‘What’s that?’ asked Madame van Erlevoort.
Frédérique took the letter.
‘It’s for Otto, Mama. You can leave it on the sideboard, Willem — or, no, wait, let me take another look,’ she said, inspecting the address. ‘Eline’s handwriting, I do believe. Such a thick envelope, too. Strange.’
‘Is it from Eline?’ asked Madame.
‘I think so.’
She returned the envelope to Willem, who placed it in a Japanese charger on the sideboard, after which he left. Mother and daughter exchanged looks. Each could sense the disquiet in the other, yet each kept silent. Madame van Erlevoort returned to her housekeeping accounts and Frédérique took up the brightly coloured tapestry she was working on.
Some time went by, and the clock struck ten. Rika, the maid, came in to clear the breakfast table, leaving one setting for Etienne, when the doorbell rang. Madame van Erlevoort barely noticed, for there were tradesmen ringing at the door every morning, but to Frédérique the bell sounded ominous.
Willem came in.
‘Mr van Raat has arrived, and would like to speak to you. What shall I tell him, Ma’am?’
‘Master Paul?’ said Frédérique.
‘Beg pardon, Miss, it is Mr van Raat from Nassauplein.’
‘Show him in!’
Madame van Erlevoort, generally so serene, was concerned. Like her daughters, she had noted how dejected and retiring Otto had become lately, and how Eline seemed to avoid visiting their house.
Henk entered. His dull greeting and uncharacteristically worried expression spoke volumes. Madame waved Henk to a chair, eying him with anxious expectation.
‘Why Van Raat! What is it? What brought you here?’ she asked hurriedly.
‘I thought it right to call on you, dear lady. Eline has written to Otto.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Ah. And has he read the letter?’
‘The letter? No, not yet. Willem brought it in a moment ago. Good heavens, Van Raat, you don’t mean to say that Eline has. .?’
Henk looked away, groping for words. He had composed a whole speech in his mind on the way there, but found he could not recall a single word under the apprehensive gaze of Frédérique and her mother. When they begged him to speak he gave a helpless gesture and blurted:
‘Well, yes, I’m afraid she has. She wants to break off the engagement. She has written him a long letter. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Madame van Erlevoort sat with hunched shoulders, speechless and trembling; Frédérique had turned deathly pale.
‘And Eline herself is very upset, quite heartbroken in fact. She didn’t get any sleep last night, either. We heard her cry for hours.’
In broken, laboured sentences, he related the events of the previous night. He had not come to try and intercept the letter before Otto had a chance to read it, since Eline had been adamant that it would not change anything, he had come because he felt impelled to do something, to express his sympathy at least, to share in their grief. That he should be the one to break the news to them compounded his misery, and he could barely put his thoughts into words.
Madame van Erlevoort was shattered. She no longer heard Henk’s strained discourse, for all she could think of now was how devastated Otto would be. She tried to imagine her son’s reaction, and found herself unable to picture him, as if everything might yet change, as if she had misheard. Frédérique’s eyes were brimming with tears, her mind was in turmoil, and the hatred smouldering in her heart burst into flame.
Oh, she could have murdered Eline, murdered her! With a grim expression on her features she turned to her mother, who was hiding her face in her hands, sobbing quietly, while Henk stared mournfully into the distance.
Children’s voices sounded in the vestibule. The door opened, and Tina, Johan, Madeleine and Nico burst in, with Mathilda at their heels. Henk stood up, flustered. Seeing her mother in tears and Frédérique glowering with impotent fury, Mathilda knew at once that something was seriously wrong.
‘Not now! Take the children away!’ sobbed Madame van Erlevoort, unceremoniously pushing Nico aside.
Mathilda summoned them to the door. ‘Off you go upstairs, now, to Nurse Frantzen, and keep your voices down!’ she whispered, and they left, somewhat crestfallen, with little Nico in tears.
Mathilda closed the door and looked at Henk with fearful expectation. But it was Frédérique who, with flashing eyes and a note of pride in her voice, explained to her what had happened.
‘Good heavens!’ gasped Mathilda, shaking.
‘How are we going to tell him? Oh, what can we say?’ wept Madame. ‘How could Eline do this? How could she hurt him so? And all this time I thought. . Oh, dear Lord!’
She drew Mathilda close and hid her weeping face in her daughter’s bosom. Mathilda was used to this: everyone appealed to her for consolation of their woes, and she wrapped her arm about her mother’s neck and kissed her.
‘Otto’s strong, Mama, he’ll get over it.’
‘How can you say that? It’s all so unexpected, oh, it will destroy him, my poor, poor boy. Oh, how could she? How could she?’
Someone came thumping down the stairs, two or three treads at a time, whistling in the shrill, jaunty tones of a street urchin. Etienne bowled into the room.
‘Good morning, all! Morning, Mama! Well hello there, old chap, what brings you here? How are you?’
His customary, cheerful grin faded at the sight of the consternation written on all their faces, and he stared round-eyed at his mother when she cried out, in a choked voice:
‘And you, my pet, can you understand? Can you understand why Eline has done this? How could she have stopped loving Otto?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked blankly.
It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, then he ran to his dear, grey-haired Mama, whose normally sunny disposition was now so rudely overturned, and flung his arms about her, showering her with childish, tender endearments. And it crossed Mathilda’s mind that although her mother had turned to her for consolation, she had gained it from her darling boy, her Etienne.
. .
While they waited for Otto to return in time for coffee, his mother and sisters agreed among themselves to greet him as calmly as possible, so as to spare his feelings. Madame van Erlevoort wondered at her son’s apparent composure when Mathilda, with an air of grave intent, caught his hands and drew him to a seat. She had been expecting a different reaction from him, some outburst of horrified, violent passion, and she thanked the Lord for giving her son the strength to bear his suffering as she watched his expression change from frank and genial to an inscrutable mask, in which the only sign of emotion was a tremor of the lips.
‘That letter — where is it?’ he said at last.
‘Otto—’
‘Give me the letter, please.’
Mathilda stood up and handed him the envelope. He made to leave the room, but Mathilda stepped in his path; she gave him a quick hug, whispering in his ear: ‘Be a man, Otto! Be a man!’ Then she kissed him and let him go.
Madame van Erlevoort, who had hardly said a word to Otto, leant tearfully against Etienne’s shoulder. He patted her on the back and kissed her several times, while Mathilda stared wordlessly out of the window with tears in her eyes. Frédérique sat quite still and aloof; they had no need of her, that much was clear, because what did she know about suffering? They didn’t even think she knew the meaning of the word!
Tina came down, demanding attention. Mathilda wanted to send her away, but Madame van Erlevoort said, haltingly:
‘Let her stay, Tilly. And call the others, too, they’re bound to be hungry. But I shall not eat, I’m afraid, I have no appetite at all.’
She withdrew from Etienne’s embrace and was soon busying herself about the meal, slicing the top off a boiled egg for Tina and buttering the child’s bread.