1
Next evening, when Cecile entered the Van Attemas’ drawing-room, slowly with languorous steps, in the sinuous black of her crape, Dolf at once came to her and took her hand:
“I hope you won’t be annoyed. Quaerts called; and Dina had told the servants that we were at home. I’m sorry....”
“It doesn’t matter!” she whispered.
Nevertheless, she was a little irritated, in her sensitiveness, at unexpectedly meeting this stranger, whom she did not remember ever to have seen at Dolf’s and who now rose from where he had been sitting with Dolf’s great-aunt, old Mrs. Hoze, Amélie and the two daughters, Anna and Suzette. Cecile kissed the old lady and greeted the rest of the circle in turn, welcomed with a smile by all of them. Dolf introduced:
“My friend Taco Quaerts.... Mrs. van Even, my sister-in-law.”
They sat a little scattered round the great fire on the open hearth, the piano close to them in the corner, its draped back turned to them, and Jules, the youngest boy, sitting behind it, playing a romance by Rubinstein and so absorbed that he had not heard his aunt come in.
“Jules!...” Dolf called out.
“Leave him alone,” said Cecile.
The boy did not reply and went on playing. Cecile, across the piano, saw his tangled hair and his eyes abstracted in the music. A feebleness of melancholy slowly rose within her, like a burden, like a burden that climbed up her breast and stifled her breathing. From time to time, forte notes falling suddenly from Jules’ fingers gave her little shocks in her throat; and a strange feeling of uncertainty seemed winding her about as with vague meshes: a feeling not new to her, one in which she seemed no longer to possess herself, to be lost and wandering in search of herself, in which she did not know what she was thinking, nor what at this very moment she might say. Something melted in her brain, like a momentary weakness. Her head sank a little; and, without hearing distinctly, it seemed to her that once before she had heard this romance played so, exactly so, as Jules was now playing it, very, very long ago, in some former existence ages agone, in just the same circumstances, in this very circle of people, before this very fire.... The tongues of flame shot up with the same flickerings as from the logs of ages back; and Suzette blinked with the same expression which she had worn then on that former occasion....
Why was it that Cecile should be sitting here again now, in the midst of them all? Why was it necessary, to sit like this round a fire, listening to music? How strange it was and what strange things there were in this world!... Still, it was pleasant to be in this cosy company, so agreeably quiet, without many words, the music behind the piano dying away plaintively, until it suddenly stopped.
Mrs. Hoze’s voice had a ring of sympathy as she murmured in Cecile’s ear:
“So we are getting you back, dear? You are coming out of your shell again?”
Cecile pressed her hand, with a little laugh:
“But I never hid myself from you! I have always been in to you!”
“Yes, but we had to come to you. You always stayed at home, didn’t you?”
“You’re not angry with me, are you?”
“No, darling, of course not; you have had such a great sorrow.”
“Oh, I have still: I seem to have lost everything!”
How was it that she suddenly realized this? She never had that sense of loss in her own home, among the clouds of her day-dreams, but outside, among other people, she immediately felt that she had lost everything, everything....
“But you have your children.”
“Yes.”
She answered faintly, wearily, with a sense of loneliness, of terrible loneliness, like one floating aimlessly in space, borne upon thinnest air, in which her yearning arms groped in vain.
Mrs. Hoze stood up. Dolf came to take her into the other room, for whist.
“You too, Cecile?” he asked.
“No, you know I never touch a card!”
He did not press her; there were Quaerts and the girls to make up.
“What are you doing there, Jules?” he asked, glancing across the piano.
The boy had remained sitting there, forgotten. He now rose and appeared, tall, grown out of his strength, with strange eyes.
“What were you doing?”
“I ... I was looking for something ... a piece of music.”
“Don’t sit moping like that, my boy!” growled Dolf, kindly, with his deep voice. “What’s become of those cards again, Amélie?”
“I don’t know,” said his wife, looking about vaguely. “Where are the cards, Anna?”
“Aren’t they in the box with the counters?”
“No,” Dolf grumbled. “Nothing is ever where it ought to be.”
Anna got up, looked, found the cards in the drawer of a buhl cabinet. Amélie also had risen, stood arranging the music on the piano. She was for ever ordering things in her rooms and immediately forgetting where she had put them, tidying with her fingers and perfectly absent in her mind.
“Anna, come and draw a card too. You can play in the next rubber,” cried Dolf, from the other room.
The two sisters remained alone, with Jules.
The boy had sat down on a stool at Cecile’s feet:
“Mamma, do leave my music alone.”
Amélie sat down beside Cecile:
“Is Christie better?”
“He is a little livelier to-day.”
“I’m glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?”
“Really? He comes here so often.”
Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card-table. Two candles stood upon it. Mrs. Hoze’s pink face was lit up clearly, with its smooth and stately features; her hair gleamed silver-grey. Quaerts sat opposite her: Cecile noticed the round, vanishing silhouette of his head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above the glittering white streak of his collar. His arms made little movements as he threw down a card or gathered up a trick. His person had something about it of great power, something energetic and robust, something of every-day life, which Cecile disliked.
“Are the girls fond of cards?”
“Suzette is, Anna not so very: she’s not so brisk.”
Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, looking on with eyes which did not understand.
“Do you take them out much nowadays?” Cecile asked next.
“Yes, I have to. Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. Suzette will be a pretty girl, don’t you think?”
“Suzette’s an awful flirt!” said Jules. “At our last dinner-party....”
He stopped suddenly:
“No, I won’t tell you. It’s not right to tell tales, is it, Auntie?”
Cecile smiled:
“No, of course it’s not.”
“I want always to do what’s right.”
“That is very good.”
“No, no!” he said deprecatingly. “Everything seems to me so bad, do you know. Why is everything so bad, Auntie?”
“But there is much that is good too, Jules.”
He shook his head:
“No, no!” he repeated. “Everything is bad. Everything is very bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention something that’s not selfish!”
“Parents’ love for their children.”
But Jules shook his head again:
“Parents’ love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a part of their parents, who only love themselves when they love their children.”
“Jules!” cried Amélie. “Your remarks are always much too decided. You know I don’t like it: you are much too young to talk like that. One would think you knew everything!”
The boy was silent.
“And I always say that we never know anything. We never know anything, don’t you agree, Cecile? I, at least, never know anything, never....”
She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe of her chair, tidying. Cecile put her arm softly round Jules’ neck.