The Awakening Other Short Stories | Page 8

reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole
woman seems to be inborn and unmistakable.
Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard Madame Ratignolle
relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of one of her accouchements,
withholding no intimate detail. She was growing accustomed to like shocks, but she
could not keep the mounting color back from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming
had interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group of
married women.
A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read it, she did so
with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude,
though none of the others had done so,--to hide it from view at the sound of approaching
footsteps. It was openly criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over
being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.

V

They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoon--Madame Ratignolle
sewing away, often stopping to relate a story or incident with much expressive gesture of
her perfect hands; Robert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words,
glances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.
He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought anything of it. Many
had predicted that Robert would devote himself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since
the age of fifteen, which was eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had
constituted himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it was
a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some interesting married woman.
For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne's presence.
But she died between summers; then Robert posed as an inconsolable, prostrating himself
at the feet of Madame Ratignolle for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she
might be pleased to vouchsafe.
Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a
faultless Madonna.
"Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?" murmured Robert. "She
knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was `Robert, come; go; stand up;
sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God
knows where. Come and read Daudet to me while I sew.'"
"Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet, like a
troublesome cat."
"You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene,
then it WAS like a dog. `Passez! Adieu! 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 hopeless
passion 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