‘Baronne van der Welcke,’ I replied. He flushed up and his wife nudged him, but after that they were very charming and amiable all the time I was at Nice. I saw a lot of them and, through their introduction, I went to a splendid ball at the Duc de Rivoli’s. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I wore a beautiful dress, I was in my element once more, I was a foreigner, everybody was very pleasant and I felt light-hearted again, quit of everything and everybody, and I thought to myself. …”
“Well, what did you think?”
“Oh, if only we had never gone back to Holland! If, when Brussels became so dull, we had just moved to a town like Nice. It’s delightful there. As a foreigner, you need have nothing to trouble about, you can do just as you like, know just whom you please. You feel so free, so free. … And why, I thought, must Addie become and remain a Dutchman? He could just as well be a Frenchman … or a cosmopolitan. …”
“Thank you, Mamma: I don’t feel like being a Frenchman, nor yet a cosmopolitan. And you’d better not say that to Uncle Gerrit, or you can look out for squalls.”
“Addie, I’ve met with so many squalls in my dear Holland that I feel like blowing away myself, away from everybody. …”
“Including your son?”
“No, my boy. I missed you. I thought of you every day. I am so glad to see you again. But I did think to myself that we should have done better never to come back to Holland.”
“Yes,” said Van der Welcke, thoughtfully.
“We could have lived at Nice, if we liked.”
“Yes,” Van der Welcke admitted, a little dubiously, “but you were longing for your family.”
She clenched her little hand and struck the table with it:
“And you!” she cried. “Didn’t you long for your parents, for your country?”
“But not so much as you did.”
“And who thought it necessary for Addie? I didn’t!” she exclaimed, in a shrill voice. “I didn’t for a moment! It was you!”
“Oh, d——,” said Addie, almost breaking into an oath. “My dearest parents, for Heaven’s sake don’t begin quarrelling at once, for I assure the two of you that, if you do, I’ll blow away and I’ll go to Nice … money or no money!”
Van der Welcke and Constance gave one roar and Addie joined in the laugh.
“Oh, that boy!” said Van der Welcke, choking with merriment. “That boy!”
Constance uttered a deep sigh:
“Oh, Addie!” she said. “Mamma does and says such strange things, sometimes … but she doesn’t mean them a bit. She’s really glad to be back again, in her horrid country … and in her own home, her dear cosy home … and with her son, her darling boy!”
And, throwing her arm round his neck, she let her head fall on his breast and she sobbed, sobbed aloud, so that Truitje, entering the room, started, but then, accustomed to these perpetual, inevitable scenes, quietly went on laying the dessert-plates.
Van der Welcke fiddled with his knife.
“Why can’t those two manage to get on better together?” thought Addie, sadly, while he comforted his mother and gently patted her shoulder. …
Chapter IV
“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 handmaid 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