"What does your husband say?"
"I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will
think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so."
Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to
me," she said.
Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as
she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away
her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how
it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding,
an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt;
but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another
than herself.
"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna
exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you
everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh
and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very
depths of her being.
If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert
during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter
unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her
humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter.
The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the
tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door,
and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven
and handed it to Edna.
"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell
me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?"
"Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again
if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you
a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and
is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to
belong to him."
"Why do you show me his letters, then?"
"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot
deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and
began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding
it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an
effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It
prepared her for joy and exultation.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did
you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the
keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?"