Free Eline Vere by Louis Couperus Page B

acts; having to sit out a whole opera bores me to tears, I don’t mind telling you,’ said Betsy, yawning.
    Georges began to hum the refrain: ‘
Debout, enfants de l’Ibérie!
’
    The De Woudes were dropped off at Noordeinde, after which Betsy and Eline rode homeward in the landau, snugly ensconced in the cushions of satin damask. They talked a little about Vincent and then both fell silent, while Eline’s thoughts floated to the joyful waltz in
Mireille
, to her spat with Betsy about the maids, to the tableau of the five senses, to Madame van Raat and Emily and Georges, to her pink dress . . . and to Ben-Saïd.

V
    About a week had gone by since the tableaux vivants; it was afternoon, and Lili Verstraeten seated herself in the drawing room, where they had been staged. The room had long since reverted to its normal arrangement, and a cheerful fire burnt in the grate. Outside it was cold; a strong wind was blowing, and rain seemed imminent. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van Erlevoort, but Lili had chosen to stay at home, and now settled back comfortably in her favourite armchair, which was old-fashioned and ample, with a tapestry cover. She had Victor Hugo’s
Notre Dame de Paris
with her, but was not really in the mood for reading, so the book, bound in red calf with gilt edges, lay unopened on her lap. How pleasant it was to do nothing but muse and dream, and how silly of Marie and Freddie to go out in this horrid weather! But it was no concern of hers, she was oblivious to the wind and the rain, for indoors it was as cosy as could be, with the subdued, wintry light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. Dien had come in to tie them back, but she had sent her away. Papa was in the conservatory, reading by the window; she could just see the top of his dear grey head, and she noted how rapidly he turned the pages – he was clearly engrossed in his book, unlike her, who had brought hers along for show. She was never bored, even when she was idle. On the contrary, she would sit back and enjoy the notions drifting into her mind: rose petals wafting on a gentle breeze, soap bubbles, fragile and iridescent, which she would watch contentedly as they rose up in the air; then the petals would blow away and the bubbles would burst, but no matter, shewould much rather have rose petals for thoughts than smothering tendrils of ivy, and rather a soap bubble than a balloon on the end of a string. Mama was still upstairs attending to numerous household duties. Ah well, she couldn’t be of any help: Mama always insisted on doing everything herself, although Marie did her share as well. She hoped there would be no callers this afternoon; all she wanted to do was daydream, what could be more delightful than that? How fascinating it was to watch the flames curling and twisting around the glowing embers! The hearth was a vision of hell in miniature, the burning peat suggesting great boulders between which yawned chasms filled with fire and brimstone – it was like Dante’s inferno, with the damned gathered together on the precipices, shuddering at the sight of the flames! Smiling at her wild imaginings, she averted her eyes, which prickled from staring into the hellish blaze. It was only last week that they had all taken their poses in this very room, before the eyes of their enthusiastic friends and relations. How different everything had looked then! Now the painted scenery, the lyres, the cross and all the other bits and pieces had been removed to the attic for storage; all the costumes had been carefully folded and put away in boxes by Dien. It had been so jolly, what with all the planning and conferring with Paul and Etienne beforehand, the choosing of the subjects for the tableaux, the costumes, and then the rehearsals, with Paul having to demonstrate each pose in turn! How many times hadn’t they collapsed with hilarity, how much effort hadn’t they put in for the