Vincent leant back against the old red bench, and the lamp-light cast a yellowish reflection on his sallow features, and a care-worn expression formed about his mouth. Paul was struck by Vere’s remarkable resemblance to his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, as he lay back, and raised his arm behind his head, with a gesture such as he had frequently remarked in Eline.
A little later, some time after nine, Georges de Woude van Bergh and Etienne van Erlevoort came, the latter apologizing for his brother, who had been prevented from coming.
Otto felt no sympathy for Vincent, although he had never had any unpleasantness with him whatever; with his own practical, manly character never disturbed in its healthy equilibrium, with his hearty brusquerie, he could cherish no friendship towards a man who, in his opinion, gave himself completely over to a morbid, hyper-sensitiveness, without making the slightest effort to raise himself out of it. Otto was one of the few persons whom Vincent could not succeed in drawing towards him. Almost every one on coming into contact with him felt conscious of something that repelled even while it attracted; something like a sweet, alluring poison, like the overpowering fumes of opium. His continued travelling had given Vincent a good deal of knowledge of human nature, or rather of tact in dealing with all sorts of people, and he could, when he chose, assume any character to suit the circumstances, with the same ease as a serpent writhes itself into various coils, or as an actor interprets various rôles. But Otto, with an involuntary pride in his own healthy strength, which ever went straight at its object, despised Vincent, because of the poisonous fascination which he had the power to shed about him, and the seduction of which others were unable to resist.
Ere long a bluish smoke filled the room, Vincent having offered cigars round, although he himself did not smoke. He took a couple of bottles of St. Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and placed four glasses on the table. Etienne, with his usual spirits, sat relating story after story, with an amount of mimicry and gesture, [[92]]and a strong flavouring of youthful patois, that gave him somewhat the air of a singer at a café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed. But Vincent shrugged his shoulders, with a blasé smile, and as he filled the glasses muttered contemptuously, in his light voice—
“What a baby you are, Eetje, Eetje!”
Etienne, however, took no notice of the remark, and continued his stories, growing more and more spicy as he went on, whilst the others listened and enjoyed the bouquet of their wine. But Vincent could not resist the temptation to chaff him.
“What a naughty boy that young Erlevoort is to talk about such things, eh? What a sad dog!” he said, and the mocking laugh about his mouth was too encouraging that Etienne should desist.
Vincent once more filled the glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He had never very much to say when amongst young men; he generally gave himself up to quiet enjoyment. It was only for the society of ladies that he reserved all the sparkle of his brilliant wit. Vincent asked him one or two questions about his work at the ministry for foreign affairs.
“I suppose you will be attached to some legation or other one day?” he said.
“Very likely,” answered Georges.