‘As you wish!’ he concluded, giving her such a mocking look that she turned her back on him.
The other girls were still chattering nineteen to the dozen.
‘My dear children, I fear you are making me quite deaf!’ he said pompously, pushing them out of his way as he made for the drawing room. It was time for a lark with the mammas sitting in a row at the back admiring their daughters, but he was checked by Betsy, who was having a conversation with Emilie.
‘Hello, gadfly!’ said Betsy, touching his sleeve. ‘Where are you gadding off to now?’
‘To the old wallflowers,’ he whispered in reply. ‘And what about you — not dancing? This is not an invitation, mind; I am only showing an interest.’
She promptly took up the gauntlet, assailing him with reproach for his impertinence, whereupon they launched into a hilarious exchange that brought tears of laughter to Emilie’s eyes. Betsy beamed; she too was impressed by the startling transformation he had undergone: he had become so dashing, no wonder he was doted on by all the women! It had taken him rather a long time to shake off his old lethargy, and he had roused himself at an age when his peers were already settling down, but there was something about him, a touch of the Don Juan with his tawny hair and brazen grey-blue eyes, something that would play on the heartstrings of every girl. She watched as Paul made his way towards the matrons in the drawing room. He bowed to Madame Eekhof and Madame van der Stoor, seated side by side on the sofa.
After a brief exchange of civilities, Madame Eekhof enquired:
‘Aren’t you dancing tonight, Van Raat? I can hear the music starting up again.’
Replying that he did not care for the mazurka, Paul requested the ladies to make room for him on the sofa, and he nestled himself between them with remarkably little ceremony. He listened with an air of rapt attention to their questions and responded willingly, toying with his opera hat all the while. No, he had abandoned painting entirely — the smell of oils was so disagreeable — and he had even banished his easel to the attic. He had given up music, too, since Eline Vere was no longer there to sing duets with. He smiled graciously, twisting the ends of his thick blond moustache when Madame Eekhof protested that it was a shame to let his talents go to waste, and did he not recall how Cateau used to fall into a swoon whenever she heard him sing?
‘Talking of Eline,’ Madame van der Stoor interposed, ‘do you happen to know when she will return? Is she still travelling?’
‘You know she went to Spain with her uncle and aunt, don’t you? She stayed with them for quite a while in Brussels after that, and then all three of them went to Nice. She also spent some time with relatives of her aunt’s, in a chateau somewhere near Bordeaux, and goodness knows where else she has been.’
Paul was beginning to find the conversation tedious, for he was singularly uninterested in Eline at the moment. Having no wish to hear Madame Eekhof raking up the sorry affair, he rose abruptly and took his leave. He turned to the row of matrons, each of whom he greeted with due charm and ceremony, taking great relish in their eagerness to speak to him. Ah, there was Madame Oudendijk, who seemed to think he was minded to propose to Françoise this very evening, for there was a touch of the mother-in-law in the way she rested her hand on his arm, to which he responded by showering her with refined little compliments about her daughter, and oh, how she lapped them up! He said Françoise had mentioned to him that she would love to ride; perhaps her mother could buy her a horse? What a pretty picture she would make riding side saddle! Waiting for her answer, he imagined he could read her thoughts: let him give Françoise a horse if that’s what she wants, and himself into the bargain! But he had no intention of doing anything of the kind.
. .
He moved away, and in passing overheard Uncle Verstraeten and Henk discussing the likelihood of Eline returning to The Hague in the summer. He recalled having heard something about Eline having plans to stay with his mother. Well, that would be very nice, having such a pretty girl in the house. . How old was she now? Twenty-five, at a guess — young enough at any rate to be good company, and he resolved to see if he could make her fall in love with him, just for fun.
Returning to the salon, he found the bride and groom and their entourage besieged by the crowd. His appearance caused a stir, and when several girls ran towards him to berate him for shirking his duties as best man, he put up a comical defence.
‘Paul’s such a card nowadays!’ giggled Léonie.
He gave a condescending smile and looked past her at Frédérique, who was talking to Georges as they waited for the music to begin.
‘Come on, I’ve got so much to tell you!’ he said to Léonie, feeling a twinge of regret at the distance between him and Frédérique. ‘But remember, we’re supposed to be talking, not dancing.’
‘Oh, please, Paul, just a little whirl?’
But after that first whirl he resolutely steered his young partner through the crowd to a settee at the back shaded by overhanging palms.
‘Léonie, now be a good girl and say something nice!’
‘But I thought you had so much to tell me!’ she countered coquettishly.
He was about to reply when he caught sight of Françoise coming towards them, fluttering her hands as she threaded her way through the surge of dancers.
‘Is there any room for me on the sofa?’ she asked. ‘You invited me to be your conversation partner, remember?’
‘Ah! so you’ve decided to accept after all, simply because you haven’t found a dancing partner I suppose. Well, now it’s my turn to decline — be off! Away with you!’
‘Oh, Paul, have mercy on me! Let me sit here with you, it was hard enough getting here in the crush, please don’t send me away!’
He was merciful and shifted to the middle of the sofa so that Françoise could sit on his other side, which left him half submerged in their bouffant tarlatan skirts.
‘And now for some fun with the grand parade!’ he said, in a lordly manner.
The threesome settled back to observe the black tails and billowing skirts reeling past. Paul borrowed Françoise’s fan to beat time with, and leant back like a sultan to enjoy the running commentary of his mirthful companions.
‘Ah, there’s Freddie! An excellent dancer!’ exclaimed Françoise as Georges and Freddie hove into view, and the threesome clapped their hands so vigorously that they caused the settee to jolt on its legs.
‘Sheer, sheer madness!’ cried Paul, bouncing up and down, crumpling their frocks.
‘Ah, talk about being mad!’ said Françoise. ‘So tell me, Paul, why you’re so mad these days? You were going to tell me, remember?’
‘Because I’m mad about you!’ he gushed. ‘Yes, mad about you, Françoise! I’m dying of love for you! Let me kiss you!’
Françoise recoiled in mock horror, upon which Léonie exploded with laughter.
. .
The music stopped for the intermission; it was time to bring in the trestle tables, which had been laid up beforehand to enable the swift conversion of the reception suite into an elegant restaurant.
The guests dispersed themselves about the hall and the conservatory, whence the pianist had departed, forming small clusters amid much banter and fluttering of fans, and a magical golden dust seemed to descend on the entire gathering, setting each glance, each smile, each peal of laughter aglow with contagious euphoria.
Madame Verstraeten approached the young bride and whispered in her ear: was she not tired? Lili assured her she was not. She lay back in her cane chair and sniffed the wilting jasmine in her bouquet, rejoicing in the sight of so much celebration and laughter — and all of it in her honour, simply because she was marrying her Georges! She felt quite the little queen appearing before a cheering multitude, especially now that Paul’s loud voice had drawn everyone to the conservatory. Everyone crowded round to hear what he was saying to the bride and groom, and when he was finished he jokingly invited Léonie and Françoise to come and sit on his lap, one on each knee.