Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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She carried herself boldly and stepped out freely and easily, like a negress. There was an absence of reserve in her manner; yet there was no lack of womanliness. She had the air of a young person accustomed to decide for herself and for those about her.
âYou said yoâ name was FĂ©deau?â she asked, looking squarely at TelĂšsphore. Her eyes were penetratingâ ânot sharply penetrating, but earnest and dark, and a little searching. He noticed that they were handsome eyes; not so large as Elvinaâs, but finer in their expression. They started to walk down the track before turning into the lane leading to Trodonâs house. The sun was sinking and the air was fresh and invigorating by contrast with the stifling atmosphere of the train.
âYou said yoâ name was FĂ©deau?â she asked.
âNo,â he returned. âMy name is TelĂšsphore Baquette.â
âAnâ my name; itâs ZaĂŻda Trodon. It looks like you ought to know me; I donâ know wây.â
âIt looks that way to me, somehow,â he replied. They were satisfied to recognize this feelingâ âalmost convictionâ âof pre-acquaintance, without trying to penetrate its cause.
By the time they reached Trodonâs house he knew that she lived over on Bayou de Glaize with her parents and a number of younger brothers and sisters. It was rather dull where they lived and she often came to lend a hand when her cousinâs wife got tangled in domestic complications; or, as she was doing now, when FochĂ©âs Saturday ball promised to be unusually important and brilliant. There would be people there even from Marksville, she thought; there were often gentlemen from Alexandria. TelĂšsphore was as unreserved as she, and they appeared like old acquaintances when they reached Trodonâs gate.
Trodonâs wife was standing on the gallery with a baby in her arms, watching for ZaĂŻda; and four little barefooted children were sitting in a row on the step, also waiting; but terrified and struck motionless and dumb at sight of a stranger. He opened the gate for the girl but stayed outside himself. ZaĂŻda presented him formally to her cousinâs wife, who insisted upon his entering.
âAh, bâen, pour ça! you got to come in. Itâs any sense you goinâ to walk yonda to FochĂ©âs! Ti Jules, run call yoâ pa.â As if Ti Jules could have run or walked even, or moved a muscle!
But TelĂšsphore was firm. He drew forth his silver watch and looked at it in a businesslike fashion. He always carried a watch; his uncle TelĂšsphore always told the time by the sun, or by instinct, like an animal. He was quite determined to walk on to FochĂ©âs, a couple of miles away, where he expected to secure supper and a lodging, as well as the pleasing distraction of the ball.
âWell, I reckon I see you all tonight,â he uttered in cheerful anticipation as he moved away.
âYouâll see ZaĂŻda; yes, anâ Jules,â called out Trodonâs wife good-humoredly. âMe, I got no time to fool with balls, Jâ vous rĂ©ponds! with all them chilâren.â
âHeâs good-lookinâ; yes,â she exclaimed, when TelĂšsphore was out of earshot. âAnâ dressed! itâs like a prince. I didnâ know you knew any Baquettes, you, ZaĂŻda.â
âItâs strange you donâ know âem yoâ seâf, cousine.â Well, there had been no question from Maâme Trodon, so why should there be an answer from ZaĂŻda?
TelĂšsphore wondered as he walked why he had not accepted the invitation to enter. He was not regretting it; he was simply wondering what could have induced him to decline. For it surely would have been agreeable to sit there on the gallery waiting while ZaĂŻda prepared herself for the dance; to have partaken of supper with the family and afterward accompanied them to FochĂ©âs. The whole situation was so novel, and had presented itself so unexpectedly that TelĂšsphore wished in reality to become acquainted with it, accustomed to it. He wanted to view it from this side and that in comparison with other, familiar situations. The girl had impressed himâ âaffected him in some way; but in some new, unusual way, not as the others always had. He could not recall details of her personality as he could recall such details of Amaranthe or the Valtours, of any of them. When TelĂšsphore tried to think of her he could not think at all. He seemed to have absorbed her in some way and his brain was not so occupied with her as his senses were. At that moment he was looking forward to the ball; there was no doubt about that. Afterwards, he did not know what he would look forward to; he did not care; afterward made no difference. If he had expected the crash of doom to come after the dance at FochĂ©âs, he would only have smiled in his thankfulness that it was not to come before.
There was the same scene every Saturday at FochĂ©âs! A scene to have aroused the guardians of the peace in a locality where such commodities abound. And all on account of the mammoth pot of gumbo that bubbled, bubbled, bubbled out in the open air. FochĂ© in shirtsleeves, fat, red and enraged, swore and reviled, and stormed at old black DoutĂ© for her extravagance. He called her every kind of a name of every kind of animal that suggested itself to his lurid imagination. And every fresh invective that he fired at her she hurled it back at him while into the pot went the chickens and the pans-full of minced ham, and the fists-full of onion and sage and piment rouge and piment vert. If he wanted
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