Chapter XXXIV

by Kate Chopin

　　The dining-room was very small. Edna's round mahogany wouldhave almost filled it. As it was there was but a step or two fromthe little table to the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet,and the side door that opened out on the narrow brick-paved yard.A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with theannouncement of dinner. There was no return to personalities.Robert related incidents of his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talkedof events likely to interest him, which had occurred during hisabsence. The dinner was of ordinary quality, except for the fewdelicacies which she had sent out to purchase. Old Celestine, witha bandana tignon twisted about her head, hobbled in and out,taking a personal interest in everything; and she lingeredoccasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had known as aboy.He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarettepapers, and when he came back he found that Celestine had servedthe black coffee in the parlor."Perhaps I shouldn't have come back," he said. "When you aretired of me, tell me to go.""You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours andhours at Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other andused to being together.""I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle," he said, not lookingat her, but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laidupon the table, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidentlythe handiwork of a woman."You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch," said Edna,picking up the pouch and examining the needlework."Yes; it was lost.""Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?""It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are verygenerous," he replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette."They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; verypicturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.""Some are; others are hideous. just as you find womeneverywhere.""What was she like--the one who gave you the pouch? You musthave known her very well.""She was very ordinary. She wasn't of the slightestimportance. I knew her well enough.""Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should liketo know and hear about the people you met, and the impressions theymade on you.""There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting asthe imprint of an oar upon the water.""Was she such a one?""It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of thatorder and kind." He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if toput away the subject with the trifle which had brought it up.Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to saythat the card party was postponed on account of the illness of oneof her children."How do you do, Arobin?" said Robert, rising from theobscurity."Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back.How did they treat you down in Mexique?""Fairly well.""But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls,though, in Mexico. I thought I should never get away from VeraCruz when I was down there a couple of years ago.""Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bandsand things for you?" asked Edna."Oh! my! no! I didn't get so deep in their regard.I fear they made more impression on me than I made on them.""You were less fortunate than Robert, then.""I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he beenimparting tender confidences?""I've been imposing myself long enough," said Robert, rising,and shaking hands with Edna. "Please convey my regards to Mr.Pontellier when you write."He shook hands with Arobin and went away."Fine fellow, that Lebrun," said Arobin when Robert had gone."I never heard you speak of him.""I knew him last summer at Grand Isle," she replied. "Here isthat photograph of yours. Don't you want it?""What do I want with it? Throw it away." She threw it back onthe table."I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's," she said. "If you seeher, tell her so. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shallwrite now, and say that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell hernot to count on me.""It would be a good scheme," acquiesced Arobin. "I don't blame you;stupid lot!"Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen,began to write the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the eveningpaper, which he had in his pocket."What is the date?" she asked. He told her."Will you mail this for me when you go out?""Certainly." He read to her little bits out of the newspaper,while she straightened things on the table."What do you want to do?" he asked, throwing aside the paper."Do you want to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It wouldbe a fine night to drive.""No; I don't want to do anything but just be quiet. You goaway and amuse yourself. Don't stay.""I'll go away if I must; but I shan't amuse myself. You knowthat I only live when I am near you."He stood up to bid her good night."Is that one of the things you always say to women?""I have said it before, but I don't think I ever came so nearmeaning it," he answered with a smile. There were no warm lightsin her eyes; only a dreamy, absent look."Good night. I adore you. Sleep well," he said, and hekissed her hand and went away.She stayed alone in a kind of reverie--a sort of stupor. Stepby step she lived over every instant of the time she had been withRobert after he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz's door. Sherecalled his words, his looks. How few and meager they had beenfor her hungry heart! A vision--a transcendently seductive visionof a Mexican girl arose before her. She writhed with a jealouspang. She wondered when he would come back. He had not said hewould come back. She had been with him, had heard his voice andtouched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearer to her offthere in Mexico.