"Emilie," she said, wearily.

"Mamma, don't be angry ... but I'm staying!"

The bell rang.

"There's the bell, Emilie!" said Van Naghel, sternly.

"I'm going, Papa...."

She looked around her in perplexity, not knowing which door to go out by.

"Come with me," said Louise, quickly.

And, taking Emilie almost in her arms, she hurried her away.

The first arrivals were coming up the stairs. Louise and Emilie just managed to escape into a little boudoir. But the doors were open.

"We can run across the pa.s.sage presently," whispered Louise.

"Just think," whispered Emilie, "he's absolutely mad! He interferes with the cook's housekeeping-book. He checks what she spends each day.... He's mad, he's mad! He won't eat at meals, so as to save a bit of meat for next day. And, when we give a little dinner, nothing's good enough. It's all for people, all for show: he'd starve, in order to give his friends champagne!"

"Hush, Emilie!"

They heard the exchange of greetings in the drawing-room; their parents' well-bred, expressionless voices; Marianne's nervous, tinkling laugh; Otto and Frances making up to the foreign secretary. It all sounded false. The bell kept on ringing. More guests came upstairs, with a rustle of skirts, a creaking of shoes....

"We can't get away!" said Emilie, plaintively, almost collapsing in Louise's arms.

They succeeded in running upstairs between two rings at the bell. The table was laid in the nursery: Karel and Marietje were there, playing with Ottelientje and Huig; the baboe sat huddled in a corner.

"I'll have something with you!" said Emilie. "I'm faint with hunger.... What a day, good G.o.d, what a day!"

"We'll get something to eat in between," said Louise. "Come, Emilie, come to my room."

And, as if they were fleeing again, this time from the children, she dragged Emilie up to her own room.

"Emilie, do be sensible!" she implored.

"Louise, I mean what I said, give me a gla.s.s of wine, a biscuit, anything: I'm sinking...."

Louise went out and Emilie was left alone. She looked around the bright, cosy sitting-room, stamped with the gentle personality of its owner: there were many books about; the doors of a book-case were open.

"The dear girl!" thought Emilie, lying back wearily in a chair. "She lives her own life peacefully ... and, when there's anything wrong, she's the one who helps. Her life just goes on, the same thing day after day! She was a girl while we were still children; and, properly speaking, we never knew her as we know one another. She's fond of Otto, just as I'm very fond of Otto ... but, apart from that, her life just goes on in the same way.... She's always silent.... She just lives and reads up here ... and, if there's anything wrong, she's the one who helps.... What have I done, my G.o.d, what have I done!... But I won't go back!..."

Louise returned, with a gla.s.s of wine and a few biscuits.

"We're dining presently," she said. "There, drink that and be sensible, Emilie. Does Eduard know you're here?"

"No. He was out when I left. I waited till he was out.... Louise, I won't go back! I've telegraphed to Henri to help me. I'm expecting him here."

They heard voices below.

"Listen!" said Louise.

"Who is it?"

"Perhaps it's some one who has come late.... But that's impossible.... I hear a noise on the stairs...."

"My G.o.d!" cried Emilie. "It's Eduard! Hide me! Say you don't know where I am!"

"I can't do that, Emilie. Keep calm, Emilie, be sensible. Go to my bedroom, if you like...."

Emilie fled. It was a renewed flight, the fluttering of a young bird, a frail b.u.t.terfly, hither and thither. Her eyes seemed to be seeking, vaguely and anxiously.... She and Louise had to go down to the next landing and Emilie managed to escape to Marianne's room, once the boudoir which they had shared between them:

"My own little room!" she sobbed, throwing herself into a chair.

The gas was half-lowered. Everywhere lay things of Marianne's; the dressing-table was in disorder, as though Marianne had had to dress quickly and hurriedly for the dinner-party.

"How nice she looked!" sobbed Emilie. "My little sister, my dear little sister! O G.o.d, they say she's in love with Uncle Henri!"

She sprang up again in nervous restlessness, turned the gas on, looked round, anxiously, feeling lost, even in this room:

"His portrait!" she cried. "Uncle Henri's portrait!"

She saw Van der Welcke's photograph. True, it was between Constance'

and Addie's; but there was another on Marianne's writing-table.

"My little sister, my poor little sister!" sobbed Emilie.

And she dropped limply into another chair, on the top of a corset and petticoats of Marianne's. She lay like that, with drooping arms, among her sister's things. Suddenly she sat up. She heard voices outside, in the pa.s.sage: Louise with Eduard, her husband.

"She's mad, she's mad!" he was snarling. "She's run away! The servant didn't know where to. Where is she, where is she?"

"She's here," said Louise, calmly.

"Where?"

"She's resting. But keep calm, Eduard, and don't let them hear you downstairs. There's a dinner-party."

"I don't care! I insist...."

"I insist that you keep quiet and don't make a scene...."

"Where is Emilie?"

"If you're quiet, you can speak to her. If you shout like that, so that you can be heard downstairs, I'll send a message to Papa."

Emilie, on tenterhooks, quivering in every nerve, stood up and opened the door:

"I am here," she said.