"And shall Mamma show you what she looked like at the Duc de Rivoli's?"
Dinner was over and she was sitting by her open trunk, while Truitje helped her unpack and put the things away.
"I had my photograph taken at Nice. But first here's a work-box for Truitje, with Nice violets on it. Look, Truitje: it's palm-wood inlaid; a present for you. And here's one for cook."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"
"And for my wise son I hunted all over Nice for a souvenir and found nothing, for I was afraid of bringing you something not serious enough for your patriarchal tastes; and so I had myself photographed for you. There: the last frivolous portrait of your mother."
She took the photograph from its envelope: it showed her at full-length, standing, in her ball-dress; a photograph taken with a great deal of artistry and chic, but too young, too much touched up, with a little too much pose about the hair, the fan, the train.
He looked at her with a smile.
"Well, what do you think of it?" she asked.
"What a bundle of vanity you are, Mamma!"
"Don't you like it? Then give it back at once."
"Why, no, Mummy: I think it awfully jolly to have a photograph of you . . ."
"Of my last mad mood. Now your mother is really going to grow old, my boy. Upon my word, I believe Truitje admires my portrait more than my son does! . . ."
"Oh, ma'am, I think it's splendid!"
"How many did you have done, Mummy?"
"Six. One for Granny, one for Uncle Gerrit, one for Uncle Paul, one for you, one for myself . . ."
"And one for Papa."
"Oh, Papa owns the original!"
"No, give your husband one."
"Henri!" she called.
He came in.
"Here's a portrait of your wife."
"Lovely!" he exclaimed. "That's awfully good! Thanks very much."
"Glad you like it. My husband and my hand-maid are satisfied, at any rate. My son thinks me a bundle of vanity . . . Oh, how glad I am to be back! . . . Here's the ball-dress. We'll put it away to-morrow. I shall never wear the thing again. A dress that cost six hundred francs for one wearing. Now we'll be old again and economical."
They all laughed, including Truitje.
"Oh, how glad I am to be back! . . . My own room, my own cupboards . . . Truitje, what did you give your masters to eat?"
"Well, just what you used to, ma'am! . . ."
"So it was all right? I wasn't missed? . . ."
"Oh, but you mustn't go away for so long again, ma'am!" said Truitje, in alarm.
Constance laughed and stretched herself out on her sofa, glad to be home. Van der Welcke left the room with his photograph, Truitje with her work-box.
"Come here, Addie. Papa has had you for seven weeks. Now you belong to me . . . for an indefinite period."
She drew him down beside her, took his hands. It struck him that she looked tired, more like her years, not like her photograph; and, his mind travelling swiftly to his father, he thought his father so young, outwardly a young man and inwardly sometimes a child: Ottocar in a motor-car . . .
"It's strange, Addie," she said, softly, "that you are only fourteen: you always seem to me at least twenty. And I think it strange also that I should have such a big son. So everything is strange. And your mother herself, my boy, is the strangest of all. If you ask me honestly if I like being 'vain,' I mean, taking part in social frivolities, I shouldn't know what to answer. I certainly used to enjoy it in the old days; and, a fortnight ago, I admit I looked upon it as a sort of youth that comes over one again; but really it all means nothing: just a little brilliancy; and then you feel so tired and empty . . . and so discontented . . ."
She stopped suddenly, not caring to say more, and looked at the photograph, now lying on a table beside her. It made her laugh again; and at the same time a tear trembled on her lashes. And she did not know if it gave her a peaceful feeling to be growing old . . . or if she regretted it. It was as though the sun of Nice had imbued her with a strange, dull melancholy which she herself did not understand.
"To live!" she thought. "I have never lived. I would so gladly live once . . . just once. To live! But not like this . . . in a dress that cost six hundred francs. I know that, I know all about it: it is just a momentary brilliancy and then nothing . . . To live! I should like to live . . . really . . . truly. There must be something. But it is a mad wish. I am too old. I am growing old, I am becoming an old woman . . . To live! I have never lived . . . I have been in the world, as a woman of the world; I spoilt that life; then I hid myself . . . I was so anxious to come back to my country and my family; and it all meant nothing but a little show and illusion . . . and a great deal of disappointment. And so the days were wasted, one after the other, and I . . . have . . . never . . . lived . . . just as I throw away my money, so I have thrown away my days. Perhaps I have squandered all my days . . . for nothing. Oh, I oughtn't to feel like this! What does it mean when I do? What am I regretting? What is there left for me? At Nice, I thought for a moment of joining in that feminine revolt against approaching age; and I did join in it; and I succeeded. But what does it all mean and what is the use of it? It only means shining a little longer, for nothing; but it does not mean living . . . But to long for it doesn't mean anything either, for there is nothing for me now but to grow old, in my home; and, even if I am not exactly among my people, my brothers and sisters, at any rate I have my mother . . . and, perhaps for quite a long time still, my son too . . ."
"Mummy . . . what are you thinking about so deeply?"
But she smiled, said nothing, looked earnestly at him:
"He's much fonder of his father," she thought. "I know it, but it can't be helped. I must put up with it and accept what he gives me."
"Come, Mummy, what are you thinking about?"
"Lots of things, my boy . . . and perhaps nothing . . . Mamma feels so lonely . . . with no one about her . . . except you . . ."
He started, struck by what she had said: it was almost the same words that his father had used that afternoon.
"My boy, will you always stay with me? You won't go away, like everybody? . . ."
"Come, Mummy, you've got Granny and Uncle Gerrit and Uncle Paul."
"Yes, they are nice," she said, softly.
And she thought:
"I shall lose him, later, when he's grown up . . . I know that I shall lose him . . ."
It made her feel very weak and helpless; and she began to cry . . .
He knelt down beside her and, in a stern voice, forbade her to be so excitable, forbade her to cry about nothing . . .
It was heavenly to have him laying down the law like that. And she thought:
"I shall lose him, when he's grown up . . . Oh, let me be thankful that I have him still! . . ."
Then, tired out, she went to sleep; and he left her, thinking to himself:
"They both feel the same thing!"