It had struck Frédérique that last New Year’s Eve, at the van Raats’,
Otto had chatted and laughed a good deal with Eline; not remarkably so,
but more than was his wont generally with girls. For some days after
that a question constantly rose to her lips which she wanted to ask her
brother, but no opportunity seemed to arrive for her to put it. At
times she was quite brusque towards Etienne, when he wanted to have a
joke with her, and Lili, Marie, and Paul had come to the conclusion
that she had lost something of her good temper; and she played but
little with the children too.
It was one of their evenings at home; only Etienne had gone out with
some young friends who had come to fetch him. The children were in bed,
and Madame van Erlevoort sat with Mathilde in the small drawing-room,
the old lady with a book, Mathilde with some needlework. Frédérique
entered, smiled at her mother, and lovingly smoothed the gray hair on
her temples.
“Freddie, will you just ring for Willem?” asked Mathilde. “Otto would
like a cup of tea in his room; he is busy writing.”
“Oh, just pour him out a cup, I’ll take it him myself.”
Mathilde poured out a cup, and Frédérique took it up-stairs. On the
stairs she wondered whether she would have the courage; perhaps Otto
would say something himself; but if he did not, she would venture.
She entered Otto’s room. He was walking up and down dreamily, with his
hands on his back, quite contrary to his usual habits.
“Hallo! there’s a nice little sis,” said he laughing, and took the cup
from her hand. “It will taste tenfold as nice from such pretty little
fingers.”
“But, Otto,” cried Frédérique, “how can you be so silly? I had expected
a more original kind of compliment, not such a stale platitude as
that.”
She continued to look at him smilingly, but did not catch his reply, as
she was considering to herself how to put her question. Perhaps he
would not like it. Still she wanted to have her say, and she tried to
find something by way of introduction, some pretext or another, to
achieve her object; but in the frankness of her nature she could find
nothing, and so she simply commenced—
“Otto, I—I have something to say to you, something to confess.”
“A sin?”
“A sin, no; hardly that I think—an—indiscretion I unwittingly committed
towards you. But you must forgive me beforehand.”
“What! simply on your good faith?”
“I tell you the indiscretion was committed involuntarily, and—I haven’t
even been as indiscreet as I should have liked to have been. I am
therefore entitled to some recompense; but I only ask you beforehand,
whether I may depend upon your pardon?”
“All right; I shall be merciful; say on then.”
“You will really not be angry?”
“No, no. What is it?”
“Quite by accident—I discovered—you see—I know who, last St. Nicholas’
Eve——”
He turned a little pale, whilst he stared at her, full of eager
expectation. It did not escape her with how much concentrated attention
he was listening.
“Gave—that fan—to Eline—that fan by Bucchi.”
She remained standing right in front of him, something like a naughty
child, quite confused at her confession. He continued looking at her, a
little frightened, with big, staring eyes.
“Do you know?” he commenced, stammering.
“Now don’t be angry,” she resumed. “I really could not help it. I came
into your room one morning, I wanted a piece of sealing-wax, and—you
have never forbidden me to come into your room, have you?—I knocked,
but you had gone out; and when I entered and began to look for the
sealing-wax, I saw in that pigeon-hole the leather case, which I
recognized at once in the evening. I thought at first it was something
for me, and wanted—wanted to open it; you know how inquisitive I am;
but I did not do so, and I was very sorry that I discovered your
present. Tell me, now, are you angry? I couldn’t really help it, could
I now?”
“Angry, my dear old girl! ’Tis nothing to be angry about at all,” he
answered, with forced lightness. “A surprise gift cannot last for ever;
and besides—you haven’t told Eline, of course, have you?”
“Oh no; of course not.”
“Well, what of it then? There’s no harm done,” he said carelessly. “Or
are you sorry that the fan was not intended for yourself?”
She gave a contemptuous shrug. “I am surprised that you should think me
so childish. Only——”
“Well, what?”
She gave him a searching glance with those clear, true eyes, and he
felt a little abashed under that penetrating scrutiny.
“Only—a young man—does not usually—make such presents—to a girl, if he
is not very fond of her.”
“Oh, I like Eline very much; why should I not give her something for
St. Nicholas?”
“No, Otto, you are not frank with me,” she said impatiently, and drew
him with her on the sofa. “Come, sit down, and just listen to me. A
sensible fellow like yourself doesn’t give a fan, of I don’t know how
much value, to a girl, if—if he is not in love with her. That you need
not try to make me believe; you never gave Eline anything before,
neither did you give Lili or Marie anything this time. So, you see, I
am not so blind; I can see well enough that there’s more in it,” she
continued, and laid her hands on his shoulders. But all at once she
stopped. “Oh, perhaps you think—perhaps you don’t want me to speak to
you about it,” she stammered, almost frightened.
“Freddie, on the contrary,” he said softly, and drew her closer towards
him, “I am very glad to speak to you about—about Eline. Why not? But
suppose, now, that I really cared much, very much for Eline, would you
think it so unwise in me?” he asked smilingly.
“Oh, Eline is no girl for you!” she suddenly burst out in passionate
fervour. “No, Otto, no; Eline is not the kind of girl for you. She is
very pretty, I know, and there is something about her—something very
attractive—but to me she is—antipathetic, I assure you. Believe me, you
must really not think any more of her, you would never be happy with
her; you are so affectionate and good. If you really were to begin
caring for her very much, you would perhaps devote your whole soul to
her, you would want to live only for her, and she could not return you
one-tenth of what you gave her. She has no heart, she is cold as ice,
and full of egotism—nothing but egotism.”
“But, Freddie, Freddie,” he interrupted, “my dear girl, how you rush
on! Where have you obtained all your experience of human nature, that
you can give me such a precise description of Eline’s character?”
It irritated her to hear how softly, almost caressingly, he pronounced
her name.
“Knowledge of human nature? I know nothing about that. I only know what
I feel, and that is, that Eline lives but for herself, and is incapable
of making the slightest sacrifice for another. I feel—nay, I declare, I
am convinced of it—that if you married Eline, you would never, never be
happy. She might like you for a time, but her love would only be
egotism, as everything in her is egotism.”
“Freddie, you are severe,” he said, softly but reproachfully. “’Tis
very nice of you to feel so much for me, but you are very, very hard on
Eline. I don’t think you know her, and, on the contrary, I believe that
she would sacrifice herself altogether for one she loved.”
“You say I don’t know her; but how can you know her then? You only see
her when she is all smiles and amiability.”
“Do you think it a fault in her, that she prefers to be amiable rather
than discourteous?”
Frédérique gave a sigh. “Oh, Otto, I—I don’t know what I think; I only
feel that you cannot be happy with her,” she said, in a tone of
conviction.
He took her hand and smiled. “Why, you speak as though we were going to
be married to-morrow.”
“Oh, do—do tell me—don’t think me—inquisitive. You haven’t—proposed to
her, have you?”
He looked at her, still smiling, and slowly shook his head.
“Then promise me, will you, that you will take time to think over
it?—don’t be——” She clung to him affectionately, and her eyes filled
with tears.
“You are a dear girl, Freddie, but really——”
“You think it absurd of me, perhaps, to venture to advise you?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, I am most sincerely grateful to you for
it; but still, you must not allow yourself to be guided by a mere idea,
or rather an antipathy, for which there is not even a reason, and to
judge another person so harshly. Accept and follow that advice, then I
shall not think you absurd, but a dear, dear little sis.”
He kissed her repeatedly, and she rested her head shyly on his
shoulder.
“You won’t be angry with me, will you now? Perhaps I have been clumsy;
I should not have spoken like that.”
“To me you are most dear when you are most outspoken to me, and I hope
you will always be so.”
“Then perhaps I shall be discourteous and unamiable,” she answered with
emphasis.
“And now you are just a little spiteful. What is it? Are you jealous of
Eline?”
“Yes,” she answered curtly.
“Because of the fan, I suppose,” he laughed.
“Oh, you do tease me,” she pouted. “No; not because of the fan, I have
a dozen of them, but because—because you care for her.”
“Let us make a compact together then. You go and find me a nice girl
whom you consider fit to be my wife, and of whom you are not jealous;
then when you have found her, and I like her, I shall think no more of
Eline. What do you say to that?”
She answered nothing, but rose, and wiped away her tears. His badinage
displeased her, and made her fear that he thought her foolish. She
approached the table, pointed to the cup of tea, and said—
“Your tea is getting cold, Otto; why don’t you drink it?”
Ere he could reply, she had gone, full of conflicting thoughts, pleased
that she had given vent to her feelings, and had obtained Otto’s
confidence; and yet uncertain whether she would not have done better to
have said nothing.
For five days Eline had not met Fabrice on her early walks, and the
disappointment of the mornings spoilt the whole of the days that
followed. At first she grew quiet, morose, and irritable; very soon she
became more melancholy, she sang no more, she refused to see Roberts,
her master, or to accompany Paul van Raat in his duets. One morning,
after her walk, about half-past ten, she returned home, and threw
herself musingly on her sofa, while, with wandering fingers, she
unclasped her cloak. She could not bear Ben near her, and sent him away
to the nursemaid; and thoroughly tired out, with her big, hazel eyes
moist and glistening with unsatisfied longing, she let her glance
wander along the palms, the pictures, the group by Canova. A melancholy
oppressiveness fell upon her like a cloud, and she asked herself the
question, Why must she live, if she were not to be happy? To give her
sorrow a definite shape, she searched about for grievances, and made
the most of them; she was in need of affection, and there was no one to
love her. With Betsy she could get on no longer, as it seemed; she was
continually at variance with her sister, and it was not always her
fault; Frédérique was conspicuously cool towards her, for what reason
she had not the remotest idea. It was only old Madame van Raat who
continued affectionate as ever; but just at present she felt but little
in the humour to display that amiable frankness, tempered with a
flavour of veneration, which had won the old lady’s heart. Yes; her
life was a useless existence, she was continually swinging from one day
to another, without any object, and she longed for—for something like
the vague vision, without definite shape, which seemed to rise as in a
sphere of love, sometimes purely ideal, like an idyll, sometimes
simpler in form and suffused with a halo of homeliness and domestic
happiness.
She sighed as she raised her hand towards the azalea, and crumpled the
leaves between her nervous fingers. With an effort she compelled her
musings to assume some definite form before her mental vision, and by a
sudden caprice of her fantasy, she saw herself together with Fabrice,
and both of them were singing at the opera in some great city. They
loved one another, and they were famous; they were overwhelmed with
wreaths and bouquets, and the whole vision rose before her vivid and
entrancing, as it had done one day whilst she was singing with Paul.
But her imagination not receiving any fresh fuel, not having seen
Fabrice for so long, lost its vivid colouring; her vision faded, and
left her in a gray, sombre mood—a seeming reflex of the sky outside,
which was heavy with dark rain-clouds. She felt the hot tears glide
along her lashes; she had a great longing for Henk, to whom she was
anxious to confide her sorrow, he was so fond of her, and knew how to
administer such comforting words to her in his own kindly, clumsy way;
the mere sound of his voice alone, so kindly, so genial, and heavy,
fell like a healing balm upon her soul.
And so she sat sobbing, and thought how disagreeable all that sulking
with Betsy was. To-morrow it would be her, Eline’s, birthday. Would
Betsy take the first step towards a reconciliation, or did the cause of
the quarrel really rest with herself? Had she felt sure of her
reception by her sister, she would gladly have ventured a
rapprochement, or even have apologized, if necessary; but she feared
Betsy’s coolness. So she would wait; yes, she would wait.
The afternoon passed slowly, the hours dragged themselves along, as
though weary under the burden of her melancholy. Then she dressed for a
dinner-party at the Hydrechts’, without the slightest expectation of
finding any amusement there. She would gladly have asked Betsy to say
that she was ill at home; but it would not do. Unlike the Verstraetens
recently, the Hydrechts might take offence, and besides, Betsy might
perhaps refuse to do as she asked. So she went, and screwed herself up
to a coquettish gaiety which, with her natural tact in hiding her
feelings, effectually blinded the eyes of all.
The next day was the twentieth of January, her birthday. She stayed
late in bed, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets, in the soft red
light reflected by the curtains, without any desire to rise, or any
longing for her morning walk. She would not see him if she went, her
presentiment told her. She began to feel childishly superstitious. It
was now close upon nine. If Mina should come in before the clock struck
nine, to arrange her washstand for her, she would meet Fabrice in the
Bosch to-morrow. But Mina came after nine, and when the girl had put
everything straight and had left the room, she thought of something
fresh. If last evening she had laid her bracelet in the large vase she
would meet Fabrice; not, if she had placed it in the small one; and she
raised herself up, drew the red damask bed-curtains aside, and glanced
round. There lay the bracelet in the large vase. With a smile, she once
more lay back in the pillows.
She struggled with herself to get up, but why not stay in bed in the
cosy warmth? She was weary with grief, why commence another day? Ere
long her friends would come to congratulate her; she would have to be
nice and amiable, and receive their presents with delighted ecstasy,
and she was in a far from amiable humour; she felt no desire to see any
one.
It struck half-past ten, and she thought perhaps Betsy would soon be
coming in, and in a few friendly words make up the quarrel; she
listened for her sister’s step on the stairs, but her expectations were
in vain, and at last, unnerved by her languor, she rose, and lazily
proceeded to dress. The glass reflected her image with something of
sadness in the eyes and a weary expression about the mouth, and to
herself she seemed quite ugly. But what did it matter after all? for
whose sake should she be pretty? There was no one who loved her with
such fervour as she thought that her heart was capable of.
She was dressed, and all at once a shivering overtook her. She did not
feel equal to going down-stairs; how should she approach Betsy? Should
she take up an attitude of expectation merely? Why did not Betsy meet
her half-way? Why must she continue bearing a grudge like that, about
such a trifling matter? Eline felt almost afraid to see Betsy in the
breakfast-room, and she walked into her boudoir, where the fire was
already burning brightly, and threw herself on her sofa, wretched and
weary with grief and loneliness. Why, yes, why did she live?
Deeper and deeper she sank into the abyss of melancholy, when at last
some glimmer of light came to pierce the gloom that enshrouded her, for
she heard Henk and Ben coming up the stairs. They came nearer; she
heard their voices; there was a noisy knocking at her door.
“Where are you, old girl; still in bed?” cried Henk.
“No; I am here, in my boudoir,” she answered, slightly raising her
voice.
The door was opened and Henk appeared, shaking his head, while Ben
slipped through between his father’s high riding-boots, a bouquet
clasped in his little fists.
“Auntie, many happy returns of your birthday—and this is from Ben,”
said the child, as though he were repeating a lesson learnt by heart,
while he laid the bouquet in her lap.
“But, my dear girl, what a time you are up-stairs this morning! you are
generally back from your walk by now,” cried Henk.
She did not answer, but embraced the child, and her eyes grew moist as
she did so.
“Put—put it in water, Ben, will you? in some tepid water. There, in the
vase, carefully.”
Ben, always obedient and docile, did as he was told. Eline fell back
again in the pillows, and looked at her brother-in-law with a faint
smile.
“I feel so wretched to-day—not well at all,” she said languidly.
Henk approached nearer, with his hands on his back.
“What, on your birthday too?” he asked cheerily. “Come, I would make
haste and get down-stairs if I were you, you lazy girl; but let me give
you a good kiss first—a real good one, do you hear?” and he pressed his
lips on both her checks, while she lay still and smiled.
“And here is a trifle for you, Elly—I hope you will like it,” he
continued, as he handed her a small case.
She laughed a little.
“How droll of you to come and bring me my present here! Thank you,
Henk, thanks very much.”
She opened the case; in it there was a hairpin in the shape of a
diamond spider.
“But, Henk,” she cried, “how you spoil me! I remember, when I saw it at
van Kempen’s a little while ago, I said I thought it very pretty. I
really must be careful what I say in future,” she said, almost shyly,
and she thought of the Bucchi fan.
“Betsy kept her ears open when she heard you speak about the pin,” he
answered. “We are always glad to give you something that will please
you.”
This almost aggravated her, but she threw her arms round his neck and
kissed him.
“Really, really, you are spoiling me,” she stammered.
“Come, come, that’s all rubbish!” he exclaimed. “But now I must be off
for a little ride; so make haste down-stairs, old girl, or I shall
carry you down.”
“No, no, that you won’t!”
“All right then; but hurry up.”
“Yes, yes, in a moment; but no nonsense, Henk, do you hear?” she cried,
frightened, and in a serious, commanding tone, for she could foresee an
attack of practical joking, and she certainly felt in no humour to
tolerate it.
He laughingly re-assured her. The words were on his lips to urge her to
a reconciliation with his wife, but he feared he had not the tact to
approach the subject with sufficient caution. She might fly up in a
passion, and besides—it would all come right soon, he thought, and left
the room.
She rose, and lingering over her toilet, suspected that Betsy must have
told Henk to take the present up-stairs, so as not to have to hand it
her herself. She felt embarrassed at her own attitude; now she was
compelled to take the first step towards a reconciliation, and this
wounded her pride. It would seem as though she were so delighted with
their present, that it made up for all past unpleasantness. ’Twas most
tiresome, but still she could not now come down-stairs, and, after a
hasty, cool greeting, commence her breakfast without saying a word. She
felt very sorry that she had not followed her impulse of the previous
day to try a rapprochement. After all it was really too stupid, that
sulking, and only because of those dogs! And she held the diamond
spider coquettishly against her hair and her throat.
Before she came down-stairs, Eline opened a drawer of her writing-desk.
With a furtive smile she took from it an album, a present to herself,
and opened it. It contained nothing but portraits of Fabrice, in
various positions and dresses, and which for some time past she had
been purchasing with much tact, but still not without nervousness; now
in one shop, then in another, never returning to the same, constantly
fearing that the shopkeeper would guess something of her secret. On one
occasion she had been in Amsterdam for a day to visit some friends;
there she was very daring, and in a bookshop had bought seven all at
once; no one knew her there, and she vowed to herself that she would
never again set foot in the shop.
With her eyes sparkling with wanton playfulness she glanced through her
collection, and whatever page she turned his dark black-bearded face
met her eyes now and again as she had met him in the Bosch with his big
felt and his muffler. Ah! she knew it now; it was tenderer feeling than
admiration that vibrated through her at the sight, which, in her
womanly sense of honour and in shame at herself, made her shudder as
for a moment she pressed her lips on that beloved image. Yes, she felt
it now; it was a passion that filled her being as with a wealth of
rapture; a love for which she could sacrifice all and anything that he
might demand of her.
And her imagination, a little relieved of its burden of melancholy by
Henk’s cheery words, in which she sometimes heard the echo of
long-vanished wishes, grew heated with romantic ideas. In her flight
with Fabrice, she saw herself at a railway station awaiting the train,
and fearing lest they would be overtaken.
“Auntie, auntie, let me in!” cried Ben, outside the door.
She put the album away and opened the door. Ben came in, cautiously
clasping the vase full of water in both his little hands.
“Carefully, little man,” said Eline. “Sure you haven’t spilt any on the
stairs?”
He shook his head, pleased with himself at his smartness. Whilst he
placed the bouquet in the vase, Eline reflected that the little
fellow’s present was only another attention on Betsy’s part. It was a
great bother after all.
But at last she summed up courage and proceeded down-stairs with Ben.
Betsy was in the dining-room, and in consultation with Grete.
“Good morning, Betsy,” said Eline.
“Good morning, Elly. Many happy returns!” answered Betsy, without any
expression.
Eline would not say more; first the servant must leave the room.
Breakfast she did not want; she had no appetite.
“Grete, you can clear away, I don’t want anything,” she said, and began
playing with Ben to do something.
Betsy remained seated in front of her writing-desk, absorbed in bills
and books, like a careful housewife. And after a few seconds’ painful
silence, Betsy having peevishly told Ben not to worry, and sent him
away to the nursery, Eline rose. She walked across the room to her
sister, and laid her hand on her shoulder.
“Betsy,” she commenced. But she could not yet bring herself to say
anything about the present, the diamond spider. “Betsy, come, would it
not be better if—? You don’t know how sorry I am that we are so. Come,
now, don’t be angry with me, it was wrong of me.”
“Well, Eline, I am glad you admit it. I am not angry.”
“Is it all forgotten then?”
“Oh, certainly. You know there’s nothing I dislike more than
unpleasantness, so let us say no more about it.”
Her cool tone was as so much ice to Eline, but still she bent down and
gave Betsy a kiss.
“No, really, I am sorry; of course I have no right in your own house—it
pains me very much.”
She wanted to say something more, but could find no words, and once
more her lips sought Betsy’s forehead. She, however, pushed her lightly
aside.
“All right; let us say no more about it then. I am no more angry. But
not so much kissing, you know I don’t care about it.”
Her birthday passed by gloomily enough for Eline. The reconciliation
with Betsy had not made the desired impression on her; she had pictured
something much more cordial—a sisterly embrace, an intermingling of
tears—the prelude to future affectionate intercourse with each other.
But what had been the reality? On Betsy’s part an icy condescension, by
the side of which she, in her attitude, had cut a somewhat sorry
figure. She knew herself to be weaker than her sister, and yet she
would resist her over-ruling; but with every attempt at opposition, and
especially after this latest one, followed as it was by a temporary,
hollow victory, she felt herself more and more powerless to continue
the struggle with such unequal moral weapons. Her pride had only proved
a frail reed, breaking with every gust of wind, and in her dismay a
hopeless gloom seemed to enshroud her thoughts as with a thick veil of
crape.
For all that she kept up a semblance of gaiety that afternoon in the
midst of the cheery company of the friends who came to congratulate
her. But Madame van Raat, from whose dreamy, light-blue eyes she would
have been so glad to have seen a ray of sympathy beam upon her, was
indisposed, and sent an apology through Paul, and this was a great
disappointment to her. Madame van Erlevoort and Mathilde came to add
the excuses of Freddie, who was at home with a cold, and again Eline
wondered why Frédérique should be so reserved towards her. Jeanne
Ferelyn overwhelmed her with a string of domestic troubles, and it
required all her tact and amiability not to display any undue
impatience in listening to them. Little Cateau van der Stoor, who, like
Madame van Raat, she would have been glad to see, appeared to have
forgotten her birthday; she neither saw nor heard anything of her. But
Emilie de Woude brought her own boisterous gaiety with her. Her lively
chat infused a little brightness into the dull atmosphere of the
drawing-room—in which the gas was not yet lit—into which, along the
heavy folds of the draperies, a darkening twilight penetrated which
seemed to transform the brightness of the gilded panelling, and the
glistening sheen of the fawn-satin cushions, into undefined and gloomy
shadows. Emilie wanted to see Eline’s presents, charming trifles—a few
bouquets arranged on a table, round about a big basket full of flowers
and fruit.
“What a splendid corbeille!” cried Emilie. “Peaches, grapes,
roses—lovely! From whom, Elly?”
“From Vincent; pretty, is it not?”
“I wish I had such nice cousins.”
“Hush!” whispered Eline.
Vincent had just entered the room, and his eyes went in search of the
hostess. Betsy received him, as usual, with a certain warmth and
geniality in her constant, vague fear of what that cousin might do.
Eline thanked him, and clasped both his hands in hers.
Vincent apologized for coming so late; it was a quarter past five, and
the Verstraetens and the others were taking their leave in the
gathering twilight, after which Gerard came in to light the gas, close
the blinds, and draw the curtains.
“Vincent, stay to dinner, will you?” asked Betsy. For Betsy was in
terror at having to face a dull evening. They were not invited out
anywhere, and besides, she had not thought it the thing to make any
arrangements to go out on her sister’s birthday; neither could she have
done so, as during their late feud she had scarcely uttered a word to
her. With Vincent she need stand on no ceremony, she could very well
ask him half an hour before dinner. Vincent had conversation when he
was in a good humour, and, at all events, he brought a fresh face with
him to the table.
Vincent accepted the invitation with an indifferent “with pleasure.” In
the meantime Henk declared he wanted a walk, and taking his hat quickly
left the house, his coat-collar turned up, and his hands in his
pockets. Anne, the nursemaid, came to fetch Ben, to make him a little
tidy, as his face was besmeared with jam from the pastry he had been
eating. Betsy disappeared too, and Eline and Vincent were left alone in
the drawing-room, now bright with gas-light.
“Come, let us sit down in the boudoir,” said Eline, and Vincent
followed her to the little room. The soft, clear beams from the small
crystal chandelier, reflected on the violet plush of the furniture,
lent the place an air of something mysteriously intimate, something
that seemed to tempt to an unreserved confidence. To Vincent, however,
it appeared to convey no sense other than one of a calm well-being;
with a sigh he let himself fall on the couch with his usual languor,
and put Eline a number of indifferent questions about the acquaintances
he had just now seen taking their leave. Whilst answering him, she felt
a great sympathy for her cousin arise within her. Again it was that
need within her that had aroused such a passion for Fabrice, the need
she felt of much love and tenderness, the longing to expend the pent-up
treasures of her affection. And just as it had struck Paul by the wan
reflection of a petroleum-lamp, so it now struck her under the bright
gas-light that played and sparkled in a thousand colours through the
drooping pendants. Vincent’s resemblance to her dear dead father was so
striking that, looking at him, she almost fancied herself once more
back in her childhood. Yes, just like that, with that pained expression
about the mouth, with those eyes full of sadness, her father used to
lie down, exhausted by his artistic visions; just like that his hand
used to hang over the arm of his chair when the brush had fallen from
his grasp.
And Eline’s sympathy for Vincent grew stronger, permeated with
compassion and poetic melancholy, as she sat listening to his low, wan,
murmuring voice, while he spoke to her about Smyrna; he seemed more
interesting than most of the young men in their coterie. To her he
became a martyr to the littleness of the world, when he told her that
to him the Hague was kleinstättig and tiresome, and that he longed for
much space and freedom. So did she.
“But I weary you with my complaints, parlons autre chose,” he
interrupted himself in an altered tone. “It isn’t polite of me to talk
so much about myself.”
“Oh no, not at all; you don’t weary me in the least,” she answered
somewhat hurriedly, rather upset that he had cut the thread of her
fantasy so abruptly. “Don’t you think that I can quite share your
thoughts, that I don’t understand how you can wish for anything else
than the prosy groove in which we continue to go round and round?
Sometimes I, too, would gladly escape from it,” she cried, with a
movement of her arms like that of a captive bird beating his wings
against his cage. “Sometimes I feel myself moved to some terribly mad
freak or another,” and she smiled slyly as she thought of Fabrice.
He, also smiling, shook his head, and just touched her uplifted hand,
as it fell gracefully by her side.
“And why should you wish to commit follies now?” he asked. “You go to
extremes. To live independently of anyone, not to trouble yourself
about the small-talk of a coterie, but to follow your own ideas as long
as they are sensible, to change your surroundings as often as you
like—that is my ideal. There’s nothing preserves one’s youth so much as
change.”
“But in order to be independent, to trouble oneself about nothing—one
must possess more moral strength than we in our superculture usually
dare show,” she answered.
“Moral strength! Oh dear, no; you only want the money, that’s all,” he
replied briefly. “If I am rich, have good manners, commit no follies,
but manage to keep myself nice and agreeable in the eyes of the world,
it is quite in my power to see my ideal realized, without any one
accusing me of anything more than perhaps—a little eccentricity.”
All this was much too sober to her way of thinking, and she urged
forward her own ideas, which seemed to her more romantic.
“Yes, all right, money, of course,” she resumed, avoiding his argument
with true feminine weakness; “but without sufficient strength to force
through one’s own will, one would soon be carried away by all the old
habits. You see, that is why”—he laughed at her charming want of
logic—“that is why I should so much like to do
something—foolish—something terribly foolish. I feel myself strong
enough to go my own way in spite of the world. I sometimes feel very
desperate indeed.”
He enjoyed the fire and animation that beamed from her glistening eyes,
and her whole elegant little figure, as she sat there in her giddy
coquettishness, gave him the impression of a butterfly just about to
flutter away.
“But, Eline!” he cried laughing. “What is it you are taking into your
head now? What is it you would like to do then, what sort of follies?
Come, just confess, you naughty child.”
She laughed too.
“Oh, say elope!”
“With me?”
“Why not? But I think you would soon leave me to my fate. I should be
rather too expensive a luxury to you, and you would send me back with
many thanks. Merci bien then, if your question was intended for an
invitation; I would rather wait for a wealthy milord.”
“No love in a cottage then?”
“Oh, Vincent, how stale! Jamais! I should die of ennui. I had rather be
an actress, and run away with an actor.”
And she was all a-sparkle with sheer wantonness of exuberance; she felt
a secret enjoyment at the thought of Fabrice, and looked Vincent boldly
in the eyes; he could not guess her thoughts.
He burst out in laughter; the lively playfulness which had taken the
place of her languid grace during their conversation, the brightness in
her eyes, and the tapping of her little hand on her knee, amused him
even more than her words, and yet they were sympathetic enough with his
own ideas; in them there lurked a longing for change, which was very
much like his own. They looked at one another smilingly, and under the
soft but concentrated glance of his eyes, Eline felt something of the
slow, ensnaring fascination of that of a serpent.
“What a striking resemblance to my dear papa,” she thought, almost
surprised at the sympathy she felt for Vincent, as they rose at the
sound of the dinner-bell.