Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. Mamâselle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into her pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out incessantly.
âBut what shall we do with La Petite, SesĆur? Where shall we put her? How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!â
âShe will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,â responded Maâame PĂ©lagie, âand live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it if we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true ValmĂȘt.â
Then Maâame PĂ©lagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the fields; and Mamâselle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled grasses toward the cabin.
The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these two, lining their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt PĂ©lagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crĂšpe myrtle. Mamâselle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Maâame PĂ©lagie looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of the past in the living present.
And they made room between them for this young life.
IILa Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow existence which she knew awaited her at CĂŽte Joyeuse. It went well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Maâame PĂ©lagie into the fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing moss of the giant oaks.
Mamâselle Paulineâs steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes were sometimes as bright as a birdâs, unless La Petite were away from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her endearingly Tanâtante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very quietâ ânot listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes of the white crĂšpe myrtle that grew in the ruin.
One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a hand of each, she said: âTante PĂ©lagie, I must tell you something, you and Tanâtante.â She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. âI love you bothâ âplease remember that I love you both. But I must go away from you. I canât live any longer here at CĂŽte Joyeuse.â
A spasm passed through Mamâselle Paulineâs delicate frame. La Petite could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined with her own. Maâame PĂ©lagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul felt. She said: âWhat do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain.â
âMy father loves me, tante PĂ©lagie, and such will not be his wish when he knows. Oh!â she continued with a restless movement, âit is as though a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life, I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante PĂ©lagie, you do not need to. It seems to me,â she added in a whisper, âthat it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tanâtante!â âwhat is the matter with Tanâtante?â
It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon pass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some water and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.
But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mamâselle Pauline sobbed and would not be comforted. Maâame PĂ©lagie took her in her arms.
âPauline, my little sister Pauline,â she entreated, âI never have seen you like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy together, you and I?â
âOh, yes, SesĆur.â
âIs it because La Petite is going away?â
âYes, SesĆur.â
âThen she is dearer to you than I!â spoke Maâame PĂ©lagie with sharp resentment. âThan I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could cherish you. Pauline, donât tell me that.â
Mamâselle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.
âI canât explain it to you, SesĆur. I donât understand it myself. I love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes away I shall die. I canât understandâ âhelp me, SesĆur. She seemsâ âshe seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken
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