‘Yes, I am the cousin who cared for him!’ she replied, in French. Her English was good, but she found his French so charming that she had not offered to speak with him in his native language.
‘That was in The Hague, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes it was; he was staying at my brother-in-law’s house.’
‘And you were living there too at the time, weren’t you?’
This seemed a touch inquisitive on his part, but he spoke in a tone of such candid interest that she didn’t feel offended.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Did Vincent tell you that?’
‘He did. Vincent often spoke of you.’
He sounded as if he knew quite a lot about her. She had written to Vincent after her flight from Betsy and Henk’s house, so he probably knew about that, too.
‘And you have done a good deal of travelling?’ he pursued.
‘Oh yes, with my uncle and aunt. A great deal. You intend to travel extensively yourself, I gather?’
‘As far as Russia this coming winter.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment. It seemed to Eline that they both had much to say to one another, but did not know where to begin. She already felt she had known him for a long while, and now it turned out that she was no stranger to him either.
‘Do you care very much for Vincent?’ she asked.
‘Very much. I feel very sorry for him. Had his health been more robust, he would certainly have made his mark on the world. He possesses energy and a hardworking spirit, as well as a broad view of life. But his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to one thing and bringing it to fruition. Most people have the wrong idea about Vincent. They think him lazy, capricious, egotistic, and refuse to see that he is simply ill. I can’t think of anybody else who would be capable, despite suffering from such ill health, of sharing so much of his talent and intelligence with the rest of mankind.’
She had always had great sympathy for Vincent, but had never seen him in this light.
‘Yes, I believe you are right!’ she said after a short pause. ‘But don’t you think the trip you have in mind will be too tiring for Vincent? All the way to Russia, in winter?’
‘Oh no. The cold climate will have an invigorating effect on him. And he won’t have to exert himself. I don’t even want him to accompany me on every expedition I have in mind. But travelling by train poses no problem — all it requires is for him to put on his fur coat and sit in a railway car.’
His words made her suspect, as she had suspected from her conversation with Vincent, that St Clare set inordinate store by his friend’s comfort and well-being.
‘I do believe you are very kind-hearted!’ she could not help exclaiming.
He gave her a puzzled look.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, laughing.
‘I don’t know!’ she said, smiling and colouring slightly. ‘It’s just an impression I have. But I may be mistaken, of course.’
He gestured vaguely with his hand. A hint of coquetry had crept into her voice at the last, which she regretted.
‘Just now you spoke of energy and a hardworking spirit,’ she resumed. ‘And you said that if someone is ill, that person deserves to be forgiven for not being energetic and hardworking.’
‘Naturally. What do you mean?’
There was an unhesitating singleness of purpose about his manner, which flustered her. During her tête-à-têtes with Vincent in the old days, their rambling, philosophical speculations had wavered this way and that without aim, rather like coils of smoke dissipating in the air, and the sheer directness of St Clare’s question caught her unprepared.
‘I mean,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘wouldn’t you be even more inclined to excuse the lack of energy and activity in someone who had suffered a great sadness, than in someone like Vincent, whose only trouble is poor health?’
He held her gaze.
‘Yes I would — provided he had tried to be energetic, and had succumbed in the attempt. Not otherwise, not if he had given himself up to the force of sheer circumstance without a struggle, as if it were his foreordained destiny. A fatalistic attitude; Vincent is no stranger to it either. And there is nothing more undermining than that kind of fatalism. Life would turn into moral death if we all just sat down with our hands in our laps and thought: What will be, will be.’
Eline was nonplussed.
Had she possessed energy? Had she given herself up to the force of circumstance? She had no answer. She felt small in his forceful presence, and could not concentrate her thoughts.
‘But what if that person’s suffering were caused by remorse over something he had done in the past?’ she whispered almost pleadingly, with moist eyes, nervously fingering the black locket and digging the point of her shoe into the sheepskin rug. His expression softened into pity.
‘In that case — oh yes, he would deserve to be forgiven!’ he whispered with indulgent reassurance.
But the indulgence of his tone discomfited her; suddenly she felt that she had given herself away, that she had been open-hearted in a way that was not fitting, that she ought to have had the strength to maintain her reserve.
. .
St Clare was uncertain how long he would stay in Brussels, as he wished to take short trips from there to Mechelen, Antwerp, Bruges and Ghent. Aunt Eliza found him very likeable indeed, but frowned on his intention to tour the northern countries during winter. She was in favour of travelling, but not of suffering from freezing temperatures. St Clare laughed, saying that neither he nor Vincent minded about the cold.
Vincent accompanied him on some of his excursions away from the city, though not all, and during their absences there was much talk of them among the eccentric friends visiting avenue Louise at eleven o’clock of an evening. The Count remarked that he had met St Clare some years since; he appeared to be some sort of chevalier d’industrie, and the Veres would do well to tread with caution. At this Uncle Daniel shrugged his shoulders, but Eline fixed the Count with a stare of withering contempt. Soon afterwards she retired to her bedroom, where she could still hear the high-pitched vociferations of the blonde lady in red velvet and Eliza’s shrieks of laughter.
The carousal in the reception room prevented her from sleeping, notwithstanding the drops she had taken. But despite her wakefulness and the aggravation of the noise, she felt surprisingly calm. The thought of St Clare was reassuring to her, more soothing even than the cool liquid prescribed by the physician. Maybe there was more to life than hypocrisy after all, maybe there was such a thing as true friendship and devotion, in a word: truth.
St Clare and Vincent stayed away for a week, during which they were sorely missed by Eline. They arrived on the day before New Year’s Eve, and Eliza invited them to the soirée she was holding the following evening, which promised to be very grand.
. .
At about half-past nine the following evening the motley collection of guests began to arrive, and Uncle Daniel and Eliza welcomed them warmly. The Count, the actor, the jeweller and his blowsy consort were the first to make their appearance, after which Eline saw a strange review of guests parade past the host and hostess, the men with an air of the nouveau riche, or with bohemian flamboyance, the ladies with oversized diamonds and limp trains to their gowns.
She did not feel at home in this setting, and yet she was amused by all those remarkable people drifting about the reception room so extravagantly furnished with bibelots. The candlelight diffused by the Venetian chandelier glinted strangely over the arrays of antique bronze, antique porcelain and antique fabrics. The guests were all unusual in one way or another, in keeping with Eliza’s avowed dislike of the mundane.