gh to say. I do not know your talent or
your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many
gifts--absolute gifts--which have not been acquired by one's own effort.
And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul."

"What do you mean by the courageous soul?"

"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies."

"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have
persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?"

"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied
Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.

The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table
upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened
the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in
Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano.

Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat
low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful
curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and
imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of
the Chopin Impromptu.

Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa
corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had
glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song,
and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing.

The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and
fantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The
shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the
night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in
the silence of the upper air.

Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when
strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take
her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at the
threshold.

"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are
dark; don't stumble."

Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the
floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with
tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the
envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.

XXII

One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the h