A green and yellow parrot, which hung
in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over:
"Allez
vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!" He could speak a little
Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the
mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes
out upon the breeze with maddening persistence.
Mr. Pontellier,
unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an
expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across
the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He
had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the
mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make
all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their
society when they ceased to be entertaining.
He stopped before
the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and
next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once
more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday;
the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He
was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over
the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before
quitting New Orleans the day before.
Mr. Pontellier wore
eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build;
he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His
beard was neatly and closely trimmed.
Once in a while he
withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more
noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to
distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still
at it. Two young gifts, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon
the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to
a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high
voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty
woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skins crinkled as
she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was
walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the
pension had gone over to the Cheniere Caminada in Beaudetet’s lugger to hear
mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr.
Pontellier’s two children were there—sturdy little fellows of four and five. A
quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air.
Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper
drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was
advancing at snail’s pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the
gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow chamomile. The
gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade
continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs.
Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two
seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the
porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post.
"What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr.
Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning
seemed long to him.
"You are burnt beyond recognition," he
added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property
which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands,
and surveyed them critically, drawing up her lawn sleeves above the wrists.
Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she bad given to her husband
before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,
understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her
open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she
looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers.
He sent back an answering smile.
"What is it" asked Pontellier,
looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense;
some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once.
It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr.
Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half
a mind to go over to Klein’s hotel and play a game of billiards.
"Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite
frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs.
Pontellier.
"Well, send him about his business when he bores
you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave.
"Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He
accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and
walked away.
"Coming back to dinner" his wife called after him.
He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there
was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the
early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he
found over at Klein’s and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she
understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.
Both
Children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed
them and promised to bring them back bonbons and
peanuts. |
