. Then the candor of the

woman's whole existence, which every one might read, and which
formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve--this

might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use
in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might

as well call love.
The two women went away one morning to the beach together,