“Oh yes, the Des Luynes recommended me to some specialists in Paris, and they sounded and tapped me and knocked me about until I was tired of it; besides that, I was constantly under treatment of two regular doctors, but in the end I had enough of it. They did not cure me, while they told me I should always have to reside in a warm climate. But I could not remain vegetating all by myself in Algiers, or Heaven knows where, and Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels; so you see,” she concluded with a little nervous laugh, “I am a hopeless wreck in every way.”
The old lady pressed Eline’s head to her bosom, with the tears glistening in her eyes.
“’Tis a pity, because of the nice piano,” said Eline, releasing [[259]]herself from the old lady’s embrace and seating herself nervously at the piano. “What a full clear tone, how rich and beautiful!”
Her fingers glided quickly along the notes, the tones seemed to sob with grief at that voice that was lost. The old lady looked on sadly, she had nursed herself in the belief and hope that Eline would sing with Paul; that Paul, attracted and charmed by the music, would stay much at home in the evening; that a melodious sweet sociability would once more fill her lonely, silent rooms; but all she heard was the loud sob-like notes as they came from under Eline’s fingers, the weeping dew of a chromatic bravura, and the great running tears of painful staccatos.
“Yes, I shall practise my piano playing. I never was a great pianist, but I shall do what I can; you shall hear some music, dearie. What a tone, what a beautiful clear tone!”
And the clear, liquid notes followed one another as in a flowing torrent of grief.
In honour of Eline, Paul took care to be home for coffee. In the afternoon Madame Verstraeten came with Marie, and they were followed by Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself pleased to see them. A strange feeling came over Marie now that she heard and saw Eline once more; something of a fear it was, a misgiving, whether Eline would also discover any change in her; but Eline did not seem to notice anything, and talked on; she talked about her travels, about the cities she had visited, about the people she had seen, talked on continuously with nervous rapidity, the thoughts rushing closely one after another. She could not help it, it was the nervous state in which she existed just now, a nervousness that overmastered her wherever she might be, and ever kept her fingers in motion either crumpling up her handkerchief, plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, or swaying the tassels of her fauteuil backwards and forwards. Her elegant languor, her graceful calm of former days was completely gone.
About four o’clock the drawing-room door was opened, and Betsy entered, leading Ben by her hand. Eline rose and hurried towards her to hide her confusion under a show of cordiality. She embraced her sister impetuously, and fortunately Betsy found some appropriate words to say. Then Eline overwhelmed Ben with her kisses. He was a big boy for his five years, but in his eyes there was that undefinable, sleepy expression common to a [[260]]backward child. Still a happy memory seemed to steal over him, for his little lips opened into a glad smile, and round Eline’s neck he flung his little chubby arms and kissed her. After that neither of the sisters seemed to desire any very confidential conversation, and Betsy left, together with the Verstraetens and Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Both of them felt that no closer tie than one of mere conventionality bound them together. During the last eighteen months they had not seen each other, and now that they did meet it seemed to them as though they were strangers, who made a show of politeness and cordiality, saying all kinds of nice things, while a chill indifference filled their hearts.