He had never quite understood her, not even in the old days. In the old days, as a young officer, he had seen in her a fine girl, a delicious girl, of whom he had been madly enamoured. He had never understood her eyes, never understood her soul; but formerly he had not thought so very much about those eyes and that soul, because in those days he didn't know much about himself either, did not know what he knew now. In those days, he only now and then had a vague glimpse of his own latent sentimentality: to-day, he knew that sentimentality to be there most positively, as a blue background to his soul. And he was so much afraid of that sentimentality, so much afraid lest he should miss the truth, the naked, mocking reality of that courtesan's soul, so much afraid lest he should make it out to be finer than it really was, kinder above all and gentler and more tender, that he could never speak to her without abusing her or swearing at her, his voice as rough as if he were roaring at one of his hussars.
"I mustn't let myself be put upon by her . . . or by myself either," he constantly reflected.
And he kept on his guard. Add to that a vague resentment, at not having been able to keep away from her, at having gone to see her in her room; a vague resentment at the thought of his home, of his children, of all that he went back to when he left her room. The way you got used to anything, he would reflect! Now, when he had been to her, he would put his latchkey calmly into his front-door, without feeling his heart beating with nervousness, would undress calmly, would walk into the room where Adeline lay in bed! The way you got used to everything and by degrees came to do things which at first you thought rotten! You did it because you couldn't very well help it . . . and also because your ideas about things, day by day, as you did it, slumbered away into a feeling that you weren't responsible, that it was no use resisting what had got such a hold of you. . . . Nevertheless, when he was with her, he always felt that resentment keenly: it did not slumber away. . . . At Pauline's, he had a keen apprehension of being still more imposed upon, of seeing kindness and charming tenderness in that girl, whereas of course she was nothing but a courtesan who meant to get money out of him. And then, in her small, shabby room, he would roar at her and ask:
"Look here, why can't you leave me alone?"
Her golden eyes gleamed; and he read a secret mockery in them. No, mark you, he'd take jolly good care that his sentimentality didn't make him see her as a chocolate-box picture! You only had to look at her eyes!
"But, Gerrit," she said, nestling at his feet, "I never ran after you! I met you by accident, really by accident, I assure you. Don't you remember? Yes, once when I was driving: that was the first time; then near the Alexander Barracks . . ."
"But what were you doing near the barracks, damn it?"
She looked at him coaxingly, stroked him caressingly:
"Oh, well . . . I thought . . . !"
"There, you see! . . . You thought . . . !"
"Yes, you won't believe me. . . . Even towards the end . . . in Paris, Gerrit . . ."
"Well?"
"I used to think of you sometimes."
"Oh, rot, you're lying! . . . Do you think I believe you?"
"No, you don't believe me, but, Gerrit . . . I assure you . . . men are beasts . . . and you . . ."
"Oh, yes, you tell everybody that: do you imagine I don't see through it?"
Then she laughed merrily; and he laughed too.
"I'm laughing," she said, "because you're pretending to be so cynical. . . . Tell me, Gerrit, why do you pretend to be so cynical?"
"I?"
"Yes, you: why do you do it? You're putting it on, aren't you, on purpose?"
"Purpose be blowed! . . . If you think I'm going to be taken in by all your pretty speeches! . . . If you come to me with pretty speeches, it's because you want money and I've . . . . I've told you, I haven't any. . . ."
"But, Gerrit, I don't ask you for money . . . and I'm not getting any from you either. . . ."
He flushed, a deep glow overspreading his red, sunburnt face and the white neck on which the tight collar of his uniform had left a plainly-visible line. What she said was quite true: she asked for no money and he gave her no money. He had none to give her.
"Now let me tell you," she said, nestling still closer against his knees. "You see, in Paris, towards the end, I got the blues badly. . . . You understand, Gerrit, don't you, one has enough of the life sometimes . . . and a fit like that isn't very cheerful?"
"Oh, rot!" he said, gruffly. "And you, who are always laughing!"
"I'm always laughing?"
"Yes, you, with those eyes of yours, those eyes which are always laughing."
"That's my eyes, Gerrit: I can't help it if they laugh."
"And you want to make me believe that you get fits of the blues?"
"Well, why shouldn't I?"
"Very likely. But you're not the sort . . ."
"To what?"
"To sit moping for long."
"Well, I didn't. I came to Holland."
"Weren't you doing well in Paris?"
"Not quite so well, perhaps," she said, hesitating between her vanity and certain strange feelings which she did not clearly realize.
"So that's why you came to Holland!"
"I might have gone to London."
"To London?"
"And from there to Berlin."
"Berlin?"
"And then to St. Petersburg."
"Look here, what are you talking about?"
"And next to Constantinople."
"Oh, shut up!"
"And do you know where we finish?"
"What do you mean, finish?"
"At Singapore. You know that's the regular tour."
"Oh, well . . . I've heard it; but that's nonsense."
"So many of us go on that tour. It's not a circular tour, Gerrit. It doesn't bring you back . . . to Paris."
"What a queer way you have of saying those things!" said Gerrit, laughing uncomfortably. "You were always a strange girl. Tell me, your father . . . was a waiter, wasn't he?"
"No, a gentleman. My mother was a laundress . . . in Brussels."
"And those twelve years of yours in Paris . . ."
"Made me into a Parisian, you think? . . . Gerrit, I longed for Holland!"
"I'll never believe that."
"Yes, Gerrit, I longed, for Holland."
"You're a great liar . . . with those eyes of yours! I never believe a word you say."
"Gerrit . . . and for you!"
"What's that?"
"I longed for you."
"Yes, of course. Tell that to the marines."
"I remembered the old days . . ."
"Oh, drop it!"
"Don't you know, when . . ."
"Yes, yes, I know everything. Stow all that, you and your recollections! You've taken me in enough, as it is. Why don't you look out for a young, rich chap?"
"You're not old, Gerrit."
"Oh, I'm not old!"
"No. I am. I've grown older, haven't I, Gerrit?"
"Your eyes haven't."
"But the rest of me?"
"Yes, of course. . . . You have grown older. . . ."
"Gerrit, I don't want to get old. . . . I think it terrible to get old. . . . Am I still pretty and . . . ?"
"Yes, yes, yes. . . ."
"But, very soon, I shall . . ."
"You'll what?"
"I shall be plain . . . and old."
"Oh, don't sit there bothering!"
"I'm very fond of you, Gerrit. You're so . . ."
"Yes, I know what you're going to say. I'm off now. . . ."
"Must you go? . . . I say, Gerrit, you have children, haven't you? I expect they're charming children."
He seemed to see mockery in the gleaming eyes.
"You drop it about my children, will you?"
"Mayn't I ask after them?"
"No."
"I saw them out walking the other day."
"Shut up!"
"I thought them so charming."
He swore at her, roughly and hoarsely:
"Shut up, blast it, can't you?"
"Very well. . . . Are you going?"
"Yes."
He was outside the door.
"Are you cross with me?"
"No, but this talkee-talkee bores me. That's not what I come to you for. . . ."
"No, I know you don't. . . . But, still, you can't mind my talking to you sometimes, Gerrit? . . ."
"Very likely, but not such twaddle. And I won't have you mention my children."
"I won't do it again. Good-bye, Gerrit."
"Good-night."
He looked round, in the passage, and nodded to her. In the dim light of the room, he saw her standing, framed in the half-open doorway; she stood there, a handsome, slender, willowy figure, in a shimmer of dull gold: the light, the yellow tea-gown, the touches of gold lace round the very white neck, the strange gold hair round the powdered white face and, under the sharp line of the eyebrows, the golden eyes, with a golden gleam. Her voice, all the evening, had sounded very soft and coaxing in his ears, as though crooning a plaintive song, of youth, of memories, of the past, of longing for her native country . . . and for him: all unnatural and impossible things in her, things which he only heard in her voice because of his confounded sentimentality, a sentimentality which, however deeply it might be hidden from everybody else, was clearly perceptible to himself. . . .
And, outside, he thought:
"I must be careful with that girl. . . . She is as dangerous as can be . . . to me. . . ."