And she declined Henk’s offer of the sweetbreads and asparagus, which he so warmly recommended.
‘I believe Mr de Woude is your brother, is he not?’ Frans asked Emilie. He had not met her or Georges before, and was as much struck by the resemblance between them as by the difference.
‘Indeed he is,’ Emilie replied in a low voice. ‘My very own brother, I’m proud to say. A dreadful fop, but a dear boy. He’s at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, preparing for entry into the Diplomatic Service. So don’t you go getting the wrong impression!’ she laughed, wagging her finger at him as if she could read Ferelijn’s thoughts.
‘I have scarcely exchanged half a dozen words with Mr de Woude, so I wouldn’t presume to have any opinion!’ he said, somewhat taken aback by Emilie’s admonition.
‘And quite right too; most people change their opinion of Georges once they get to know him. And as you see, I am the loyal sister leaping to her brother’s defence. Would you mind pouring me some more wine?’
‘You defend him even before he is attacked!’ riposted Ferelijn, smiling as he complied with Emilie’s request. ‘But I can tell he’s a favourite of the ladies here, not only of his sister, but also of Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.’
Betsy joined in the exchange between Eline and Georges, attracted by the latter’s vivacity as he chattered on, skimming all sorts of topics: a conversation with little substance to it, not even much in the way of wit, but light and airy as soap bubbles and peppered with firecrackers. She was in her element here: serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too heavy for her, but this kind of froth and foam was like the wine pearling in her crystal glass, and it pleased her immensely. She thought Georges far more amusing this evening than he had been at the Verstraetens’, where he had twice remarked that the red illumination was more flattering than the green. Today he did not repeat himself, but, having lost his habitual reserve, discoursed volubly, now interrupting the sisters with mock impudence, then offering a droll repartee on some disputed opinion, and on the whole paying little heed to his locution.
Eline made several attempts to draw Jeanne into their lively little group, but received only a faint smile in reply or at most a monosyllable, and consequently gave up trying to amuse her. The conversation became more general; Emilie joined in with her jovial, forthright mode, and Frans, in the midst of this charmed circle, could not resist throwing in the occasional bon mot, although he frequently cast a look of concern at his quiet little wife.
. .
To Jeanne the dinner seemed to go on for ever. Although she had no appetite, she did not wish to attract attention by declining the truffled fowl, the Henri IV gateau, the pineapple and the choice dessert, but she barely tasted her wine. Henk, beside her, ate with relish, wondering as he chewed why Jeanne took such tiny helpings. Nor did Georges de Woude eat a great deal; he was too busy holding forth. Emilie, however, ate heartily, and enjoyed her wine, too.
It was just past eight when they rose from the table and the ladies adjourned to the drawing room. Frans joined Henk and De Woude in an after-dinner cigar, as Jeanne had agreed to stay another half hour. Betsy had pressed her not to leave just yet — it would be uncivil to dispatch her guests immediately after dinner, and there was plenty of time for the opera.
‘Is Dora often ill?’ asked Eline. With a rustle of pink ribbed silk she sank down on a sofa beside Jeanne and took her hand. ‘The last time I saw her she was quite well, but even then I thought she looked rather pale and delicate.’
Jeanne discreetly withdrew her hand, feeling a touch vexed by this question being put to her after the flippancy of the table talk. She came out with a perfunctory reply. But Eline, as though wishing to make up for her earlier lack of concern, put so much warmth and commiseration in her voice that Jeanne melted. She promptly voiced her fears that Dr Reijer might not have examined her little girl with sufficient thoroughness, and Eline was all ears as she spooned sugar into her cup of mocha on the silver tray held by Gerard, the manservant. Emilie and Betsy had moved to the anteroom for a look at the latest fashion plates.
‘You poor thing, all those worries, and it’s less than three months since you arrived in Holland. You came in September, didn’t you?’ asked Eline, replacing the translucent Chinese coffee cup on the side table.
Jeanne made no reply, but brusquely drew herself up and, clasping Eline’s slender, cool hand in hers, broke out with:
‘I say, Eline, do you remember how I always used to speak my mind? Because there is something I should like to ask you. May I?’
‘Of course!’ said Eline, somewhat startled.
‘Well, it’s just that I wonder why things aren’t the same between us as they used to be, when your parents were still alive. It’s four years since Frans and I got married and left for the Indies, and now that we are back, now that I have seen you again, it’s just as if everything has changed. I don’t know anybody in The Hague; we have practically no relations here either, and it would be so lovely to keep my old friends.’
‘But Jeanne. .’
‘Oh, I know, you probably think I’m silly to talk like this, but things are so difficult sometimes that I get very miserable. Then I wish I could let off some steam to good friend, which I can’t do with my husband, obviously.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, he has enough troubles of his own. He’s not at all well, you know, and he’s losing his patience—’
‘But Jeanne, I can’t think what could have changed between us.’
‘Perhaps I’m just imagining things. But we used to spend more time together in the old days. You move in completely different circles now, you go out a good deal, while I. . well, we seem to have become sort of estranged.’
‘We didn’t see each other for four years, after all.’
‘But we wrote letters.’
‘Three or four letters a year isn’t much, you know! It’s only to be expected that one’s ideas change as one grows older and one’s circumstances change, surely. And I’ve had my share of worries, too. First there was dear Papa, and then poor Aunt Vere, whom I attended during her final illness.’
‘Are you happy here, do you and Betsy get on all right?’
‘Oh yes, very well, otherwise I wouldn’t have moved in with her, would I?’
Eline, with characteristic reserve, had no desire to go into detail.
‘You see! You have nothing to fret about at all,’ Jeanne pursued. ‘You are free and independent, your own mistress to do as you please, whereas I–I am in a completely different situation.’
‘But that doesn’t mean to say we’ve become estranged, does it? For one thing, estranged has a disagreeable sound to it, and for another, it’s simply not true, whichever way you put it.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘No, it’s not, I assure you. My dear Jeanne, if I can be of service to you in any way, just tell me. I promise I’ll do what I can. I wish you’d believe me.’
‘I do, and thank you for your kind promise. But Eline, I wanted to take this opportunity. .’
‘Now?’
Jeanne was framing questions in her mind: How are you, really? Tell me more about yourself, so that I may get to know you the way you are now! But seeing the polite smile on Eline’s pretty lips and the dreamy look in her almond eyes, Jeanne said nothing. Suddenly she regretted having spoken so candidly to the coquettish young creature opening and closing her feather fan. Oh, why had she spoken to her at all? They were worlds apart.
‘Now?’ repeated Eline, despite her reluctance to hear what Jeanne had to say.
‘Some other time, then, when we have more privacy. .’ stammered Jeanne, and she rose to her feet. She was annoyed, mostly with herself, and on the brink of tears after the unpleasant dinner followed by this fruitless exchange with Eline. Just then Betsy and Emilie emerged from the boudoir.