CHAPTER IX.
It was a few days after St. Nicholas’ Eve when Eline went out one afternoon, taking little Ben by the hand. The previous evening she had been, together with Madame Verstraeten, Marie, and Lili, to the opera, to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of a singing-master to accompany her in
“La nuit calme et sereine.”
He shook his head; he did not care for those bravura arias of the Italian school, about which Eline was often at variance with him; she thought Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi most graceful and melodious music, as though written for her ringing soprano. He on the other hand considered them childish with their rippling airy little tunes, and was never tired of dwelling upon the richer depth of Wagner. But she had him completely under her thumb, and he played whatever she wished him to.
“Come, Ben, walk properly, there’s a good child!” said Eline to the sturdy little chap. “Come, keep up with auntie. Isn’t it nice to go into all the nice shops?”
Last evening, when at the opera, during the cavatina of the Comte de Luna, Eline had an idea rising in her mind. In the window of a photographer’s she had noticed some portraits of Fabrice in various characters and dresses, and a sudden desire overtook her to possess one. So now she was on her way to buy one of the portraits. And she smiled to herself as though she enjoyed the secret pleasure of it, as she pictured him with his big heavy frame, his fine head of hair, and his black beard. How glorious to be an actor! [[84]]
From Fabrice her thoughts wandered back to her new fan, which she had used last evening. Betsy thought she had acted very foolishly in taking it with her before she knew the giver, but she had taken no notice of her sister’s objections; on the contrary, she thought there was something fascinating in that uncertainty which had a peculiar attraction for her romantic nature; indeed she had already formed quite a little romance for herself out of the little incident. Fabrice had noticed her in the Verstraetens’ box; he was quite captivated by her; in future it was only to her that he sang, and his heart was filled with disappointment whenever he did not see her at the opera. It was he who had sent her the fan with its modest superscription, “Mdlle. E. Vere”; he had seen her use the fan last night, and one time or other he would be sure to betray himself by a glance or a certain note in his song.
She smiled at her own romancing, at the wildness of her fantasy. She remembered last summer at the picture academy to have seen several fans by Bucchi, and now she also recollected with what admiration she had gazed at them, and how she had expressed the desire to possess one. Who could have had the delicate attention to meet her in that desire? With whom had she been to that exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, with Georges perhaps—surely Georges could not have—or her dancing-master, who had proposed to her, but whom she had refused? Oh! it was too stupid; no, she would think no more about it—one day she would know.
By way of the Parkstraat and the Oranjestraat she had reached the Noordeinde and was close to the picture-shop, when all at once the thought struck her—would not the shopkeeper think it absurd for a young girl to purchase such a portrait? No; she would never summon up courage. But already she stood before the window, behind which masses of engravings, photographs, groups of statuettes in marble and terra-cotta, and numbers of various objects of art were displayed in elegant confusion; actors and actresses, singers and painters, with their names attached: Estelle Desveaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice.
“Come, Ben,” she said, and gently pushed the child inside. There were some ladies in the shop, selecting photographs, and they looked at her. She could not help it, but really she thought she blushed under her white tulle fall.