her in heightening their agonies. She relayed messages, engineered encounters, and betrayed confidences with amusing precision. She did not approve of Constance’s efforts to ensnare their brother’s tutor, and said so, and poked merciless fun at her sister’s failure to provoke any response whatsoever from Piet.
“I tell you, he’s a uranist,” said Constance one evening, having leaned heavily on Piet’s arm after dinner and received no answering pressure.
“Nonsense. He’s just too ambitious to risk everything by entangling himself with a wildcat like you. He knows you could never marry. What does he have to gain?”
“My person,” replied Constance, with dignity.
“You’d never give yourself to him in that way.”
“Some girls do.”
“Not you, my dear.”
Constance knew that this was true but was nevertheless irked by Piet’s relentless indifference to her charms. She decided that if he were not a uranist, he must fear rejection. She would have to make plain that his overtures would be well received and enlisted her sister’s help—because she was beguiled by the quiet arrogance with which he wore her father’s old clothes.
Louisa agreed to participate in the enterprise on the condition that its verdict was regarded as final. The sisters settled terms during a walk through the Vondelpark, to which neither Piet nor Didier was privy, and set their minds to the most advantageous way of getting Constance what she wanted. Constance understood that smiles and ravishing gestures were insufficient and secretly respected Piet for being so much more self-controlled than other men she knew. The thought of making a private declaration entered her head, but she dispatched it at once as far too rife with humiliating possibilities. How might she combine the advantages of directness with the imperatives of discretion? Louisa could not, on this occasion, act as go-between.
She was in her room, undressing and thinking of Piet’s first night in the house, when the answer came to her, and she went through the connecting door to her sister’s bedroom with only a silk kimono over her shoulders.
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Louisa, “but you’d better not do it when Papa’s here.”
So they waited until their father went to Paris, as he did every six weeks to inspect his hotels in that city, and after dinner they asked Mr. Barol to teach them about opera and opened the score of
Carmen
at her exchange with Le Dançaire.
Jacobina was by the fire, her embroidery in her lap. Louisa positioned herself to obscure the expression on her sister’s face, should their mother happen to glance up. Then, taking the man’s part, she began to read from the libretto and asked Constance why she so liked Don José.
“Parce qu’il est beau, et qu’il me plaît,”
said Constance, straight to Piet. Then in English, for emphasis: “Because he’s handsome. Because he pleases me.”
P iet Barol was aware of the dangers of even an innocent flirtation with his employer’s daughters and had no intention of making this elemental mistake. He was also alive to the advantages of being seen to show impeccable restraint. Maarten would naturally be vigilant of Constance and Louisa. Good behavior with them would earn his trust more swiftly than other, more effortful stratagems.
Piet did not need Didier to tell him that Constance delighted in generating, and then spurning, male attention. In fact his vanity would have been injured had she made no attempt to seduce him. But what began as flattering and amusing became alarming as Constance’s steeliness showed itself, and with it her absolute determination to prevail over those who resisted her.
In this determination, Constance Vermeulen-Sickerts and Piet Barol were well matched. As Constance’s assaults on his equanimity became more adamant, Piet was able to decode her tactics with an expert’s eye. She began, as he would have done, by subtle but significant increments in
“I tell you, he’s a uranist,” said Constance one evening, having leaned heavily on Piet’s arm after dinner and received no answering pressure.
“Nonsense. He’s just too ambitious to risk everything by entangling himself with a wildcat like you. He knows you could never marry. What does he have to gain?”
“My person,” replied Constance, with dignity.
“You’d never give yourself to him in that way.”
“Some girls do.”
“Not you, my dear.”
Constance knew that this was true but was nevertheless irked by Piet’s relentless indifference to her charms. She decided that if he were not a uranist, he must fear rejection. She would have to make plain that his overtures would be well received and enlisted her sister’s help—because she was beguiled by the quiet arrogance with which he wore her father’s old clothes.
Louisa agreed to participate in the enterprise on the condition that its verdict was regarded as final. The sisters settled terms during a walk through the Vondelpark, to which neither Piet nor Didier was privy, and set their minds to the most advantageous way of getting Constance what she wanted. Constance understood that smiles and ravishing gestures were insufficient and secretly respected Piet for being so much more self-controlled than other men she knew. The thought of making a private declaration entered her head, but she dispatched it at once as far too rife with humiliating possibilities. How might she combine the advantages of directness with the imperatives of discretion? Louisa could not, on this occasion, act as go-between.
She was in her room, undressing and thinking of Piet’s first night in the house, when the answer came to her, and she went through the connecting door to her sister’s bedroom with only a silk kimono over her shoulders.
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Louisa, “but you’d better not do it when Papa’s here.”
So they waited until their father went to Paris, as he did every six weeks to inspect his hotels in that city, and after dinner they asked Mr. Barol to teach them about opera and opened the score of
Carmen
at her exchange with Le Dançaire.
Jacobina was by the fire, her embroidery in her lap. Louisa positioned herself to obscure the expression on her sister’s face, should their mother happen to glance up. Then, taking the man’s part, she began to read from the libretto and asked Constance why she so liked Don José.
“Parce qu’il est beau, et qu’il me plaît,”
said Constance, straight to Piet. Then in English, for emphasis: “Because he’s handsome. Because he pleases me.”
P iet Barol was aware of the dangers of even an innocent flirtation with his employer’s daughters and had no intention of making this elemental mistake. He was also alive to the advantages of being seen to show impeccable restraint. Maarten would naturally be vigilant of Constance and Louisa. Good behavior with them would earn his trust more swiftly than other, more effortful stratagems.
Piet did not need Didier to tell him that Constance delighted in generating, and then spurning, male attention. In fact his vanity would have been injured had she made no attempt to seduce him. But what began as flattering and amusing became alarming as Constance’s steeliness showed itself, and with it her absolute determination to prevail over those who resisted her.
In this determination, Constance Vermeulen-Sickerts and Piet Barol were well matched. As Constance’s assaults on his equanimity became more adamant, Piet was able to decode her tactics with an expert’s eye. She began, as he would have done, by subtle but significant increments in
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