There had been a concert of the Diligentia Society at the Hall of Arts and Sciences, and at her request, Henk and Betsy had accompanied her there. Fabrice was to sing; “the popular baritone of the French Opera had been invited to gather fresh laurels at the concerts in the Hall,” so ran the paragraph in Het Vaderland.
Eline did not rest until she was certain of going; at first she had asked the Verstraetens; Madame Verstraeten did not feel inclined, Lili was still ill; then she asked Emilie—Emilie had an engagement; at last she came to Henk and Betsy, who, although neither of them were much in love with concerts, agreed to go. And Eline had expected great things in seeing Fabrice in a new sphere, that of a concert-singer. Fortunately enough, their seats were close to the stage; he—oh! he must have noticed her at the opera, he would give her a sign, he loved her—the Bucchi fan! And so Eline went on, creating endless illusions; her passion filled her mind, more and more with a second, imaginary, fantastic existence, in which Fabrice and she were the hero and heroine; a romance of improbabilities and a constantly growing web of poetical extravagance. [[130]]
He thought her beautiful, he worshipped her, they would fly, sing on the stage, and through poverty and privation pass on to fame and fortune. A feverish rapture at the thought that she would once more see him diffused a light pink tint over the amber pallor of her features, her eyes had sparkled in the veiled glow of her languishing glances; and—They had gone, she had taken her seat, resplendent with a beauty that had drawn glass after glass towards her, and the first notes of the symphony sounded in her ears as the soft strains of a hymn, laden with joyful whisperings of love and happiness. Then—then he appeared, amid a thunder of applause.
And just now, whilst Eline was vacantly staring into the mirror in front of her, she once more pictured him as he appeared on the concert platform.
Clumsily, like a stout carpenter, in a dress-coat that seemed too tight for him, his short crisp hair greasy and slimy with cosmétique, plastered down upon his cheeks, his face as red as a lobster, in contrast to the spotless white of his shirt-front, he presented a coarse and prosy appearance, with a disagreeably sullen expression about his bearded mouth and in his blinking, half-closed eyes, shaded by thick, bushy eyebrows. And it seemed to Eline as though it were the first time she saw him. All the charm with which he, in his talented vivid acting, in the brilliant dresses which displayed his figure to the greatest advantage, had exerted over her, was now dispelled as by one strong gust of wind; and though his voice resounded with the same splendid metallic ring which had filled her with rapture at the opera, she was scarcely aware that he was singing, shocked as she was at her gigantic mistake.
Had she then had no eyes? What! that prosy carpenter the ideal of her fantastic brain! In her despair and disappointment she could have sobbed with chagrin, but not a feature moved, and she remained sitting immovable, almost stiff; but a light shudder ran through her, as she drew the cloak about her shoulders. As long as he sang she looked at him from top to toe, as though she would no longer spare herself, and her breath came and went quick with agitation now that she plunged into the depths of her sorrow without being able to give vent to it. Why had she not seen him thus when she met him in the Bosch, in his cape, with his muffler and his big felt, that gave him a romantic appearance, something of an Italian brigand? Had she indeed so far forgotten herself? Shuddering, she glanced round the room. No one [[131]]seemed to notice her, no one suspected the storm of disappointment that raged within her; Fabrice absorbed the attention of all. Fortunately none knew, none would know.
But the thought that she was safe from the eye of the world gave her no comfort. Before her lay the shattered ruins of the airy, glass edifice of her tender visions and fancies, which, pillar by pillar, light and delicate, she had erected for herself, glittering and fair, higher and higher still, in fantastic crystal splendour, ever higher, higher, until as with an apotheosis it seemed to reach the very clouds.
And now, all was shattered, all visions and fancies of the brain were vanished, dispelled as by one gust of wind, and not even a chaos was left of it all, only a terrible vacuum, only that man there, with his red butcher’s face and his white shirt, and his tight-fitting coat and grease-beplastered hair.
Never had she suffered as she suffered that evening.
For three long months that romance of love had caused her heart to beat each time his name was pronounced in her presence, each time she saw his name announced on a placard, and now—one glance at that (Vincent’s words re-echoed in her ears, full of mockery and derision) “stout ugly customer” tore that romance out of her soul, and all—all was gone.