Notwithstanding the lowered blinds, the heat in the room was rising. Sophie, the maid, knocked at the door.
‘I’ve brought you some ice, Miss!’
She came in bearing a tray of ice. As soon as she was gone Eline put a shard in her mouth, then took several others and rubbed them over her forehead until the large, icy drops trickled down between her fingers.
. .
Sophie brought her repast at half-past five, and laid the small round table with much care. But Eline merely picked at the various dishes, and was glad when Sophie came to clear them away. The weather was too hot; the smell of food turned her stomach.
She glanced at the calling cards Sophie had brought in with her tray: one from Madame Verstraeten and another from Lili.
‘Old Madame van Raat also came by this afternoon, Miss!’ said Sophie, and left.
Eline was alone; the evening crept forward. The sun sank leisurely behind the horizon, and it did not grow dark for a long time, so she raised the blinds again. Then she took from her cabinet a small phial and carefully counted out her drops in a glass of water. She drank slowly. Ah, if only they would bring some relief this time! They didn’t seem half as effective as they used to be.
Worn out from her long day of inertia, prey to the ramblings of her troubled mind, she decided to have an early night. She would not light the gas lamp; she would sit in the dusk a little longer and then try to get some sleep.
But her head began to seethe and simmer with unrelenting insistence. The cool evening air wafted into the room, yet she felt suffocated. She let the grey peignoir slide off her shoulders. Her arms were thin, her chest almost hollow, and with a sad smile she surveyed her wasted frame. She ran her fingers through her long, thin, hair. And because the light was fading, because she dreaded not sleeping despite the drops, because of the livid pallor of her skin beside the lace-edged nightdress, because she grew fearful of the deepening shadows, the madness rose up in her once more.
Ah, perfido! Spergiuro!
She began to hum, and she raised her arm in a wild gesture of accusation. This was the Beethoven aria that used to remind Vincent of the fragrance of verbena. . Then, her features twisting with grief and vengeance, she broke into song, raging at the faithless lover, commanding him out of her sight, invoking the wrath of the gods to punish him to the end of his days. With a sudden movement she pulled the sheet off her bed and draped the long white fabric about her, so that it resembled a robe of marble in the grey dusk.
Oh no! Fermate, vindici Dei!
She sang hoarsely, pausing repeatedly to cough. Her expression had altered, for she was now imploring the gods to have mercy on him — however cruel his betrayal, the constancy of her devotion was unchanged, and she would not seek revenge; for him she had lived and for him she wished to die. Slowly she intoned the adagio, very slowly, while the white folds of her drapery billowed and swayed to the supplicating gestures of her arms. She sang on and on, until a heart-rending cry forced itself from her throat, and in that final plaint she suddenly became an actress, a prima donna in the noble art of the opera. Her lover had fled, and she saw herself turning to chorus surrounding her with pity:
Se in tanto affa. . a. . a. . anno
She sang, almost weeping, with grief-stricken cadenzas, and in her agonised lamentation her voice rose to a shriek:
Non son degna di pieta
She gave a violent start, appalled by the shrill, screeching sound of her ruined voice, then flung off the white sheet and sank down on a chair, trembling. Had anyone heard her? She darted a quick glance through the open door of her balcony at the street below. No, there were only a few strollers in the gathering dusk, and no one was looking up. What about inside? Had they heard? Ah well, if so, it couldn’t be helped. But from now on, she vowed, she would be more sensible.
She was sobbing, and yet she laughed, too — at herself, for being so silly as to get all carried away like that! No wonder she wasn’t feeling in the least drowsy! She laid herself down on the rumpled bed and kept her eyes firmly closed. But sleep did not come.
‘Dear God,’ she moaned. ‘Dear God, let me sleep, I beg you, let me sleep!’
She wept bitterly, unceasingly. Then a thought flashed into her brain. What if she took a few more drops than the dose prescribed by that physician in Brussels? There would be no harm in that, would there? It was hardly likely, given that her normal dose didn’t seem to do anything for her these days. How many more drops would it be safe for her to take?
The same amount again? No, that would be too much, obviously. Goodness knows what might happen. Half the amount, then? Another three drops? No, no, she did not dare: the doctor had given her dire warnings about the dangers. Still, it was tempting. . and she got out of bed.
She took up her phial to count out the drops.
One. . two. . three, four-five. The last two spilled out just as she righted the phial. Five. . would that be too much? She hesitated a moment. Those five drops would be enough to send her to sleep, of that she was certain.
She hesitated yet again. Abruptly, she made up her mind: yes, she would sleep. And she drank her potion.
. .
She lay down on the floor, close to the open door to the balcony.
Perspiring with fear, she felt herself sliding into numbness; but what a strange sensation it was this time. . how different from the numbness she had grown accustomed to.
‘Oh my God!’ she thought. ‘My God! My God! Could it have been. . too much?’
No, no, that would be too awful! Death was so black, so empty, so unspeakable! And yet, what if she had taken too much? All at once her fear melted away, and a sense of infinite peace came over her. If that was what she had done, so be it.
And she began to laugh, with stifled, nervous titters, while the numbness pressed down on her, as though with giant, leaden fists. She tried to ward off the fists with her flailing hands, and her fingers became entangled in the chain she wore about her neck. Oh, his portrait, Otto’s portrait!
Had she really taken too much? Would she. .? She shivered. Would they come knocking at her door in the morning, and find no answer? Would they return later and knock again, and come upon her lying on the floor like this?
A terrible thought! Her fingers, moist with perspiration, groped for the locket. They must not find that portrait on her breast!
She raised herself to a sitting position and prised the small oval card from its casing. She could not see it, because it had grown dark in her room and her vision was already clouding over; only the yellow glow of the street lamp by the entrance dispelled the gloom. But she imagined it vividly, and she fondled the slip of cardboard, pressing it to her lips again and again.
‘Oh, Otto!’ she faltered, her speech slurring. ‘It was only you, my Otto, not Vincent, not St Clare, only you. . you. . Otto. . oh my God!’
She was torn between fear of death and acquiescence. Then, in the passion of her kisses, she took the card in her mouth. Yes, she would swallow it, since she no longer had the strength to tear it up or destroy it in any other way! A shuddering sigh convulsed her frame, and she began to chew the rejected proof of Otto’s portrait.