She prattled on, holding her wine glass all the while and pausing only to raise it to her lips for another sip. She spoke of Eliza, her young aunt, who was adorable, so lively and gay, always on the go, always thinking up amusing things for them to do. She and Uncle Daniel seemed to disagree about practically everything — oh, how they squabbled! — but they did so in such a funny way that it was quite hilarious, really. Eliza’s relatives in Paris were very nice, too, but she also had an uncle and aunt in Bordeaux, who were quite, quite delightful. Their name was Des Luynes and they owned a chateau, where she, Eline, had been invited to attend the grape festival; such a pretty pastoral scene it had been, which reminded her of something she had read in a novel, a novel by Georges Sand, she believed; wasn’t it Georges Sand who wrote La Petite Fadette? Well, then! And Spain, oh, she was mad about Spain, especially the South with all those Moorish influences, like the Alhambra in Granada — it was magnificent! But she had refused to go to a bullfight, which Eliza had thought ridiculous of her, but she couldn’t stand the idea of those poor bulls lying in pools of blood, it was simply too horrid.
Paul laughed, saying he agreed about the pitiful bulls, and she laughed too as she embarked on yet another topic. Again Madame van Raat begged her to eat some more, since she had hardly touched her food.
‘No, really, dear lady; thank you but no. I am rather thirsty, though; may I have another glass?’
‘My dear, are you sure you aren’t drinking a little too much?’
‘Oh no, it helps me sleep, you know — otherwise I lie awake all night long, which is such a bore. Cordoba is a lovely town, too, the mosque there is quite superb,’ and off she was again, on yet another nervous stream of delightful reminiscences of her wanderings. She could not imagine why Paul did not travel more; had she been a man, especially a young man of means like him, she would still be roaming even now; she would have travelled far and wide, on the Great Pacific, for instance, from New York all the way to San Francisco, and then across the Pacific Ocean to Japan — halfway across the world by ship! How divine that would be! But travelling in a railway carriage was divine, too: she wouldn’t mind living in one!
The old lady shook her head, smiling indulgently at Eline’s excitement.
‘But coming to live here with you is the best thing of all! Oh, you’re such a darling, such an angel!’ Eline cried out ecstatically.
After supper Madame van Raat urged Eline to rest a while in her room. Eline said she would, but held back, pleading with her to keep her company. Paul said that he had an appointment and Henk, too, stood up to take his leave.
‘May Betsy come and see you tomorrow?’ he whispered anxiously. She gave a faint smile and pressed his hand.
‘By all means!’ she said. ‘Give her a kiss from me, will you? And how is little Ben? Has he grown much?’
‘Yes indeed, he’s a big boy now. You will see him tomorrow, no doubt. Goodbye for now, then, Elly. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, Henk. Till tomorrow.’
When Henk had gone his mother offered to show Eline her room.
‘I am afraid that I cannot give you a sitting room of your own for the moment, Elly dear,’ she said as they climbed the stairs. ‘Not until Paul leaves, that is.’
‘Where is he planning to go?’
‘He wants to live independently, which is better for a young man, I suppose. But your bedroom is quite large; you probably remember it — the room next to mine.’
‘Yes I do remember. What a lovely room!’
The lamps had been lit by Leentje and the doors to the balcony were open to admit the cool summer air. Eline began to cough as she entered.
‘It’s getting a little chilly,’ said Madame, and moved to shut the doors.
Eline glanced about her in deep astonishment, and her eyes grew moist. ‘Good gracious! Whatever have you done?’ she cried.
Wherever she looked there were mementoes of her rooms at Nassauplein. Her very own dressing table with the mirror, her writing table, her couch, her Venetian pier glass, and over there, in tasteful profusion, stood her figurines and other trinkets. The only item that was new was the ample bedstead, over which dark-blue curtains were suspended like a canopy jutting from the wall.
‘Do you approve?’ asked Madame van Raat. ‘I thought you would like your own things best. But my dear child, why are you crying?’
Eline clung to her, weeping on her shoulder and kissing her again and again. Madame van Raat made her sit on the couch beside her, and Eline nestled up against her like a child seeking comfort from its mother.
‘Oh, at last, I shall be able to get some rest!’ she said wearily. ‘Because I am so tired, so very tired.’
‘Shall I leave you alone then, so you can take a nap?’
‘No, no, please don’t leave me. I’m not tired from spending five hours on a train, I’m just tired. . tired of everything, and going to sleep now won’t help. But I feel so much better already, just sitting here close to you, because I know you care for me. You see, this is what I missed so dreadfully while I was away, with all those strangers for company and no one to lean on and comfort me with a kind word. People were friendly and considerate, but cool at the same time. Uncle Daniel is like that too: amiable and considerate to the point of gallantry, but rather cold. I got on quite well with Eliza, who is very gay, so we laughed and joked a great deal, but she is a cold sort of person, too, cynical even. And there I was, on my best behaviour and permanently wreathed in smiles, because no one likes a guest with a long face, do they? Besides, where else could I go?’
‘You could have come to me, my child; I would have written to you earlier had I known of your feelings. I thought you were happy over there.’
‘Happy!’ Eline gave a hollow laugh. ‘As happy as a horse on its last legs, having to be whipped to make it go! Giddy-up, giddy-up!’
Her laughter speared the old lady’s heart. Too moved to speak, her bleary eyes aglitter with fresh tears, and she could only press Eline closer to her breast.
‘Yes, hold me fast,’ murmured Eline. ‘Now I can relax. . Oh, you’re such a comfort to me, like a darling mama of my very own.’
They remained thus for a long moment, saying very little, until Madame van Raat said Eline should try to get some to sleep.
‘If you want anything, just call me; I shall be in the next room. I want you to be entirely at home here, so please don’t be too discreet. That would pain me. So if there is anything you need, you will say so, won’t you?’
Eline promised she would, and Madame van Raat left the room. But Eline still felt too restless to go to bed. She let her eyes drift about the room, and wherever she looked she recognised her own vases, pictures, and photographs.
‘How very kind of her,’ she murmured under her breath, smiling wistfully. The nervous agitation in her soul seemed to ebb away into a comforting sense of relief and well-being, for she felt safe among the relics of her former life. She rose from the couch to wander about, pausing to trace her finger along her treasured terracotta and biscuit figurines, touching a photograph here and a trinket there. Each beloved object awakened a host of memories and associations in her mind, some like scented flowers, others like painful, scorching sparks, and suddenly it came to her that the time she had spent abroad had not passed quickly at all, that it had been a full year-and-a-half, and that the last time she had set eyes on any of these things had been on that terrible night when she had run away and sought refuge at Jeanne Ferelijn’s house.