Eline Vere Read Free

course,’ said Cateau.
    â€˜Of course you can’t! It’s very lovely; I have never seen anything more poetic. But aren’t you supposed to be taking part yourself, Cateau?’
    â€˜Yes I am, but only in the final scene, together with Etienne van Erlevoort. I should be off now, to change into my costume.’
    She hopped down from her chair. The light flickered, the sliding doors closed. There was a clatter of applause, after which the white vision of foaming gauze reappeared; an angel now leant over the cross, extending an arm to raise the hapless maiden swooning at the base.
    There was more applause, louder this time.
    â€˜Of course Marie won’t be able to keep a straight face,’ said Emilie with a toss of her head. ‘She’ll burst out laughing any moment now.’
    And sure enough, a tremor of unseemly mirth was seen to be hovering about the lips of the angel, whose soulful expression acquired a somewhat comical cast beneath a pair of nervously raised eyebrows.
    . . .
    Although everyone could see that the artistes were tired, since none of them were able to keep perfectly still, the final tableau was received with great jubilation. Four or five encores were demanded. It was an allegory of the five senses, enacted by the four girls, all of whom were richly draped in heavy fabrics – cloth of gold and silver, brocade and ermine – and by Etienne, the youngest of Frédérique’s brothers, who was garbed as a minstrel in personification of Hearing.
    Then it was all over.
    Due to the long intervals between the tableaux it was now two o’clock, and the guests gravitated towards the host and hostess to take their leave.
    â€˜Will you stay to supper with Cateau?’ Madame Verstraeten murmured to Madame van der Stoor. ‘Nothing formal, you know.’
    But Madame van der Stoor deemed the hour too late; she would go as soon as her daughter was ready.
    The artistes, having changed as quickly as they could, repaired to the salon, where they received congratulations on their acting skills and good taste from the last departing guests. In the meantime a triumphal march could be heard being played on the piano by Emilie, who, being a close friend of the family, would stay to supper along with Henk and Betsy.
    â€˜But you’ll be coming tomorrow afternoon, won’t you, Cateau? The photographer will be here at two!’ called Marie.
    The following day was Thursday; Cateau would not be going to school in order that she might rest, and she promised to be there at two o’clock.
    The fatigued artistes sat sprawled in the easy chairs of the spacious conservatory, where a light repast was laid out – turkey, salad, cake and champagne.
    â€˜Which one was the best? Which did you like most?’ they clamoured.
    Opinions were compared and contrasted, booed and cheered, amid the general clatter of plates, forks and spoons and the clinking of glasses filled to the brim and rapidly emptied.

II
    At half-past two the Van Raats made their way homeward to Nassauplein. All was quiet at the house, the servants having gone to bed. As Henk slipped his key back into his pocket and drew the bolt across the front door, Betsy was reminded of her rosy little boy upstairs in his white crib, asleep with bunched fists. She took the candle from the newel post and started up the stairs, while her husband stepped into the dining room with the newspapers. The gas light was on, tempered to a wan glow from a small, fan-shaped flame.
    Betsy’s dressing room was likewise illuminated. She turned the knob, causing the light to flare up brightly, and drew her fur wrap off her shoulders. In the small grate a flame leapt upwards like the fiery tongue of a heraldic lion. There was something soothing about the room, something reminiscent of a warm bath and the sweet perfume of Parma violets. For a moment she stood over the white crib in the darkened adjoining nursery, then returned and with