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Mademoiselle Reisz’s choice of an attic apartment was rumored to deter unwanted visitors, but it also offered a unique view of the river crescent, ship masts, and steamboat chimneys. Her cramped yet functional space housed a grand piano, a bedroom, and a small kitchen area with a well-used stove and a vintage buffet. When Evelyn arrived and knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s door, she found her mending an old gaiter by the window, her unconventional appearance contrasting with the afternoon light.
“You finally remembered me,” Mademoiselle quipped as Evelyn entered.
“Did you want me to come?” Evelyn asked, amused.
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Mademoiselle replied, motioning for Evelyn to sit on the small sofa against the wall. “But I’m glad you’re here. I was about to make coffee.”
As they settled in, Mademoiselle’s frankness amused Evelyn, who admitted, “I don’t know if I like you.”
Mademoiselle, pleased by the honesty, promptly made coffee and offered biscuits, which Evelyn welcomed after declining refreshments elsewhere. Pouring cream into Evelyn’s cup, Mademoiselle casually mentioned receiving a letter from Taylor in Mexico City.
“Taylor wrote to you?” Evelyn exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, about you,” Mademoiselle clarified, handing Evelyn her coffee. “But the letter is mine to keep.”
Evelyn, intrigued, tried to peek at the letter, but Mademoiselle remained firm. “Letters are meant for the eyes they’re addressed to,” she stated, teasingly adding, “Drink your coffee before it loses its warmth. Taylor seems to think we’re inseparable, doesn’t he?”
“Let me see the letter,” Evelyn persisted.
Mademoiselle Reisz chuckled, teasingly withholding it. “Oh, no,” she replied.
“Have you answered it?” Evelyn inquired.
“No,” came the curt response.
Evelyn persisted, “Let me see the letter.”
“No, and again, no,” Mademoiselle firmly refused.
“Then play the Impromptu for me,” Evelyn changed tactics.
“It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?” Mademoiselle deflected.
“Time doesn’t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu,” Evelyn insisted.
“But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?” Mademoiselle steered the conversation.
“Painting!” Evelyn exclaimed with a laugh. “I am becoming an artist. Think of it!”
“Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame,” Mademoiselle observed.
“Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?” Evelyn challenged.
“I do not know you well enough 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,” Mademoiselle remarked cryptically.
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“What do you mean by the courageous soul?” Evelyn pressed.
“Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies,” Mademoiselle elaborated.
“Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?” Evelyn questioned, determined.
“It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,” Mademoiselle admitted with a chuckle.
The letter lay within reach in a drawer on the table where Evelyn had placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle retrieved it and handed it to Evelyn without further ado, then gracefully moved to the piano.
Mademoiselle’s fingers danced across the keys, weaving a soft interlude that seamlessly transitioned into Chopin’s Impromptu. Evelyn, engrossed in Taylor’s letter, was swept away by the music’s emotional depth. Mademoiselle’s playing stirred memories and emotions within Evelyn, who found herself sobbing, reminiscent of a past midnight at Grand Isle.
As the music filled the room, Evelyn’s tears fell. After composing herself, she stood at the threshold, asking, “May I come again, Mademoiselle?”
“Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don’t stumble,” Mademoiselle cautioned, reentering the room to light a candle. She noticed Taylor’s crumpled letter on the floor, damp with Evelyn’s tears. Mademoiselle carefully restored it to its envelope, placing it back in the table drawer.
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One morning, as he made his way into town, Mr. McPherson decided to visit his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor, semi-retired and known more for his wisdom than active medical practice, was engrossed in reading by the open window of his study. His house, nestled in a serene garden, offered a quiet retreat. When Mr. McPherson arrived, the Doctor peered over his glasses, curious about the interruption.
“Ah, McPherson! Not sick, I hope. Come and sit. What brings you here this morning?” The Doctor, portly with gray hair and piercing blue eyes, welcomed his friend.
“Oh, I’m never sick, Doctor. You know the McPhersons are made of tough stuff,” Mr. McPherson replied, taking a seat. “I came to talk about Evelyn. Something seems off.”
“Madame McPherson unwell?” The Doctor raised an eyebrow in surprise. “But I saw her recently, looking perfectly healthy.”
“Yes, physically she’s fine,” Mr. McPherson agreed, tapping his walking stick. “But her behavior is odd. She’s neglecting the household, acting unlike herself. I thought you might help.”
“How so?” inquired the Doctor, leaning forward.
“It’s hard to describe,” Mr. McPherson admitted. “She’s not herself, and it’s causing tension. She’s caught up in ideas about women’s rights and such.”
The Doctor listened, tapping his chair thoughtfully. “Have there been any changes in her social circle?”
“No, quite the opposite. She’s withdrawn from social gatherings, spending time alone, even at odd hours,” Mr. McPherson explained, growing concerned.
The Doctor considered this new information. “Any family history of such behavior?”
“None at all. Her family is as traditional as they come,” Mr. McPherson replied. “But her youngest sister is getting married soon. Perhaps that will lift her spirits.”
“Send her to the wedding. Sometimes a change of scenery does wonders,” the Doctor suggested optimistically.
“That’s what I want her to do. She won’t go to the wedding. She calls it a lamentable spectacle, can you believe it?” Mr. McPherson vented, frustration evident in his tone.
“McPherson,” the Doctor began after a thoughtful pause, “sometimes the best approach with women, especially those as sensitive as Mrs. McPherson, is to give them space. They’re intricate beings, not easily understood by ordinary means. It takes a skilled psychologist to navigate their complexities. When we attempt it clumsily, well, we often make things worse. Most women have their moods and quirks. Your wife’s current state is likely a passing phase, influenced by factors we needn’t unravel. Let it run its course, and if she feels inclined, send her to me.”
“I couldn’t impose that,” Mr. McPherson objected.
“Then I’ll pay her a visit myself,” the Doctor suggested. “I’ll drop by for dinner as a friendly gesture.”
“Please do! How about Thursday?” Mr. McPherson proposed.
“Thursday it is, unless my wife has other plans,” the Doctor agreed. “I’ll confirm with you.”
As Mr. McPherson prepared to leave, he added, “I may be away to New York soon for business. Should I take Evelyn?”
“If she desires. Otherwise, let her be. This mood will pass with time,” the Doctor reassured.
“Goodbye then, and see you Thursday,” Mr. McPherson bid farewell.
The Doctor refrained from asking the question that lingered in his mind during their conversation. He knew better than to pry into such delicate matters with his Creole friend.
After Mr. McPherson left, the Doctor sat in contemplation, gazing out into the tranquil garden, pondering the intricacies of human emotions.