The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one

may possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or

comment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the

presence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as

she handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the

likeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold

glass passionately.

Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this

respect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees

of Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met

him. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his

suit with an earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired.

He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there

was a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she

was mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her

sister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no

further for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for

her husband.

The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian,

was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who

worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity

in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the

realm of romance and dreams.

But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry

officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found

herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband,

realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion

or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby

threatening its dissolution.

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would

sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes

forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with

their grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding

their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an

occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though

she did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a

responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not

fitted her.

Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer

day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of it

escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder.

She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and

the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a

first breath of freedom.




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