But she continued to take stock of her new room, and her glance fell upon the Japanese box which Madame van Raat had placed on her writing table. She automatically tried to raise the lid, but found it locked. Beside it lay her old bunch of keys, the same collection of small keys on a silver ring that she had entrusted to Frans Ferelijn such a long time ago, and she took it up, picked out the key belonging to the Japanese box and opened it. The box was filled with letters, discoloured with age. Among them were letters from Aunt Vere, sent to her when she was at boarding school, and from old schoolmates. She resolved to tear up the latter as she no longer cared for the sentimental outpourings of schoolgirls whose existence she had forgotten, much as they had no doubt forgotten hers. She also found a batch of letters written by her beloved father, who had been such a wonderful man; those she kissed reverently, as though they were sacred. As she rifled through the sheets, a small oval-shaped piece of cardboard slipped out and fell to the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and turned deathly pale.
It was a medallion portrait of Otto.
What was it doing there among her letters? Then she remembered: it was a rejected proof of a portrait he had once ordered as a gift to her. The portrait itself, which she had kept with her at all times during her engagement, she had sent back to Otto along with the other presents he had given her — including the Bucchi fan — in a final, heartless gesture of rebuffal.
Moaning quietly as she wept, she pressed the portrait to her lips. The rejected proof, which she had never given another thought after it got lost among her old correspondence, was now dearer to her than anything else in the world, and she vowed that she would never part with it, not until the day she died! It was all that was left of her great happiness, the happiness that had slipped through her fingers like a captive bird bent on escape, leaving her with nothing but a stray feather!
‘Otto! Oh, Otto!’ she faltered, covering the oval card with tears and kisses.
. .
Madame van Raat sat for a while in the next room, her own bedchamber, tearfully shaking her head from side to side as she ruminated upon Eline’s plight.
How was it possible that she had known such lasting happiness with her husband, while poor dear Elly was so bereft? Being of devout mind, with the childlike piety of a simple heart, she was thankful for such goodness as she had received, and folded her wrinkled hands to say a prayer for her beloved, unhappy Eline.
. .
The next morning, when Eline had finished dressing, she opened the glass doors to the balcony and saw Madame van Raat among the rose bushes, wielding a pair of pruning scissors. Eline hurried downstairs to join her in the garden.
‘I am not too late, am I? I hope I haven’t kept you from your breakfast,’ she said sweetly. The old lady kissed her, telling her she could get up at whatever time she liked, and that she had waited with breakfast.
‘I can tell you have every intention of spoiling me! Oh dear, and then I shall become a burden to you eventually, I’m afraid. My, how pretty the garden looks! May I pick some flowers?’
Smiling her approval, Madame van Raat handed over the scissors and trailed after Eline as she sauntered along the beds, going up on tiptoe by the tall bushes to draw the blossoms towards her, snipping off sprays of the deep purple and creamy white lilac, the bright yellow laburnum, the snowy elder, while the glistening dewdrops rolled like bright diamonds over her fingers. It was a pity the jasmine was not yet in flower, she mused.
‘Do you have a vase? Then I shall make you a nice big bouquet, but I need more lilac blossom, lilacs above all. .’
The scissors flew through a large bush, the choicest of them all, and the purple-headed stems tumbled down on the dewy grass. She gathered them up and went into the house, where her hostess was already preparing their hot chocolate. Eline set about arranging the flowers in a large vase on the dresser.
‘Flowers work wonders to brighten up a room, don’t you agree?’ she exclaimed, taking a few steps back to consider the effect of her mixed bouquet.
Madame van Raat chided her gently for letting her chocolate go cold, and Eline sat down with a sigh. The previous evening the old lady had been struck by how restless Eline seemed, picking up objects and putting them down again, adjusting their position ever so slightly, darting furtive looks at the window, the door or the ceiling in what seemed like alarm, twitching her head, drumming her fingers on the table; all of this alternating with sudden fits of apathy, when she dropped into a chair and leant back with an air of utter exhaustion.
This morning, too, Eline was showing signs of nervousness, but at least she was drinking her cup of fragrant hot chocolate.
‘What will you have for breakfast, my child? A soft-boiled egg and a slice of bread?’
Eline smiled anxiously.
‘Oh, must I, dear lady? I’d rather not, to be honest. The chocolate is delicious, though.’
‘Elly, my pet, you must have some breakfast. You hardly ate a thing last night! Have a boiled egg then; just for my sake.’
Eline consented and Madame sliced the top off her egg for her as though indulging a child.
‘You really ought to eat more, Elly dear,’ she pursued. ‘You’re far too thin. Why, you almost look starved! We must get some weight on you. Plenty of milk, eggs and meat, that will do you good.’
Eline merely smiled and regarded her egg with slight revulsion, which she was unable to conceal. After a few tastes of the egg she pushed it away.
‘Please don’t be cross, but honestly, I can’t have any more. It doesn’t agree with me.’
She looked so miserable that the old lady abandoned further attempts to make her eat. In the end she consumed one rusk, just to appease her hostess: that would be quite enough, she insisted, and anyway she was not accustomed to having such an early breakfast.
‘What about Paul? Is he still asleep?’
‘Yes he is.’
Madame van Raat went on to say that Paul always breakfasted alone, or rather, that he skipped breakfast altogether most days, contenting himself with a cup of coffee; in fact, he gave her very little trouble, but then he did not give her much pleasure either.
‘Girls are so much easier to get on with than boys, aren’t they? Well, you could pretend that you have a daughter staying in your house!’ Eline said fondly. ‘Oh, do you remember suggesting — it was many moons ago — that I could come and live with you, and I said that you only loved me because you saw so little of me, but that you would find my presence irksome if you saw me every day. Do you remember?’
The old lady smiled vaguely, casting back her mind, but the memory escaped her.
‘Oh, I know exactly when it was! It was at Nassauplein, in the violet anteroom. Who would have thought I’d ever seek shelter with you? But I promise I shall try my best not to be a nuisance.’
She toyed nervously with an ornament dangling from her watch chain: a locket of black enamel studded with seed pearls which she had not worn for years. It had been a gift from her father for her tenth birthday, and when he died she had vowed never to wear it again, but this morning she had changed her mind. The locket now held the slip of cardboard she had found among her letters.
‘Dear lady,’ she began in a tremulous voice, taking Madame van Raat’s hand. ‘There is something I should like to ask you, if I may. It’s about Otto van Erlevoort — have you seen him at all lately, or have you heard from him?’
Madame van Raat looked intently at Eline, trying to read her mind, but could infer nothing from her feverish glances and fluttering hands.
‘Why do you ask, Elly?’
It was the first time that Otto’s name passed between them since Eline had broken off her engagement.
‘Oh, I’d just like to know whether he was much affected, and whether he is happy now. Do you never see him?’