"I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a
little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her.
"My friend?"
"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico."
"Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee
absently.
"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee;
drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was
nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."
"Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly.
"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one
to whom it is written."
"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"
"It was written about you, not to you. 'Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier?
How is she looking?' he asks. 'As Mrs. Pontellier says,' or 'as Mrs.
Pontellier once said.' 'If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play
for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day
or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects
her,' and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's
society."
"Let me see the letter."
"Oh, no."
"Have you answered it?"
"No."
"Let me see the letter."
"No, and again, no."
"Then play the Impromptu for me."
"It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?"
"Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the
Impromptu."
"But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?"
"Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!"
"Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame."
"Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?"
"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or
your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many
gifts--absolute gifts--which have not been acquired by one's own effort.
And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul."
"What do you mean by the courageous soul?"
"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies."
"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have
persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?"
"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied
Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.
The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table
upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened
the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in
Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano.