When, the morning after her passionate outburst, Eline came down to
breakfast, Henk had already gone out, bound for the stables, to look
after his horses and hounds. In the breakfast-room there was no one but
little Ben, eating, or rather playing with a slice of bread-and-butter.
Betsy she could hear running to and fro with much animation, and giving
her hurried instructions to the cook.
Frans and Jeanne Ferelyn, and Miss de Woude van Bergh and her brother,
were coming to dinner that day.
Eline was looking very neat and dressy in a gown of dark gray woollen
material, a gray ribbon round her waist, and a small golden arrow
glittering at her throat. She wore neither rings nor bracelets. About
her forehead curled a few fine locks, in frizzy garlands, soft and
glossy as frayed silk.
With a friendly nod she walked round to where the child was seated, and
lifting up his face with both hands pressed a loving kiss on his
forehead. Then she sat down, feeling well at ease with herself, her
senses agreeably soothed by the soft warmth thrown out from the glowing
hearth, while outside the snow-flakes were silently wrapping a
down-like mantle around them. With an involuntary smile of satisfaction
she rubbed her slim white hands, and glanced at her rosy, white-tipped
finger-nails; then casting a glance outside, where an old woman, almost
bent double, was pushing a barrow of snow-covered oranges in front of
her, she cut open a little breakfast-roll, the while listening, with
amused indifference, to the angry dispute going on between Betsy and
the cook.
Betsy entered, an ill-humoured expression in her heavily-shaded,
twinkling eyes, her short thick lips compressed with annoyance. She
carried a set of cut-glass dessert trays, which she was about to wash,
as the cook had broken one of them. Carefully, notwithstanding her
anger, she placed the trays on the table, and filled a basin with warm
water.
“That fool of a girl! Fancy washing one of my fine glass dishes in
boiling water! But it serves me right for trusting those idiots to do
anything.”
Her voice sounded harsh and rasping, as she roughly pushed Ben out of
the way. Eline, in unusually good humour, offered her assistance, which
was readily accepted by Betsy. She had a great many things to do yet,
she said; but all the same she sat down, watching Eline carefully
washing and drying the dishes one by one, with light graceful
movements, without moistening her fingers or spilling one drop; and she
was conscious of the contrast between her own rough-and-ready way of
doing things—the outcome of robust health—and Eline’s languid grace,
mingled as it was with somewhat of fear of tiring or bespattering
herself.
“By the bye, when I was at the Verstraetens’ yesterday, I heard they
were not going to the opera this evening, as they were tired from last
night; aunt asked me if I would like the box. Do you care to go to the
opera?”
“And what about your visitors?”
“Jeanne Ferelyn is going early, because her child is unwell, and I
wanted to ask Emilie and her brother to come too. Henk can stay at
home. It is a box for four, you know.”
“Very well; I don’t mind.”
Well satisfied with herself, Eline was just putting down the last tray,
when all at once a violent altercation broke out in the kitchen,
accompanied by the silvery clattering of forks and spoons. It was Grete
and Mina engaged in rather forcible argument. Betsy hurried out of the
room, and very soon, curt commands and impudent answers followed each
other in rapid succession.
Ben in the meantime remained standing open-mouthed, and somewhat
drowsily, on the spot where his mother had pushed him, full of silent
alarm at all the hubbub.
“Come, Ben, to auntie’s room,” said Eline, and smilingly she held out
her hand towards him. He came, and both proceeded up-stairs.
Eline occupied two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a boudoir.
With the economy and good taste which were common to her nature, she
had succeeded in imparting to these rooms a semblance of luxury, with
somewhat of an artistic polish. Her piano occupied an angle in the
wall; the heavy foliage of a giant azalea cast a softening shade over
the low, damask-covered couch. In a corner stood a small table laden
with innumerable precious trifles. Statuettes, pictures, feathers, palm
branches, filled every nook. The pink marble mantelpiece was crowned
with a miniature Venetian mirror, suspended by red cords and tassels.
In front stood an Amor and Psyche, after Canova, the group depicting a
maiden in the act of removing her veil, and a love-sick, light-winged
god.
When Eline entered with Ben, the ruddy glow from the hearth shone on
her cheeks. She threw the child a few tattered volumes of engravings,
and he settled himself on the sofa, soon absorbed in the pictures.
Eline entered her bedroom, the windows of which were still covered with
daintily-formed leaves and flowers, the effect of the night’s frost.
Yonder stood a toilette duchesse—a vision of tulle and lace—touched up
here and there with the satin bows of old ball bouquets, and laden with
scent phials of Sèvres and fine cut-glass. In the midst of all this
wealth of pink and white the mirror glittered like a sheet of burnished
silver. The bedstead was hidden among red draperies, and in the corner
against the door a tall cheval glass reflected a flood of liquid
sunshine.
For a moment Eline glanced round, to see if her maid had arranged
everything to her satisfaction; then shivering in the chilly atmosphere
she returned to her sitting-room and closed the door. With its
semi-Eastern luxury the room was a most pleasant one, its comfort
seemingly enhanced by the cold white glare reflected from the snow
outside.
Eline felt as though brimming over with melody—a feeling which could
only find adequate expression in song. She chose the waltz from
Mireille. And she sang it with variations of her own, with modulations
now swelling into a full, rich volume of melody, now melting away into
the faintest diminuendo, with brilliant shakes and roulades clear as
those of a lark. She no longer thought of the cold and snow outside.
Then suddenly remembering that she had not practised for three days,
she commenced singing scales, brightening her high notes, and trying a
difficult portamento. Her voice resounded with a metallic ring,
somewhat cold, but clear and bright as crystal.
Ben, though well used to these jubilant tones, which reverberated
through the whole house, sat listening in open-mouthed wonder, without
bestowing a further glance on his pictures, now and again giving a
sudden start when some exceptionally shrill high si or do would
penetrate his ears.
Eline was herself at a loss to account for her sadness of yesterday.
How and whence came that fit of melancholy, without any definite cause?
what was the overwhelming joy too that could have so suddenly chased
those clouds away?
To-day she felt animated, happy, joyous; she was sorry that she had not
seen the tableaux yesterday, and she feared that Mr. and Madame
Verstraeten did not take her indisposition au sérieux. What a nice,
pleasant man he was, Mr. Verstraeten, always full of fun! and Madame
Verstraeten, what a dear good soul! She knew no one like her, so
charming and kind. And then, seated at her piano, now practising a
shake, then a chromatic scale, she allowed her thoughts to wander to
other nice people amongst her acquaintances. Yes; all had their good
qualities: the Ferelyns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame
van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for Cateau she was a doll.
And the idea struck her that she would rather like to join that company
of players. Yes; they had an admirable conception of the amenities of
life. Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne, ever gay, ever
together, full of droll plans for their amusement. Indeed, it must be
very nice, prettily arrayed in romantic costumes, to be the objects of
general admiration. Paul had a very pretty voice, it would be splendid
to sing duets with him. It quite slipped her memory that only a few
days ago she had assured her singing-master that his voice was
absolutely void of tone. But to-day she was in a pleasant humour, and
sang a second waltz, that of “Juliette” in Gounod’s opera. She adored
Gounod.
It had just struck half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she cried, and looking round she let her slender fingers
rest on the keyboard. Paul van Raat entered.
“Bon jour, Eline. Hallo, young rascal!”
“What, Paul, you?” She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben ran
towards his uncle and hoisted himself up on his knees.
“How early you are! I thought you were coming to sing this afternoon.
But you are welcome all the same; do you hear? Sit down and tell me
about the tableaux,” Eline exclaimed with much animation; then,
remembering her illness of the previous day, she continued in a languid
voice—
“I was awfully sorry I was so ill yesterday. Had a terrible headache.”
“You don’t look much the worse for it.”
“It’s true, Paul, really. If I had been well, don’t you think I should
have come and admired your talent? Come, tell me—tell me all about it,”
and she drew him with her to the sofa and threw the pictures on the
floor.
Paul had some difficulty in freeing himself from Ben, who clung to his
legs.
“Come, let go, Ben. And is the headache better now?”
“Oh yes; quite gone. This afternoon I’ll go round to Mr. Verstraeten to
give my congratulations. But, Paul, do tell me——”
“I was just about to tell you that I was not coming to sing this
afternoon; do you hear, Elly? I couldn’t bring out a note; I am quite
hoarse with the howling and screaming of yesterday. But we managed
splendidly,” and he commenced describing the tableaux.
It was all his idea, and much of it the work of his own hands; but the
girls too had been hard at it for the last month—getting up the
dresses, attending to a thousand trifles. That afternoon Losch was
coming to take a photograph of the last group; so that, even had he
been in good voice, he could not have come to sing. And how stiff in
his joints he felt! for he had slaved away like a navvy, and the girls
must be quite exhausted also. No; he had formed no part in the
grouping, he was too busy making all the arrangements. He fell back a
little on the rich damask cushions of the sofa, under the shading
branches of the azalea, and stroked his hair.
Eline thought how much he resembled Henk, although he was ten years
younger, more slender in figure, livelier, with more delicate features,
and an expression of much greater intelligence. But a simple gesture or
movement, a raising of the eyebrows, would now and again very
distinctly illustrate that resemblance, and although his lips were
thinner under his light moustache than Henk’s heavily-bearded upper
lip, his laugh was deep and full as that of his brother.
“Why don’t you take painting lessons of a good master, Paul?” asked
Eline. “Surely if you have talent——”
“But I have not,” he laughed. “It would not be worth the trouble. I
just dabble a bit in it, just as I do with my singing. It amounts to
nothing at all, any of it.” And he sighed at his Lick of energy to make
the most of the little talent he might possess.
“You remind me of papa,” she said, and her words assumed a tone of
sadness, as the idealized image of her father rose to her memory. “Yes;
he had great talents, but latterly his health failed him, and he could
not produce the great creation of which his soul was capable. I well
remember that he was engaged on an immense canvas, a scene from Dante’s
Paradiso I believe, when—when he died. Poor papa! But you are young and
strong, and I can’t understand why you don’t do something great,
something out of the common.”
“You know, I suppose, that I am going to be engaged at Hovel’s. Uncle
Verstraeten has arranged it for me.”
Hovel was a barrister, and as Paul had, at a somewhat early age, and
after a period of alternate studying and idleness, passed the law
examination, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young
barrister a good turn if he recommended him to his friend. It had
therefore been arranged that Paul should continue working at Hovel’s
office, until he could go in practice for himself.
“At Hovel’s? A very nice man; I like his wife very much. Oh, that will
be splendid, Paul.”
“I hope so.”
“But still, if I were a man I should try and become famous. Come, Ben,
don’t be troublesome now; go and look at the nice pictures on the
floor. Wouldn’t you think it splendid to be famous? Really, if I
weren’t Eline Vere I should become an actress.” And she gave vent to a
series of brilliant shakes, which fell from her lips like a sparkling
chain of diamonds.
“Famous!” and with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “What a silly
idea, to be sure. Famous! No; I don’t want to be famous, not a bit. But
for all that I should like to paint well, or sing well, or something.”
“Then why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or music? Shall I
speak to my master?”
“No, thanks; not that old growler of a Roberts, if I can help it. And
besides, Eline, it isn’t really worth while; I should never be able to
keep it up whatever it was. I am subject to sudden fits, you see. Then
I think I can do anything, then I am anxious to hit upon some great
subject for a picture——”
“Like papa,” she interrupted with a sad smile.
“At other times the fit moves me to make the most of what voice I have;
but before long all those grand ideas have died their own death of
sheer inanition, and then I continue in the same old jog-trot as
before.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Henceforth I shall go and hide the aspirations of my genius in law
cases,” he answered with a laugh, as he rose from his seat. “But now I
must be off to the Princesse-gracht, to the Verstraetens’. So don’t
expect me this afternoon; we have several details to arrange yet before
Losch comes. Adieu, Eline; bye-bye, Ben.”
“Bon jour; I hope you’ll soon get over your hoarseness.”
Paul went, and Eline once more sat down at the piano. For a while she
sat thinking what a pity it was Paul had so little energy, and from him
her thoughts reverted again to Henk. But she felt altogether too
light-hearted this morning to do much philosophizing, and, full of
exuberant spirits demanding an outlet, she continued her singing, until
the mid-day gong summoned her and Ben down-stairs.
Paul had told his mother that he would not be home that afternoon for
coffee, as he would be at the Verstraetens’. He lodged at Madame van
Raat’s, in the Laan van Meerdervoort. Madame van Raat, an elder sister
of Madame Verstraeten, was a stately dame, with pensive, light-blue
eyes, and hair of silver gray, dressed in old-fashioned style, whilst
over her whole being there was suffused, as it were, a calmness, a
placid resignation, that unmistakably spoke of former days free from
troubles and disappointments. As walking exercise was becoming irksome
to her, she was mostly to be found seated in her high-backed arm-chair,
the dull-gray head drooping on her bosom, the blue-veined hands folded
in her lap. Thus she continued to lead a quiet, monotonous existence,
the aftermath of a placid, all but cloudless life, by the side of her
husband, on whose portrait she frequently allowed her eyes to dwell, as
it hung before her yonder, in its smart general’s uniform; a
good-looking, frank, manly face, with a pair of truthful, intelligent
eyes, and an engaging expression about the firm, closed mouth. To her,
life had brought but few great sorrows, and for that, in the simplicity
of her faith, she felt piously grateful. But now, now she was tired,
oh! so tired, her spirit quite broken by the death of that husband to
whom, to the last, she had clung with an affection constant and calm as
the bosom of a limpid stream, into the placid waters of which the
impetuous waves of her youthful love had flowed away. After his death,
she began to worry over every trifling circumstance, petty vexations
with servants and tradespeople. All these she connected, until to her
mind they formed an unbroken chain of irksome burdens. Yes, she felt
she was growing old; time had little more to give her, and so, in
silent egoism, she mused her life away in the long-vanished poesy of
the past. She had had three children: her youngest, a girl, was dead.
Of her two sons, her favourite was Henk, who, strong and big, reminded
her the most of his father, whilst in her eyes his sleepy good-nature
had more of open, frank manliness, than Paul’s finer-strung fickleness
and airy geniality. Paul she had always found too unsettled and
nervous: formerly, in his constantly interrupted studies at Leyden—at
last, thanks to a little moral pressure on the part of Uncle
Verstraeten, crowned with promotion—as well as now with his staying out
late at night, his rage for painting, tableaux-vivants and duets, or
his fits of indolence, when he would lounge away a whole afternoon on
the sofa, over a book he did not read.
Before his marriage, Henk, being of a more staid and homely character
than Paul, felt himself better at ease in his mother’s house; although
he was quiet, his silence never irritated her; it was like the silence
of a faithful dog, watching with half-closed eyes over his mistress.
She felt so at her ease with Henk. She disliked being alone, for it was
in solitude that the memories of the past contrasted in their rosy
brightness too sharply with the leaden-gray that was the prevailing hue
of her present life, and Paul she saw but rarely, except when hastily
swallowing his dinner, in order to keep an appointment. She seldom went
out, unaccustomed as she had grown to the noisy traffic of the streets,
and the hum of many voices.
Henk was her pet, and with her mental vision unimpaired, wherever at
least her son was concerned, she regretted his marriage with Betsy
Vere. No; she was not a fit wife for her child, and knowing that, she
could not bring herself to give him her hearty approval or her parental
blessing, when he told her of his engagement. Still, she refrained from
opposing her beloved son in his choice, fearing lest she should be the
cause of unhappiness; it was therefore under a false assumption of
frankness, at which she was surprised herself, that she had concealed
her ill-feeling against the intruder, and welcomed her as her daughter.
All the same, she felt deeply concerned about Henk. Madame Vere she had
known slightly; passionate and domineering, she never found anything
attractive in such a personality, and this daughter reminded her too
much of that mother. Although, in her eyes, Henk was possessed of much
more firmness of character than Vere, of whom she could not think but
as a pallid, ailing sufferer, only too glad to allow his wife to think
and act for him; although Henk, as she thought, had all the frank
manliness of character of his father, and would not allow himself to be
domineered over; still, happy as she had been with van Raat, it would
never be his lot to be. And at that thought she would sigh and her eyes
would grow moist; her mother’s love, despite her blindness to his
failings, was the instinct which gave her an inkling of the truth, and
if she could have taken his place, she would gladly have given up her
own former happiness to her son, and have suffered for him.
Her thoughts ran away with her as she saw Leentje, the servant, laying
the cloth for lunch for herself alone, and with a weary resignation at
the hateful loneliness of her days, she sat down. To-morrow would be to
her as to-day; what remained of her life was but an aftermath of
summer, and though autumn and winter might be free from storms, yet the
only promise they held out was that of a barren, soulless lethargy. To
what end did she live?
And so weary did she feel under the leaden pressure of this
soul-killing loneliness, that she could not even muster up the energy
to scold Leentje for her clumsiness, although she could not help
noticing the damage that was done to one of her old china dishes.
Much earlier than she was wont to go out, Eline went to the
Verstraetens’ that afternoon. It was near the end of November, and
winter had already set in with extreme severity. There was a sharp
frost; the snow, still white and unsullied, crackled under Eline’s
light, regular tread, but her feet preferred to feel the smoothness of
the clean-swept pavement; the delicately-gloved hands were hidden away
in the small muff. At times bestowing a friendly nod, from under her
veil, on some passing acquaintance, she proceeded along the Java-straat
to the Princesse-gracht. She still felt in a happy humour, which was
quite undisturbed by the little tiff she had had with Betsy about some
trifling question with the servants. These little bickerings were not
of such rare occurrence lately, although they always irritated Henk
beyond measure.
But Eline had not taken much notice of Betsy’s words, and had replied
to her with less sharpness than was her wont; she did not care to allow
such trifles to spoil her good-humour: life was too dear to her——
And feeling glad that she had curbed her temper, she turned the corner
of the Java-straat.
At the Verstraetens’ there still prevailed an unusual disorder. Dien
was loth to admit her, but Eline took no notice, and passed inside to
the large reception-room, where she found Madame Verstraeten, who
apologized for being in her dressing-gown. Losch, the photographer,
half hidden under the green cloth of his apparatus, was taking a view
of the group representing the Five Senses. The girls, Etienne, and Paul
smiled their welcome to Eline, who said it was splendid still to be
able to see something of the tableaux. But now, in the chill
snow-reflected daylight, the scene no longer created the vivid, glowing
impression of the previous evening, nor had it the same wealth of
colouring, with which a plentiful application of Bengal fire had
endowed it. The draperies hung in loose and crumpled folds;
Frédérique’s cloth of gold had a smudged, faded tint, her ermine had
more the appearance of white and black wool. Etienne’s fair wig was
decidedly out of curl. Lili, representing the sense of Smelling, lay
half dozing in her pillows.
“I am afraid it won’t come to much,” said Marie, as Losch was arranging
her draperies; but Toosje van der Stoor thought otherwise and remained
lying motionless, with a terribly cramped feeling, owing to her
difficult attitude.
Eline, unwilling to disturb the artistes in their grouping, sat down
beside Mr. Verstraeten. He laid away his book and removed his
eye-glasses, and with his sparkling brown eyes glanced with unfeigned
pleasure at the graceful girl.
“Do you know,” she said, as she unhooked the little fur-lined cloak,
“do you know, I am really jealous of that little group there. They are
always together, always happy and jolly, and full of fun and amusing
ideas—really I feel quite old by the side of them.”
“Just fancy that!” answered Madame Verstraeten, laughing. “You are of
the same age as Marie, three-and-twenty, aren’t you?”
“Yes; but I was never spoilt as Marie and Lili are being now, and yet I
think I should not have minded a bit. You know, of course, when I was a
child—papa was mostly ill, and naturally that threw a damper over us;
and afterwards at Aunt Vere’s house—aunt was a dear, good woman, but
much elder than papa, and not very jolly certainly——”
“You must not say anything about Aunt Vere, Eline!” said Mr.
Verstraeten; “she was an old flame of mine——”
“And you must not laugh at her; I was very fond of her; she really was
a second mother to us, and when that long illness ended in her death, I
felt the loss keenly, I was as alone in the world. You see, all these
things were not exactly calculated to make my youth a very gay one.”
And she smiled a saddened smile, whilst at the thought of all she had
been deprived of, her eyes glistened with moisture. “But when you look
at Paul and Etienne, and the girls, it’s nothing but laughter and
pleasure—really, enough to make me jealous. And that Toos, too, she is
a dear child.”
The artistes came down from the platform. Losch had finished. Paul and
Etienne, with Freddy, Marie, and Cateau came forward, whilst Lili went
to bed, thoroughly exhausted with the excitement of the last two days.
“Good morning, Miss Vere,” said Cateau, as she held out her little hand
to Eline.
Eline felt a sudden, indescribable, unreasoning sympathy for that
child, so simple and so unconsciously engaging, and as she rose to go,
she was obliged to hide her emotion by playfully embracing the child.
“Good-bye, darling,” she said dotingly. “I am going, Madame
Verstraeten; there is still plenty left for you to do, now that all
that excitement is over. Ah! yes—I promised Betsy to ask you for the
tickets. May I have them?”
It was still early, only half-past two, and Eline thought what a long
time it was since she had visited old Madame van Raat, and she knew
that the old lady liked her, and was always glad to have a chat in the
afternoon. Henk never failed to visit his mother every morning after
his ride, and the two boarhounds, whom his wife had banished from his
home, followed him undisturbed up the stairs in his mother’s house. As
for Betsy, of her the old lady saw very little; Betsy was well enough
aware that Madame van Raat did not care for her. Eline, however, had
succeeded in winning her affections, by means of a certain most
engaging manner she had when in the company of aged ladies; in the tone
of her voice, in her little attentions, there was a something, a
delicate flavour of respect, which charmed the old dame.
Eline returned through the Java-straat to the Laan van Meerdervoort,
and found Madame van Raat alone, seated in her high-backed chair, her
hands folded in her lap. And in the young girl’s eyes she appeared such
a picture of mute sadness; over the rich faded furniture there hovered
such a melancholy shadow of past comfort; the whole apartment was
filled with such an atmosphere of sorrow, and about the folds of the
dark green curtains there hung such a mist of melancholy, that on
entering, Eline felt her heart grow cold within her, as though a voice
had told her that life was not worth living.
But she struggled against the feeling. She recalled those thoughts
which in the morning had brought her such lightness of heart. She
smiled, and her tone assumed that vague respect, mingled with somewhat
of love and pity, and with much animation she spoke about Paul, about
the tableaux, about that evening’s dinner, and the opera—and promised
Madame van Raat to send her some books, nice light literature, in which
one looked at the world through rose-coloured glasses.
It pained her to chatter in this way; she would much rather have sat
and cried with the old dame, in sympathetic melancholy, but she
controlled herself, and even plucked up courage to touch upon a more
serious subject. With her engaging, respectful manner, she took Madame
to task for having been discovered by her with moistened eyes, which
now she would not own; she was not inquisitive, but she would so gladly
console and cheer her, if she could; and why did she not again make her
her confidante, as she had done before, and so on.
And the old lady, already placed at her ease by this charm of manner,
smilingly shook her head; really, there was nothing the matter at all;
she only felt a little lonely. Ah, it was her own fault, she feared,
for there was very little in which she still took any interest. Other
old people read the papers and continued to take an interest in things
generally; but not she. Yes, it was all her own fault; but Eline was a
dear girl; why could not Betsy be a little like her?
And with increased animation, she began to talk about her dear husband;
over there was his portrait....
It was past four when Eline hurried away; it was growing dark, it was
thawing, and the lowering clouds threatened to fall upon her and choke
her. That old lady had been happy, very happy.... and she, Eline, was
not happy, even at her age—oh! how would she feel when she too would be
old, ugly, and shrivelled up! To her even the memories of the past
would bring no comfort, nor yet the solacing thought that happiness did
exist, that she had tasted its sweets; to her all would be dull and
leaden as the clouds above! “Oh, God, why live, if life were void of
happiness?—why, why?” she whispered, and she hurried on to dress for
dinner.
It was to be a simple, homely little dinner. At half-past six the
Ferelyns came, and shortly after, Emilie and Georges. Betsy received
them in the drawing-room, and asked Jeanne how the child was.
“She is much easier now, the little dot; the fever is gone, but still
she is not quite better. Doctor Reyer said she was getting on. It’s
very nice of you to have invited us; a little change is really
necessary for me. But you see, I took your word for it that it would be
quite a family party, so I haven’t dressed for it.” And with some
misgiving her eyes wandered from her own plain black dress to Betsy’s
gown of gray satin.
“Really, there is no one else coming but Emilie here, and her brother.
But you told me you would be going home early, so we have arranged,
later on, to look in at the opera, in Uncle Verstraeten’s box. So you
need not be uneasy, you were quite right to come as you are.”
Henk, looking jolly and contented, entered in his smoking-jacket, and
on seeing him Jeanne felt more reassured than by all Betsy’s
protestations. With Emilie, lively as ever, she was on the most
intimate terms, and it was Georges alone, with his immaculate
shirt-front, and his big gardenia, who made her feel somewhat uneasy at
her own simple dress.
Frans Ferelyn, an East-Indian official, was in Holland on furlough, and
his wife was an old school-mate of Eline’s and Betsy’s.
Jeanne seemed a homely little woman, very quiet and depressed under her
domestic troubles. Delicate, emaciated, and pallid, with a pair of soft
brown eyes, she felt crushed under the double burden of pecuniary
embarrassment and anxiety for her three ailing children, and she felt
an irresistible longing for India, the land of her birth, and for the
quiet life she led there. She suffered much from the cold, and numbered
the months she would still have to pass in Holland. She told Emilie of
her life at Temanggoeng in the Kadoe—Frans was Comptroller
first-class—in the midst of a menagerie of Cochin-China fowls, ducks,
pigeons, a cow, two goats, and a cockatoo. “Just like Adam and Eve in
Paradise,” remarked Emilie. Then she told them how each morning she
used to look after her Persian roses and her pretty azaleas, and gather
her vegetables from her own garden, and how her children, immediately
on their arrival in Holland, were taken ill and began to cough. “’Tis
true, in India they looked rather pale, but there at least they were
not obliged to be in constant fear of draughts and open doors.” And she
was sorry that, owing to the expense of the voyage, she had had to come
away without her baboo, Saripa. She was now in service at Samarang, but
she had promised to come back to her “as soon as we are home again,”
and she was to bring her over some pretty frocks from Holland.
Emilie listened attentively, and did her best to set her talking; she
knew how those Indian reminiscences could draw Jeanne out of her usual
quiet reserve. Betsy considered her out of place in company, so when
she did ask her, it was always together with her husband, and if
possible, with one or two others. The fact was, she thought her a bore,
generally ill-dressed, and her conversation flat and uninteresting, but
still she could not help occasionally inviting her, more with a kind of
pity than anything else.
While Frans Ferelyn was speaking to Henk about his forthcoming
promotion to Assistant Resident, and Georges was listening to Jeanne
telling him about Frans’s horse one day stepping right into their room
to fetch his pisang, Betsy lay back in her chair, thinking how long
Eline was. She would have liked to have dined early, so as not to be so
very late at the opera, and she inwardly hoped that the Ferelyns would
not be indiscreet and stay too long. Amusing they certainly were not,
she thought, and she rose, concealing her impatience, to fix a bunch of
peacock feathers in one of the vases, a few of the knick-knacks on the
little centre table; then with her foot she arranged the tiger-skin rug
in front of the flaming hearth, all the time feeling annoyed at Eline’s
delay.
At length the door opened and Eline entered, and Jeanne could not help
noticing how pretty and elegant she looked in her pink rep silk frock,
simple but rich, with a neat little bow here and there on her V-shaped
corsage, on the short sleeves, and at the waist. In her light-brown,
back-combed hair she wore a touffe of wavy pink feathers with a small
aigrette; her nimble feet were encased in small pink shoes; a single
string of pearls encircled her throat. In her hands she held her long
gloves, her fan of pink ostrich feathers, and her binocle set in
mother-of-pearl.
Ferelyn and de Woude rose, and she shook hands with them, and kissed
Emilie and Jeanne, at the same time inquiring about little Dora. She
noticed how all, even Henk and Betsy, took stock of her, from head to
foot, struck as they were with the rich simplicity of her dress: and
when Jeanne spoke to her about her child, she smiled upon the
struggling little woman, all conscious of the effect of her brilliant
charms.
At table, Eline chatted pleasantly with de Woude, next to whom she was
seated. Betsy sat between her two gentlemen guests, Emilie between Henk
and Frans, Jeanne between Eline and Henk. In the somewhat sombre
dining-room, with its antique furniture, the table glistened with snowy
damask, with silver and fine glass, whilst the rays of gas-light
glinted on decanters and glasses, making the dark-red or amber-coloured
wine appear to quiver under the glow of its radiance. From amid a nest
of flowers in a silver basket rose the prickly crown of a splendid
pine.
De Woude commenced telling Eline about the soirée at the Verstraetens’,
and in glowing terms described how well Miss van Erlevoort had looked
her parts, successively as Cleopatra and the sense of Sight. With
Emilie, Frans, and Betsy the conversation turned on India. In this
Jeanne joined every now and again, but she sat too far away, and her
attention was diverted by de Woude’s chattering and the little shrill
laugh of Eline, who was engaged in a mild flirtation.
Henk drank his soup and ate his fish in silence, occasionally
addressing a short monosyllable to Jeanne or Emilie. And Jeanne grew
more and more silent, as much from feeling ill at ease, as from fatigue
at her long talk to Emilie after a day full of worries. She felt very
much out of place, next to that coquettish couple. Eline in full
toilet, de Woude in his evening dress, to which her own little black
dress offered a shabby contrast. Still, she was glad she sat next to
Henk, and in her own malaise she was conscious of a vague sort of
sympathy for him, who was as much out of place there as herself.
And she could not help comparing herself with Eline and Betsy: she,
struggling with her three children and her husband’s slender furlough
allowance; Eline and Betsy, on the other hand, unhampered, and ever
moving in a whirl of pleasures and excitement. Where was the old, happy
friendship that united them in one bond, when all three used to go
hand-in-hand to school, Eline with the cape of her mackintosh filled
with cherries, and she herself under Betsy’s leadership giving free
vent to her childish spirits in naughty answers to the governess? She
felt herself repelled by that young wife, with her self-conscious,
indifferent manner, and her domineering tone towards her husband;
repelled also by that young girl, who appeared to her frivolous and
vain in her conversation, full of brilliant nothings; and by that
dandy. Eline, especially, she could not understand; in her she found
something uncommon, something indefinable and puzzling, and certain
attributes which seemed ever at war with one another. Her laughter
about nothing at all wearied her, and she wondered how it was that a
girl who, as they said, sang so divinely, could have such an unpleasant
and affected laugh. Oh! if they would but be silent for a moment!....
And in her heart she longed to be back once more in her humble
apartments, with her little Dora. Why had she accepted that invitation?
’Tis true Frans had insisted, now that the child was out of danger,
that she should have some change and relaxation, but this dinner-party
gave her no relaxation; on the contrary, it made her nervous and
confused, and she declined Henk’s offer of sweetbreads and asparagus
which he recommended her.
“Did I hear aright, Miss Emilie; is Mr. de Woude a brother of yours?”
Frans asked softly. It was the first time that he had met either Emilie
or Georges, and he was as much struck by their resemblance as by the
contrast between them.
“Certainly,” whispered Emilie; “and I am proud of him too. He is an
awful swell, but a nice boy; he is engaged at the Foreign Office. Be
careful, don’t you think bad of him!” she laughed, and held up her
finger threateningly, as though she read Ferelyn’s thoughts.
“I have scarcely exchanged more than half a dozen words with Mr. de
Woude as yet, so I should be sorry to express any opinion about him so
soon,” he said, a little alarmed at Emilie’s brusqueness.
“That’s right; most people get a very different opinion of Georges
after they have known him some time, from that formed when they first
met him. You see, like a loving sister, I take my brother’s part. Just
fill my glass, please.”
“Yes; you champion him even before he is attacked!” resumed Ferelyn
smiling, as he filled her glass; “but thus much I can see already, that
he is a spoilt pet of the ladies, not only of his sisters, but also of
Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.”
Betsy joined in the conversation with Eline and Georges, feeling
attracted by the latter’s lively manner, as he chatted away, skimming
over all sorts of subjects; a conversation without substance, without
actual wit, but light as foam, airy as soap-bubbles, sparkling as
firework crackers. In such a conversation she was in her element;
serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too burdensome for her; but
this tintinnabulation of sparks and foam-flecks, like wine glistening
through crystal beakers, charmed her exceedingly. She thought Georges
much more amusing than he was yesterday at the Verstraetens’, where he
had twice observed that the effect of red light was more flattering
than that of green. To-day he did not repeat himself, but rattled on,
interrupting her with laughing impudence, and rounding off his
sentences with truly French vivacity.
Several times Eline tried to lead Jeanne into that circle of sparkling
nothings, but in return Jeanne had only smiled a faint smile, or just
answered with a single monosyllable, and at length Eline gave up the
attempt to draw her out. The conversation grew more general; Emilie
joined in with her easy nonchalance and airy banter; and Frans, in the
midst of this charmed circle, could not help throwing in a stray spark
of fun, although his eyes frequently rested with an anxious look on his
quiet little wife.
To Jeanne it seemed as though the dinner would never come to an end.
Although she had not the slightest appetite, she did not like to
continue refusing, so she took of the truffled chicken, of the gâteau
Henri IV., of the pines, and the choice dessert; her wine, however, she
merely touched with her lips. Henk, next her, ate much, and with
evident gusto, wondering why she helped herself to such small portions.
De Woude ate but little, his continued talking prevented that; but
Emilie did her share, and was not sparing with the wine.
It was past eight when they rose, and the ladies retired to the
drawing-room. Frans joined Henk and de Woude in a cigar, as Jeanne had
expressed her desire to stay another half-hour. Betsy had asked her to
do so; she could not let her guests go so soon, and there would be
plenty of time for the opera.
“Is Dora often ill, Jeanne?” asked Eline, as with a rustle of her red
silk she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand. “Last time
I saw her nothing ailed her, and even then I thought she was looking
very pale and delicate.”
Jeanne gently withdrew her hand, and felt something like irritation at
such a question after the conversation at table. She made but curt
reply. But Eline persisted, as though she intended by her present
amiability to make good her former neglect; and she managed to impart
such a sympathetic tone to her voice, that Jeanne felt quite touched.
Jeanne began to express her fears that Doctor Reyer had not examined
her little girl as carefully as he might; and Eline, whilst sipping her
coffee, listened with evident interest to her maternal plaints. Emilie
and Betsy had meanwhile gone into the adjoining boudoir, to look at
some fashion-plates.
“Poor girl! what a lot of cares and worries you have, and scarcely
three months in Holland yet! You only arrived in September, did you
not?” asked Eline, as she placed the little china cup on the round
table in front of her.
Jeanne was silent; but all at once she rose up, and in her turn
grasping Eline’s slender fingers, she remarked, in her longing for
affection—
“Eline, you know I have always been pretty straightforward and frank;
may I ask you something?”
“Of course you may,” answered Eline, rather surprised.
“Well, then—why we are no longer to each other what we were formerly,
when your parents were still living? It is now four years since I
married and went to India, and now that we have returned, now when I
see you again, all seems so different between yourself and me. I have
no acquaintances, and but few relations in the Hague, and I should so
much like to keep my old friends to myself.”
“But, Jeanne——”
“Yes; I know you think it foolish of me to talk like that; but at times
I feel so terribly depressed with all that flummery and false
excitement, I do so long to unburden myself to some dear true
friend—for of course I cannot say all I wish to my husband.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, he has enough of his own worries; he is ill, and—peevish.”
“But, Jeanne, I really don’t see what change has come between us.”
“Perhaps it is only my fancy after all. You see, formerly we used to be
oftener together, now you move in such a different circle. You go out a
good deal, and I—well, you see, we have become much estranged from one
another.”
“But considering that we have not seen each other for four years——”
“But we kept up the correspondence.”
“What value is there in three or four letters in the course of a year?
Doesn’t it seem natural that one’s ideas change, as one gets older, and
is placed in different circumstances? Yes; I have had my cares and
worries too. First it was dear papa, then Aunt Vere, whom I attended in
her illness——”
“Are you happy here? can you get along with Betsy?”
“Oh yes, admirably, or I should not stay with her, of course.” Eline,
with her usual reserve, deemed it unnecessary to say more about it.
“You see, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about anything,”
Jeanne continued; “things come about just as you wish them; you are
free and unfettered, and live only for your pleasures—it is all so
different with me.”
“But surely all that does not justify you in saying that we have become
estranged from each other. In the first place, I think ‘estranged’ is a
most unpleasant word, and secondly, it is not true, whatever word you
may use.”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh no. I assure you, Jeanne dear, if I can be of service to you in any
way, you will find me quite at your disposal. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I do, and I thank you very much. But, Eline——”
“Well?”
Several questions rose to Jeanne’s lips. She felt eager to ask her to
tell her more about herself, to be more free and open with her; but the
studied cordiality of the smile that hovered about the delicate lips,
and was reflected in those dreamy, almond eyes, effectually silenced
her. And she felt a sudden regret at her frankness towards such a
coquette of a girl deftly playing with her fan; it was mere waste of
time in talking to her. Why had she allowed herself to yield to the
first impulse? for they were entirely unsuited to one another....
“Well?” Eline repeated, at the same time fearing what the next question
might be.
“Another time, when we are alone again!” stammered Jeanne, and she
rose, dissatisfied, annoyed with herself, feeling ready to burst into
tears, after that unsociable dinner and fruitless conversation. Betsy
and Emilie were just leaving the boudoir.
Jeanne thought it was time to be going. The three gentlemen came in,
and Henk assisted her with her cloak. With a forced cordiality she took
her leave, thanking Betsy for her invitation, and again she shivered
with annoyance when Eline kissed her cheeks.
“What an awful bore she is, that Jeanne!” said Betsy, after the
Ferelyns had gone. “She scarcely opened her mouth. What were you
talking about together, Eline?”
“Oh—about Dora, and her husband, nothing else.”
“Poor girl!” said Emilie pityingly. “Come, Georges, just fetch my
cloak.”
Mina, however, was just coming in with the ladies’ wraps, and de Woude
put on his ulster, whilst Henk rubbed his big hands, well pleased at
the prospect of spending the evening at home after a nice dinner. The
carriage had already been waiting outside in the thawing snow for the
last half-hour, with Dirk the coachman and Herman the footman seated on
the box, half smothered in their big fur capes.
“Oh, Frans, never ask me to accept another invitation of the van
Raats!” said Jeanne, in an imploring voice, as, on her husband’s arm,
she shiveringly went splashing along the muddy streets, while, with her
little hands benumbed with cold, she constantly endeavoured to keep her
cloak fastened, each time that a gust of wind blew the ends open.
“Really I don’t feel at home any more with them, with Betsy and Eline.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. They plodded on with their
mud-bespattered shoes, in the flickering light of the street lanterns,
whose dull rays were reflected with monotonous regularity in the
numerous puddles they had to pass.
The third act of Le Tribut de Zamora had just commenced, when Betsy,
Emilie, Eline, and Georges entered their box. There was a full house,
and their arrival broke in upon the silence that prevailed in the
listening auditorium; there was a rustling of silk and satin; a hundred
eyes and opera-glasses were directed to their box, and here and there
the question was whispered, “Who are they?”
Emilie and Eline sat down in front, Betsy and Georges behind them,
while Eline laid down her fan and her pearl-rimmed binocle. Then she
slowly commenced to untie her white plush, red satin-lined cloak, and
as a cloud of pink and white it glided from her shoulders, and de Woude
folded it over the back of her fauteuil. And in the triumph of her
beauty it did her good to see how she was stared at and admired.
“What a number of people there are here this evening! we are
fortunate,” whispered Emilie. “There’s nothing, I think, so wretched as
to see an empty house.”
“You are right!” said Betsy. “Look, there are the Eekhofs, Ange and
Léonie, with their mamma. They were at the Verstraetens’ too yesterday;
next week they are giving a soirée dansante.” And she nodded to the
girls.
“The new baritone from Brussels, Théo Fabrice, sings this evening,”
said de Woude to Eline. “You know that since the débuts commenced, two
have been dismissed; he makes the third.”
“How terribly long those débuts are this winter!” remarked Eline, in an
indifferent tone.
“The tenor robusto was all right from the first, but they say Fabrice
is very good too. Look, there he comes.”
The chorus of Ben-Saïd’s odalisques was ended, and the Moorish
sovereign entered his palace, leading Xaïma by the hand. But Eline paid
little attention; she glanced round the theatre, and gave a friendly
nod of recognition as her eyes met those of some acquaintance, and she
did not cast another glance in the direction of the stage until
Ben-Saïd and his slave were seated under the canopy, and the ballet
commenced. That attracted her, and her eyes followed the danseuses, as,
gliding along on the tips of their toes, they ranged themselves in
groups beneath the Moorish arches, and under the uplifted veils and
fans of silver fringe, their forms encased in corsages of glossy satin,
and all a-glitter with the spangles on their gauze-like frocks.
“A pretty ballet!” said Emilie, yawning behind her fan, and she leaned
back cosily in her fauteuil, somewhat under the generous influence of
her choice dinner.
Eline nodded her head, and while at the back of her she could hear
Betsy and Georges whispering together, she still followed the clever
gyrations of the première danseuse, as with graceful movements she
hovered beneath the waving fans of the dancers on the tips of her
pointed, satin-clad feet, a dazzling aigrette of diamonds in her hair.
With her dreamy, idealistic nature, Eline was passionately fond of the
opera, not only because it afforded her the opportunity of being the
object of general admiration, not only because of the music, or that
she was anxious to hear one or another aria sung by some celebrated
prima donna, but also because of the intricate, romantic-coloured plot,
the somewhat rudely-painted melodramatic effects, full of hatred and
love and revenge, the conventionality of which did not trouble her, and
in which she did not even look for any truth. There was no need for her
to forget for one moment that they were but actors and actresses whom
she saw before her, and not knights and noble ladies; that she was
seated in a crowded, brilliantly illumined theatre, looking at painted
scenes, and listening to the harmony of a visible orchestra, and not
living with hero and heroine through some more or less poetic period of
the middle ages; but none the less did she enjoy herself, if the actors
did not sing too badly, nor play with too much prosy conventionality.
Betsy, on the other hand, went to the opera with the object only of
seeing and being seen; Eline’s intense enjoyment she would have voted
childish in the extreme, but Eline enjoyed in secret, for she suspected
Betsy’s opinion, and so left her sister in the belief that she, like
herself, found no pleasure in the theatre but to see and to be seen by
friends and acquaintances.
The ballet was at an end. Ben-Saïd and Xaïma descended from their
throne, and he sang the recitative—
“Je m’efforce en vain de te plaire!”
and then the air:
“O Xaïma, daigne m’entendre!
Mon âme est à toi sans retour!”
The new baritone’s voice was full and sonorous, more like that of a
basso cantante, and in his song he enveloped it as with a veil of
melancholy.
But in his rich Moorish dress he had a heavy appearance; and neither in
his attitude nor in his acting did he succeed in imparting even the
merest semblance of amorous homage, and he looked at the prima donna,
in her dress of cloth of silver, and her long pearl-clad fair hair,
with more of threatening rage in his glance than with the humility of a
tender devotion.
Eline was not insensible to the shortcomings in his acting; but still,
the very contrast between the expression of haughty superiority in his
demeanour and the tone of humility in his voice pleased her. She
followed every note of the song, and when at the sudden fortissimo of
Ben-Saïd’s metallic organ, the actress appeared to tremble with terror,
Eline asked herself the question—
“Why is she so frightened, I wonder?—what is the matter? He does not
look so bad.”
And during the applause that followed the song she glanced round the
theatre, when by accident her eye fell upon a group of gentlemen
standing just at the entrance to the stalls. She noticed how they
stared at her box, and with her graceful languor she was about to draw
back a little, when she saw one of them look at her with a smile of
recognition. For a moment she looked at him with wide-opened eyes, and
in her surprise did not return the salutation, but with a quick
movement she turned round, laid her hand on Betsy’s shoulder, and
whispered in her ear—
“Just look, Betsy; do you see who is standing there?”
“Where? who?”
“There, in the stalls—Vincent—don’t you see?”
“Vincent!” Betsy repeated, amazed in her turn. “So it is, Vincent!”
They both nodded to Vincent, who laughingly fixed them with his glass,
upon which Eline hid her face coquettishly behind her fan.
“Who is it? who is Vincent?” asked Emilie and Georges.
“Vincent Vere, a first cousin,” Betsy answered. “Oh, such a silly boy;
nobody ever knows where he is; sometimes you don’t see him for months
at a time, then all at once he stands before you again. I had no idea
at all that he was at the Hague. Eline, for gracious sake, don’t fidget
so with that fan.”
“I don’t want him to stare at me,” said Eline; and with a graceful turn
of her shapely arm she held her fan before her face.
“When did you see your cousin last, Madame van Raat?” asked Georges.
“Oh, more than eighteen months ago. I think he was going to London,
where he was to be a reporter on a paper, or something of that sort.
Fancy, they say he was in the Foreign Legion in Algeria for some time,
but I don’t believe it. He has been everywhere, and he never has a
sou.”
“Yes; now I remember, I have seen him before,” said Emilie, with a
yawn. “A curious customer.”
“Yes, that he is. But you see here, at the Hague, where he has
relations, he knows he must be on his best behaviour, so we tolerate
his presence.”
“Yes,” remarked Emilie, very philosophically, “you generally find a
black sheep like that in every family.”
Eline smiled, and slowly closed her fan.
The third act came to an end without her understanding much about the
scena with Manoël, but the grand duo between Hermosa and Xaïma afforded
her a clue: it was the mutual recognition of mother and daughter after
the air—
“Debout, enfants d’Ibérie!”
and the curtain fell amid thunders of applause, and the two actresses
were called to the front, and each received her share of bouquets.
“Mr. de Woude, do tell me what the plot is really about?” asked Eline,
turning to Georges. “Je n’y vois pas encore clair.”
But Betsy proposed to go into the foyer, and so they rose and left
their box. In the foyer, seated on a divan, Georges related to her the
plot of the opera, to which Eline listened with more attention than she
cared to show. Now she knew why Xaïma shuddered in Ben-Saïd’s presence,
and she would have liked to see the auction of maidens in the first
act, and the sale of Xaïma as slave in the second.
All at once they observed Vincent, who was coming up the steps of the
foyer, and approaching them free and unconcerned, as though he had seen
his cousins but yesterday.
“Hallo, Vincent, have you dropped from the clouds again?” exclaimed
Eline.
“Hallo, Eline; hallo Betsy! charmed to see you once more. Miss van
Bergh and Woude, I think?” and he shook hands with them.
“I admire your memory; I had forgotten you,” answered Emilie.
Betsy introduced them: “Mr. de Woude van Bergh, Mr. Vere.”
“Very pleased. And how are you?”
“A little astonished,” laughed Eline. “I dare say you are off again
to-morrow, aren’t you? To Constantinople, or St. Petersburg, or
somewhere, I suppose.”
He looked at her, with a smile in his pale blue eyes, like faded china,
behind their pince-nez. His features were handsome and regular, rather
too handsome for a man, with their finely-chiselled Grecian nose, the
small mouth, about which there generally lurked somewhat between a
sneer and an audacious smile, lightly shaded by the thin, fair
moustache; but the charm of the handsome face was completely spoilt by
the unhealthy yellowish tint, and the expression of lassitude that was
suffused over it. Of slender form and delicate proportions, he looked
tasteful in his dark, plain clothes, whilst none could fail to note the
smallness of his feet, and the finely-shaped hand, with its slender,
white fingers, the hand of an artist, and which reminded Eline very
much of her dead father. He sat down beside them, and in a languid
voice told Eline that he had arrived at the Hague the previous day, on
a business matter. His last employment had been at Malaga, in a wine
business; before that he had been engaged in an insurance office in
Brussels; previous to that he had for some time been a partner in a
carpet manufactory in Smyrna, but the firm failed. Nothing would do.
Now he was tired of all that rushing about; he had given proof enough
of energy and perseverance, but fate was against him; whatever his
hands touched seemed to bring him ill-luck. He expected, however, to
obtain a situation in a chemical manufactory in Java, but he must first
have some more information. To-morrow morning he hoped to call on van
Raat, whom he wanted to see. Upon this Betsy asked whether he was
coming to coffee, as van Raat was never at home in the morning, only in
the afternoon. He gladly accepted the invitation, and then commenced
talking about the opera.
“Fabrice? oh, that is the baritone, is it not? Yes; a nice voice, but
an ugly, fat customer.”
“Do you think so? No; I think he shows off very well on the stage,”
observed Emilie.
“No, Miss de Woude, you don’t mean that.”
Emilie abided by her opinion, and Eline laughed at their disagreement.
The tinkling of the bell warned them that the fourth act was about to
commence, and Vincent took his leave, although Georges politely offered
him his seat in the box.
“No; thank you very much; I don’t want to rob you of your place, I am
comfortable enough in the stall. Au revoir. To-morrow then, eh? Adieu,
Betsy, Eline; au plaisir, Miss de Woude; good evening, Mr. de Woude.”
He bowed, pressed Georges’ hand, and slowly went away, lightly swinging
his bamboo walking-stick in his hands.
“A strange boy!” said Eline, shaking her head.
“I am continually in fear that he will do something to scandalize us,”
Betsy whispered into Emilie’s ears; “but up to now he has kept himself
quiet enough. Besides, you see I want to be nice and friendly to him,
so as not to make him an enemy. I am a little afraid of him, one never
can tell what a fellow like that may do, you see.”
“I can’t say he is a prime favourite of mine,” said Emilie, and they
rose to return to their seats.
“Come, Emmie, you only say so because he did not say any nice things
about Fabrice,” Georges chimed in, in a teasing voice.
Emilie shrugged her shoulders, and they passed into the vestibule.
“Oh, there is no fifth act! I thought there were five acts,” said
Eline, with some disappointment, to de Woude, who told her the end of
the plot.
The fourth act commenced, and Eline felt much interested in the moonlit
garden scene, in Manoël’s cavatina, in his duet with Xaïma, and in the
trio with Hermosa; but her interest grew when the Moorish monarch
appeared at the gates of his palace, and commanded his guard to seize
Manoël, whilst, deaf to his entreaties, he dragged Xaïma away with him,
in a sudden burst of passion. The last scene in the opera, where
Ben-Saïd is murdered by the mother, who comes to her child’s rescue,
affected her much more than she would have cared to confess. In his
scenas with the two female characters, the new baritone played with an
amount of fire and power which lent the melodrama a glow of poetic
truth, and when, fatally wounded, he sank down on the steps of the
pavilion, Eline fixed her glasses, and gazed at his dark face, with the
black beard and drooping eyes.
The curtain fell, but the four actors were re-called, and Eline saw him
once more, bowing to the audience with a calm, indifferent expression,
in strong contrast to the beaming smiles of the tenor, the contralto,
and the soprano.
The audience rose, the doors of the boxes opened. Georges assisted the
ladies with their wraps, and they proceeded through the corridor, and
down the steps, until they reached the glass doors, where they waited
until their carriage was announced.
“I shouldn’t think that the Tribut is one of Gounod’s best operas; do
you, Eline?” asked Emilie, when they were in their carriage. “It is not
to be compared with Faust or Romeo and Juliette.”
“I don’t think so either,” Eline answered cautiously, afraid to show
how much she was affected; “but it is so difficult to judge music on
hearing it for the first time. I thought some of the melodies very
pretty. But then, you must bear in mind that we only saw half of it.”
“Yes; it’s very nice just to go and see a couple of acts; but to have
to sit out a whole opera I think an awful bore, I must admit,” said
Betsy yawning.
And Georges hummed the refrain—
“Debout, enfants d’Ibérie.”
The de Woudes were taken home first to the Noordeinde, and Betsy and
Eline rode on, snugly ensconced in the satin cushions of the landau, to
the Nassauplein. They spoke a little about Vincent, and then both were
silent, and Eline let her mind wander musingly to the waltz in
Mireille, to her dispute with Betsy that morning, to the group of the
Five Senses, to Madame van Raat and de Woude, to her pink dress, and
Ben-Saïd.