Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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This speech, which MontĂ©clin delivered with thorough unconcern, threw his mother into a condition of painful but dumb embarrassment. It brought two fiery red spots to Cazeauâs cheeks, and for the space of a moment he looked wicked.
What MontĂ©clin had spoken was quite true, though his taste in the manner and choice of time and place in saying it were not of the best. AthĂ©naĂŻse, upon the first day of her arrival, had announced that she came to stay, having no intention of returning under Cazeauâs roof. The announcement had scattered consternation, as she knew it would. She had been implored, scolded, entreated, stormed at, until she felt herself like a dragging sail that all the winds of heaven had beaten upon. Why in the name of God had she married Cazeau? Her father had lashed her with the question a dozen times. Why indeed? It was difficult now for her to understand why, unless because she supposed it was customary for girls to marry when the right opportunity came. Cazeau, she knew, would make life more comfortable for her; and again, she had liked him, and had even been rather flustered when he pressed her hands and kissed them, and kissed her lips and cheeks and eyes, when she accepted him.
Montéclin himself had taken her aside to talk the thing over. The turn of affairs was delighting him.
âCome, now, âThĂ©naĂŻse, you musâ explain to me all about it, so we can settle on a good cause, anâ secuâ a separation foâ you. Has he been mistreating anâ abusing you, the sacrĂ© cochon?â They were alone together in her room, whither she had taken refuge from the angry domestic elements.
âYou please to reserve yoâ disgusting expressions, MontĂ©clin. No, he has not abused me in any way that I can think.â
âDoes he drink? Come âThĂ©naĂŻse, think well over it. Does he ever get drunk?â
âDrunk! Oh, mercy, noâ âCazeau never gets drunk.â
âI see; itâs jusâ simply you feel like me; you hate him.â
âNo, I donât hate him,â she returned reflectively; adding with a sudden impulse, âItâs jusâ being married that I detesâ anâ despise. I hate being Mrs. Cazeau, anâ would want to be AthĂ©naĂŻse MichĂ© again. I canât stanâ to live with a man; to have him always there; his coats anâ pantaloons hanging in my room; his ugly bare feetâ âwashing them in my tub, befoâ my very eyes, ugh!â She shuddered with recollections, and resumed, with a sigh that was almost a sob: âMon Dieu, mon Dieu! Sister Marie Angelique knew wâat she was saying; she knew me better than myseâf wâen she said God had sent me a vocation anâ I was turning deaf ears. Wâen I think of a blessed life in the convent, at peace! Oh, wâat was I dreaming of!â and then the tears came.
MontĂ©clin felt disconcerted and greatly disappointed at having obtained evidence that would carry no weight with a court of justice. The day had not come when a young woman might ask the courtâs permission to return to her mamma on the sweeping ground of a constitutional disinclination for marriage. But if there was no way of untying this Gordian knot of marriage, there was surely a way of cutting it.
âWell, âThĂ©naĂŻse, Iâm mighty durn sorry yo got no better grounâs âan wâat you say. But you can count on me to stanâ by you whatever you do. God knows I donâ blame you foâ not wantinâ to live with Cazeau.â
And now there was Cazeau himself, with the red spots flaming in his swarthy cheeks, looking and feeling as if he wanted to thrash Montéclin into some semblance of decency. He arose abruptly, and approaching the room which he had seen his wife enter, thrust open the door after a hasty preliminary knock. Athénaïse, who was standing erect at a far window, turned at his entrance.
She appeared neither angry nor frightened, but thoroughly unhappy, with an appeal in her soft dark eyes and a tremor on her lips that seemed to him expressions of unjust reproach, that wounded and maddened him at once. But whatever he might feel, Cazeau knew only one way to act toward a woman.
âAthĂ©naĂŻse, you are not ready?â he asked in his quiet tones. âItâs getting late; we havnâ any time to lose.â
She knew that MontĂ©clin had spoken out, and she had hoped for a wordy interview, a stormy scene, in which she might have held her own as she had held it for the past three days against her family, with MontĂ©clinâs aid. But she had no weapon with which to combat subtlety. Her husbandâs looks, his tones, his mere presence, brought to her a sudden sense of hopelessness, an instinctive realization of the futility of rebellion against a social and sacred institution.
Cazeau said nothing further, but stood waiting in the doorway. Madame Miché had walked to the far end of the gallery, and pretended to be occupied with having a chicken driven from her parterre. Montéclin stood by, exasperated, fuming, ready to burst out.
AthĂ©naĂŻse went and reached for her riding skirt that hung against the wall. She was rather tall, with a figure which, though not robust, seemed perfect in its fine proportions. âLa fille de son pĂšre,â she was often called, which was a great compliment to MichĂ©. Her brown hair was brushed all fluffily back from her temples and low forehead, and about her features and expression lurked a softness, a prettiness, a dewiness, that were perhaps too childlike, that savored of immaturity.
She slipped the riding-skirt, which was of black alpaca, over her head, and with impatient fingers hooked it at the waist over her pink linen-lawn. Then she fastened on her white sunbonnet and reached for her
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