Part 62 (1/2)

”Constance....”

”Let me speak to Van Naghel, I say!”

”Don't make a scene.”

”I shan't make a scene; but let me speak to Van Naghel. I see your husband is getting up: he has finished playing. Tell him I want to speak to him. Let Van der Welcke be present at our conversation. Paul, you must be there too....”

”But, Constance, why, why speak to him? I am so afraid Mamma will notice....”

”No, Mamma will see nothing. I want to give her as little pain as possible. But I must speak to your husband, in your presence and Van der Welcke's. I must, Bertha, and I will. Call your husband. And we'll go into the boudoir.”

She rose, trembling. She was shaking all over; and, as she almost fell where she stood, a sudden thought arose in her and paralyzed all her energies:

”Why am I talking like this, thinking like this, wis.h.i.+ng this? How small I am, how small my conduct is! Really, what does it all matter: people; and what they think; and what they write and say? Is that life? Is that all? Is there nothing else?...”

But another thought gave her fresh zest, fresh courage. She remembered the conversation which she had had with her husband a little while ago, she remembered his reproach that she was not thinking of her son, that she was doing nothing for her son, that she would let herself take root in the shade, continue to vegetate, in her disgrace, in her corner, withdrawn into herself, in her own rooms, would continue to sit ”cursing her luck” in her Kerkhoflaan. No, she felt fresh zest, fresh courage; and she almost pushed Bertha as she repeated:

”Call your husband.... Paul, will you please call Van der Welcke and ask him to come to the boudoir?...”

She could hardly walk, she was pale as a corpse; and her black eyes quivered. She went alone to the little boudoir. There was no one there.

Decanters, gla.s.ses, cakes and sandwiches were put out, as usual. She looked up at her father's portrait: Oh, what an ugly daub it seemed to her: hard, with the hard, expressionless eyes and all that false glitter on the yellow-and-white stars of the decorations! It stared at her like an implacable spectre, grim and unforgiving. It stared at her almost as though it wished to speak:

”Go. Go away. Go out of my house of honour, of greatness and decency.

Go. Go away. Go out of my town. Go away from me and mine. Go. It was you who murdered me. You caused my long illness, you caused my death, you, you! Go!”

The little room stifled her. She would have liked to run away, but Van der Welcke and Paul entered.

”What do you want to do, Constance?” asked Van der Welcke.

”To speak to Van Naghel.”

”Not an explanation?”

”I don't know. He's annoyed at my visit of Tuesday last.”

”Annoyed!” Van der Welcke seethed. ”Annoyed at your visit!”

”For G.o.d's sake, Van der Welcke!” cried Paul, terrified. ”Don't always fly out like that. Do remember....”

”Annoyed!” foamed Van der Welcke. ”Annoyed!”

”Henri, _please!_” cried Constance. ”I thank you for resenting the insult offered to your wife. But restrain yourself: he'll be here in a minute. Restrain yourself, for Addie's sake....”

”Restrain myself! Restrain myself!” shouted Van der Welcke, like a madman.

The door opened. Van Naghel and Bertha entered.

”Do you want to speak to me, Constance?” asked Van Naghel.

”I should very much like to speak to you for a moment, Van Naghel,” said Constance, while Paul made signs to Van der Welcke as though begging him to control himself. ”Bertha tells me that you are sorry that I called at your house on Tuesday, on her reception-day.”