Chapter III

by Kate Chopin

　　It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returnedfrom Klein's hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits,and very talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bedand fast asleep when he came in. He talked to her while heundressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and gossip thathe had gathered during the day. From his trousers pockets he tooka fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal of silver coin,which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife,handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets. Shewas overcome with sleep, and answered him with little halfutterances.He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was thesole object of his existence, evinced so little interest in thingswhich concerned him, and valued so little his conversation.Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for theboys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into theadjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and makesure that they were resting comfortably. The result of hisinvestigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted theyoungsters about in bed. One of them began to kick and talk abouta basket full of crabs.Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information thatRaoul had a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit acigar and went and sat near the open doorto smoke it.Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He hadgone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him allday. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms tobe mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that momentin the next room.He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitualneglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to lookafter children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his handsfull with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places atonce; making a living for his family on the street, and staying athome to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous,insistent way.Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room.She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her headdown on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer herhusband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out hewent to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep.Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She beganto cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir.Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning,she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin mulesat the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where she satdown in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro.It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark.A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house.There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in thetop of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that wasnot uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullabyupon the night.The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that thedamp sleeve of her peignoir no longer served to dry them.She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleevehad slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning,she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm,and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face,her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying.Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life.They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundanceof her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come tobe tacit and self-understood.An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in someunfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being witha vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing acrossher soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was amood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband,lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the pathwhich they had taken. She was just having a good cry all toherself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm,round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling amood which might have held her there in the darkness half a nightlonger.The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time totake the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at thewharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and theywould not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. Hehad regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhatimpaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he lookedforward to a lively week in Carondelet Street.Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he hadbrought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She likedmoney as well as most women, and, accepted it with no littlesatisfaction."It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!" sheexclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one."Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," helaughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by.The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploringthat numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier wasa great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, werealways on hand to say goodby to him. His wife stood smiling andwaving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockawaydown the sandy road.A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier fromNew Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled withfriandises, with luscious and toothsome bits--the finest offruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, andbonbons in abundance.Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents ofsuch a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away fromhome. The pates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; thebonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with daintyand discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared thatMr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellierwas forced to admit that she knew of none better.