Alcee Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with
sincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it
appeared to her, absurd that she should have taken his action so
seriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the
whole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored
his note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she
replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind
the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his
influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one's hand kissed.
She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as
light and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she
would be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the
inclination and his business gave him the opportunity.
He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his
disarming naivete. And then there was scarcely a day which followed
that she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in
pretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit
adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were
as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became
intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. He
sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the
crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to
the animalism that stirred impatiently within her.
There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna's senses as
a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that
personality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine
art, seemed to reach Edna's spirit and set it free.
It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when
Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist's apartments under the roof. Her
clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she
entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a
little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat
a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to
Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust,
scowled at her from the mantelpiece.
"Ah! here comes the sunlight!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her
knees before the stove. "Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can
let the fire alone."