What was there to say, anyway? Words were no help.
She accepted Betsy’s offer to drop her off on her way home, and in the carriage she almost wept at the thought of that first, fleeting encounter with Paul after so many months of silence.
. .
A few days later, when Frédérique thought Paul had already returned to Bodegraven, she ran into him again. She had decided on a whim to call at the Verstraetens’, and, setting eyes on him in the salon, she felt the blood drain from her cheeks just like the first time, but it was late afternoon and the light was dim, so no one noticed. Georges and Lili were there too, and after greeting everyone Frédérique extended her hand to Paul, who had risen when she made her entrance. She wavered between calling him Paul or Mr van Raat, but only for a moment, realising that the latter form of address would attract undue attention. He answered quite simply:
‘Hello, Freddie.’
Lili was complaining to Madame Verstraeten about her butcher and her milkman, until Marie broke in, saying she was becoming a dreadful bore with her constant fretting about her housekeeping. Lili countered that she was not fretting at all, it was just that she would not tolerate being treated lightly by tradesmen. Paul had been conversing with Uncle Verstraeten, but he now turned to Frédérique, addressing her in such a relaxed, natural tone of voice that she was quite taken aback.
‘It has been such a long time since we met, Freddie! How are you? And your family?’
‘Oh, very well thank you.’
‘Next time I come I shall pay a visit to your mama. Do give her my warm regards, will you? And Mathilda, too, of course. Is Etienne still hard at work?’
‘Yes, he’s extraordinarily diligent these days.’
Paul laughed.
‘Poor boy. I am glad to hear he is coping so well. Have you been going out much this winter? How is the season?’
‘It has only just started, really. The Eekhofs will be giving their annual ball in February — in the Hotel des Indes this time.’
‘Yes, I know. Ange asked me to come over for it.’
She was mortified by the triviality of his remarks, to which she felt she had to respond in kind while her heart was convulsed with emotion. Had he really forgotten?
It seemed that he had, for he continued in the same vein, asking after the opera, the Diligentia concerts, Marguerite van Laren’s wedding and so forth, and although Marie frequently put in a word or two, all those inconsequential questions struck Frédérique like arrows aimed exclusively at her. Mustering all her strength, however, she recovered her old sense of dignity, and succeeded in conversing with appropriate lightness. She recalled what she had said to him that morning at De Horze: that there was no reason for any hard feelings just because he had proposed to her and she hadn’t taken him seriously, and that she wasn’t naive like the other girls.
Oh, she knew she had dealt a blow to his pride by her haughty rebuffal of his advances, and however amiable and relaxed he sounded now, in reality he was seething with resentment against her.
. .
That evening, after dinner, Paul flung himself in an easy chair. ‘When will you return to Bodegraven?’ his mother asked softly.
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Will you stay the night?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Do feel free to light a cigar, my dear, I don’t mind if you smoke. Would you like some coffee?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
Leentje was summoned to provide coffee, and Madame seated herself in her favourite armchair for her moment of post-prandial repose. She closed her eyes, sunk in thought. How pleasant it was to have Paul sitting across the room with his glass of cognac and cigar; such a shame, though, that he and she seemed to have drifted apart lately. They seemed to have become quite estranged. She searched her conscience for clues to explain the distance that had come between them, but found nothing, although it was true that she had doted on Henk when he was a boy, and also that Paul had caused her concern at times with his capricious, indolent nature. She felt a great, instinctive surge of pity for her younger son, in whom she surmised some kind of grief that was beyond her comprehension, yet the more she pitied him, the more remote he seemed to her.
Through half-closed eyes she stole a glance at Paul, who was staring at the ceiling and blowing rings of cigar smoke in apparent rumination. He gave a start when she addressed him softly:
‘Tell me, Paul, are you are sure you are all right? You are not ill, are you?’
He sat up and smiled.
‘Whatever makes you say that?’ he asked. ‘I don’t look ill, do I? In fact everybody tells me I have grown stouter.’
He gave her a searching look: what was she thinking? He was touched by her concern, for it was soothing to him, albeit futile.
‘That is as may be,’ responded Madame van Raat hopefully. ‘Still, you must admit that you have changed. Am I right in thinking that there might be something troubling you?’
‘Something troubling me? Of course not!’
‘Is your work disappointing? Don’t you find it rather dull, living in a village?’
‘Well, it’s not the height of entertainment, of course. But I don’t mind. The Hague gets boring too, after a while.’
‘So you are sure you are all right, then?’
‘Oh, mother, please stop fussing! There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m as fit as a fiddle.’
‘I am glad to hear it, my dear boy.’
She suppressed a sigh, leant back in her chair and closed her eyes. The gulf between them was as wide as ever. Time passed, and Paul thought she was asleep. At the sound of a stifled sob he looked up to see her weeping quietly, her face hidden in her hands.
‘Mama dear, what’s the matter?’ he cried.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ she murmured.
He rose from his armchair and went to sit beside his mother.
‘Tell me, why are you crying? It’s my fault, isn’t it?’
The unwonted gentleness in his tone made her melt away in sorrow.
‘No, my child, it is none of your fault, but it is so sad, so very sad—’
‘What is?’
‘The way young people always lock themselves up so you can’t reach them any more. Eline was just the same, and it distressed me greatly. And now it’s your turn — my own child! Because I can sense that you are keeping something from me, something that is causing you sadness.’
‘I assure you—’
‘Don’t assure me that is not the case, there’s no need to spare my feelings. I know, my child, believe me, I know. I have known for months. And I dearly wanted to ask you to confide in me, but I was afraid you would tell me that it was no concern of mine. And I am not asking you to confide in me now, either, I’m only crying because it all makes me so sad. Nor do I blame you for being the way you are; all you young people are the same, refusing to put your faith in your elders. And yet, you know, it can do a world of good to share your troubles with someone who loves you. And who could love you more than your own mother? But no, you just keep a still tongue in your head. People only think of themselves nowadays, of their own joys and their own sorrows. Ah well, I suppose it can’t be helped. But it makes me sad, so very sad.’
She wept noiselessly, bowed by that cruel ruling of fate by which parents become estranged from their offspring. Her son, with quivering lips and tears in his eyes, remained silent.
‘You see your child labouring under some dreadful burden as the months go by, and yet his heart is closed to you; there is nothing you can do because you have nothing to offer. The less said the better, everyone seems to think.’
A sob of compassion for his mother escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. She laid her arm gently about his neck, and it broke her heart to feel her tall, strong son weeping in her embrace. She pressed her lips to his head of thick, tawny hair.