THE days and the nights were very lonely for Madame Delisle. Gustave, her husband, was away yonder in Virginia somewhere,
with Beauregard, and she was here in the old house on Bayou St. John, alone with her slaves. Madame was very beautiful. So
beautiful, that she found much diversion in sitting for hours before the mirror, contemplating her own loveliness; admiring
the brilliancy of her golden hair, the sweet languor of her blue eyes, the graceful contours of her figure, and the peach-like
bloom of her flesh. She was very young. So young that she romped with the dogs, teased the parrot, and could not fall asleep
at night unless old black Manna-Loulou sat beside her bed and told her stories. In short, she was a child, not able to realize
the significance of the tragedy whose unfolding kept the civilized world in suspense. It was only the immediate effect of
the awful drama that moved her: the gloom that, spreading on all sides, penetrated her own existence and deprived it of joyousness.
Sépincourt found her looking very lonely and disconsolate one day when he stopped to talk with her. She was pale, and her
blue eyes were dim with unwept tears. He was a Frenchman who lived near by. He shrugged his shoulders over this strife between
brothers, this quarrel which was none of his; and he resented it chiefly upon the ground that it made life uncomfortable;
yet he was young enough to have had quicker and hotter blood in his veins. When he left Madame Delisle that day, her eyes
were no longer dim, and a something of the dreariness that weighted her had been lifted away That mysterious, that treacherous
bond called sympathy, had revealed them to each other. He came to her very often that summer, clad always in cool, white duck,
with a flower in his buttonhole. His pleasant brown eyes sought hers with warm, friendly glances that comforted her as a caress
might comfort a disconsolate child. She took to watching for his slim figure, a little bent, walking lazily up the avenue
between the double line of magnolias. They would sit sometimes during whole afternoons in the vine-sheltered corner of the
gallery, sipping the black coffee that Manna-Loulou brought to them at intervals; and talking, talking incessantly during
the first days when they were unconsciously unfolding themselves to each other. Then a time came - it came very quickly -
when they seemed to have nothing more to say to one another. He brought her news of the war; and they talked about it listlessly,
between long intervals of silence, of which neither took account. An occasional letter came by roundabout ways from Gustave
- guarded and saddening in its tone. They would read it and sigh over it together. Once they stood before his portrait that
hung in the drawing-room and that looked out at them with kind, indulgent eyes. Madame wiped the picture with her gossamer
handkerchief and impulsively pressed a tender kiss upon the painted canvas. For months past the living image of her husband
had been receding further and further into a mist which she could penetrate with no faculty or power that she possessed. One
day at sunset, when she and Sépincourt stood silently side by side, looking across the marais, aflame with the western light,
he said to her: "M'amie, let us go away from this country that is so triste. Let us go to Paris, you and me." She thought
that he was jesting, and she laughed nervously. "Yes, Paris would surely be gayer than Bayou St. John," she answered. But
he was not jesting. She saw it at once in the glance that penetrated her own; in the quiver of his sensitive lip and the quick
beating of a swollen vein in his brown throat. "Paris, or anywhere - with you - ah, bon Dieu!" he whispered, seizing her hands.
But she withdrew from him, frightened, and hurried away into the house, leaving him alone. That night, for the first time,
Madame did not want to hear Manna-Loulou's stories, and she blew out the wax candle that till now had burned nightly in her
sleeping-room, under its tall, crystal globe. She had suddenly become a woman capable of love or sacrifice. She would not
hear Manna-Loulou's stories. She wanted to be alone, to tremble and to weep. In the morning her eyes were dry, but she would
not see Sépincourt when he came. Then he wrote her a letter. "I have offended you and I would rather die!" it ran. "Do not
banish me from your presence that is life to me. Let me lie at your feet, if only for a moment, in which to hear you say that
you forgive me." Men have written just such letters before, but Madame did not know it. To her it was a voice from the unknown,
like music, awaking in her a delicious tumult that seized and held possession of her whole being. When they met, he had but
to look into her face to know that he need not lie at her feet craving forgiveness. She was waiting for him beneath the spreading
branches of a live oak that guarded the gate of her home like a sentinel. For a brief moment he held her hands, which trembled.
Then he folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. "You will go with me, m'amie? I love you - oh, I love you! Will
you not go with me, m'amie?" "Anywhere, anywhere," she told him in a fainting voice that he could scarcely hear. But she did
not go with him. Chance willed it otherwise. That night a courier brought her a message from Beauregard, telling her that
Gustave, her husband, was dead. When the new year was still young, Sépincourt decided that, all things considered, he might,
without any appearance of indecent haste, speak again of his love to Madame Delisle. That love was quite as acute as ever;
perhaps a little sharper, from the lone period of silence and waiting to which he had subjected it. He found her, as he had
expected, clad in deepest mourning. She greeted him precisely as she had welcomed the curé, when the kind old priest had brought
to her the consolations of religion - clasping his two hands warmly, and calling him "cher ami." Her whole attitude and bearing
brought to Sépincourt the poignant, the bewildering conviction that he held no place in her thoughts. They sat in the drawing-room
before the portrait of Gustave, which was draped with his scarf. Above the picture hung his sword, and beneath it was an embankment
of flowers. Sépincourt felt an almost irresistible impulse to bend his knee before this altar, upon which he saw foreshadowed
the immolation of his hopes. There was a soft air blowing gently over the marais. It came to them through the open window,
laden with a hundred subtle sounds and scents of the springtime. It seemed to remind Madame of something far, far away, for
she gazed dreamily out into the blue firmament. It fretted Sépincourt with impulses to speech and action which he found it
impossible to control. "You must know what has brought me," he began impulsively, drawing his chair nearer to hers. "Through
all these months I have never ceased to love you and to long for you. Night and day the sound of your dear voice has been
with me; your eyes" - She held out her hand deprecatingly. He took it and held it. She let it lie unresponsive in his. "You
cannot have forgotten that you loved me not long ago," he went on eagerly, "that you were ready to follow me anywhere - anywhere;
do you remember? I have come now to ask you to fulfill that promise; to ask you to be my wife, my companion, the dear treasure
of my life." She heard his warm and pleading tones as though listening to a strange language, imperfectly understood. She
withdrew her hand from his, and leaned her brow thoughtfully upon it. "Can you not feel - can you not understand, mon ami,"
she said calmly, "that now such a thing - such a thought, is impossible to me?" "Impossible?" "Yes, impossible. Can you not
see that now my heart, my soul, my thought - my very life, must belong to another? It could not be different." "Would you
have me believe that you can wed your young existence to the dead?" he exclaimed with something like horror. Her glance was
sunk deep in the embankment of flowers before her. "My husband has never been so living to me as he is now," she replied with
a faint smile of commiseration for Sépincourt's fatuity. "Every object that surrounds me speaks to me of him. I look yonder
across the marais, and I see him coming toward me, tired and toil-stained from the hunt. I see him again sitting in this chair
or in that one. I hear his familiar voice, his footsteps upon the galleries. We walk once more together beneath the magnolias;
and at night in dreams I feel that he is there, there, near me. How could it be different! Ah! I have memories, memories to
crowd and fill my life, if I live a hundred years!" Sépincourt was wondering why she did not take the sword down from her
altar and thrust it through his body here and there. The effect would have been infinitely more agreeable than her words,
penetrating his soul like fire. He arose confused, enraged with pain. "Then, Madame," he stammered, "there is nothing left
for me but to take my leave. I bid you adieu." "Do not be offended, mon ami," she said kindly, holding out her hand. "You
are going to Paris, I suppose?" "What does it matter," he exclaimed desperately, "where I go?" "Oh, I only wanted to wish
you bon voyage," she assured him amiably. Many days after that Sépincourt spent in the fruitless mental effort of trying to
comprehend that psychological enigma, a woman's heart. Madame still lives on Bayou St. John. She is rather an old lady now,
a very pretty old lady, against whose long years of widowhood there has never been a breath of reproach. The memory of Gustave
still fills and satisfies her days. She has never failed, once a year, to have a solemn high mass said for the repose of his
soul. Bayou People Kate Chopin 1894 Source: http://docsouth.unc.edu/chopinbayou/bayou.html#bayouf304
