Otto, however, came straight towards her. She was flustered, and feared that it showed, but her secret discomfort added a trace of tentativeness to her slim figure, which was very becoming. She heard him say good evening in his simple, unassuming way, but there was something warm and generous about his voice, which sounded to her like a promise of tenderness. Suddenly she felt a new emotion, a melting softness in her heart, which she did not comprehend.
He joined the small gathering by the piano, standing close to her but chatting with Ange while Léonie giggled at Etienne’s flirtatious attentions. Now and then he glanced at her, seeking to involve her in their conversation about nothing; she smiled, without hearing what passed. Her ears buzzed with the confusion of voices, and she could not keep track of her thoughts, which flittered about her brain like so many butterflies.
She knew she had to resist lapsing into one of her soothing meditations; she could hardly stand there daydreaming in the middle of a salon full of people, and after making one or two light remarks in a voice she hardly recognised as her own, so muffled did it sound, she moved away.
‘You play too, don’t you, Vincent?’ she heard Betsy ask, while out of the corner of her eye she saw the ladies rising from the sofa and Henk moving to the salon, where he proceeded to take the mother-of-pearl counters from a Japanese box. She felt she was dreaming. She saw the cards spread out on the circular red cloth in the shape of an S; she saw the candles burning at the corners of the table, she saw Madame Eekhof’s bejewelled fingers drawing a card.
Everything seemed to be happening in the remote distance. Vincent seated himself opposite Madame van Raat; Henk was to be partnered with Madame Eekhof. Betsy came up with Emilie in tow; they would take a turn later.
‘Would it be all right if we made some music, or are they very serious about their game?’ Léonie asked Betsy, pointing to the card table.
‘Oh by all means, amusez-vous toujours!’ responded Betsy, inviting Otto and Emilie to join her on the sofa. Her manner with those outside her family was unfailingly gracious.
‘Go on, Eline, do let us hear you! We’re dying to hear your lovely siren song!’ Léonie continued, in irrepressible high humour. ‘And I shall play the accompaniment with my light-as-fairy fingers.’
‘Oh no, Léonie, please. I’m not in voice this evening.’
‘Not in voice? I don’t believe you! Come! Allons, chante ma belle! What is it to be?’
‘Yes, Eline, do sing for us!’ called Madame van Raat from the adjoining salon, after which she anxiously asked her partner what was the meaning of trumps.
‘No really, Madame, I cannot; no, Léo, not today. I can always tell when I’m not in voice, and I hardly ever refuse, do I? But didn’t you say you had brought some music with you?’
‘Yes, but they aren’t the right sort of songs to start the evening with; we can have them later. Let’s have something serious first — please, Eline, I beg you.’
‘No, I can’t possibly!’ said Eline, shaking her head. It was out of the question: she felt herself in a fever with the blood rising to her cheeks, her eyelids drooping, her pulse throbbing, her fingers trembling. She would never be able to contain her vibrato, she had no voice today.
‘Can’t possibly?’ she heard someone murmur behind her, and glanced round. It was Otto, gazing at her admiringly from the sofa he was sharing with Betsy and Emilie. Again she shook her head from side to side. She felt awkward as she did so, although she looked artlessly alluring to the others.
‘Really, I could not. .’
She quickly averted her face, in case he might suspect the cause of her reluctance. Meeting his gaze had greatly embarrassed her, even though there was no trace of reproof in his eyes. She had a feeling there was something afoot among the friends and relations filling the adjoining rooms with their animated conversation. The atmosphere was charged, somehow, and yet, she reasoned, Betsy and Madame van Raat were the only ones there who knew that Otto had already proposed and that an answer would be expected of her this very evening. But whatever the others might suspect, they would not be so indiscreet as to press her to reveal her secret before she was ready; thankfully, they were too well-bred for that.
Léonie accused Eline of being a spoilsport, whereupon Paul and Etienne clamoured for Léonie to sing instead, and offered to fetch her music book for her from the vestibule, where she had left it out of false modesty. They started for the door, but Léonie tried to stop them, causing an abrupt, frolicsome stir, at which the whist-players looked up from their cards. Etienne squeezed past her, and soon returned in triumph, waving the dog-eared score of La Mascotte. The Eekhof girls were duly persuaded, and launched into a laughing, halting, high-pitched rendition of the duet between Pipo and Bettino.
‘O, mon Pipo, mon Dieu, qu’t’es bien!’ they sang, while Etienne played the accompaniment, frequently striking doubtful chords.
But everyone was delighted anyway, which emboldened Etienne and Paul to join in. They did so with great gusto, and the foursome warbled on in blithe disregard of both time and tune, lingering over the dreamy ‘Un baiser c’est bien douce chose’ and brightening over the comical air of ‘Le grand singe d’Amérique’.
Eline sat on a pouffe, leaning her fevered temple against the piano, almost deafened by Etienne’s vigorous striking of the keys. She was tapping her hand on her knee in time to the music so as to appear interested, but her ears ached from the thrum of the instrument, and the noise prevented her from thinking and making a decision. Her emotions kept swinging from one extreme to the other. Yes, she would accept him: his love, albeit unrequited, would make her happy, it was her fate. . No, she could not go against her deepest feeling, she could not allow herself to be shackled to someone she did not love. She grew quite giddy from swinging back and forth like a pendulum, it was as if there were a clock thudding in her brain: yes, no, yes, no. . What a relief it would be simply to shut her eyes and point at random to the answer. But no, she owed it to herself to think things through properly. If only that clock would stop ticking. . she was in no condition to battle with her emotions, she was too frail.
She would cease all meditation, she would surrender to the invisible forces pushing her down that steep slope, she would give herself up entirely to the circumstances of the moment — let them decide. Her eyes met Otto’s, and a tremor ran down her spine. She rose.
. .
Vincent got up from the whist table; Betsy took his place.
‘Well, Elly, have you thought of anything outrageous yet?’ asked Vincent, imitating her tone.
The piano had fallen silent. Léonie had gone to sit with Emilie, and was giving her a vivid description of a recent dance hosted by the Van Larens. Etienne spun round on the piano stool, which made Ange laugh so much that she collapsed on to the pouffe with her hands covering her face. Paul, laughing too, leafed through some sheet music.
‘What? How do you mean?’ faltered Eline.
‘Remember you told me a while ago how you wanted to do something outrageous? Well, I’m only asking if you’ve thought of anything yet. I’ll gladly join in.’
His jocular manner irked her. In her present, unusually serious frame of mind, the mention of that frivolous outburst held an echo of her vanished hopes. No, she had no desire to indulge in anything in the least shocking or foolhardy; she wished to be sensible, as sensible as Otto was. It had been folly enough to allow herself to be disappointed in love, if she could call her craze thus, and she would never let her emotions run away with her again.