VI

Raymon was not prepared for that silent salon, peopled only by a few

taciturn guests. It was impossible to utter a word which was not heard

in every corner of the room. The dowagers who were playing cards seemed

to be there for the sole purpose of embarrassing the conversation of the

younger guests, and Raymon fancied that he could read on their stern

features the secret satisfaction which old age takes in avenging itself

by blocking other people's pleasure. He had counted upon a less

constrained, tenderer interview than that of the ball, and it was just

the opposite. This unexpected difficulty gave greater intensity to his

desires, more fire to his glances, more animation and vivacity to the

roundabout remarks he addressed to Madame Delmare. The poor child was

altogether unused to this style of attack. She could not possibly defend

herself, because nothing was asked of her; but she was forced to listen

to the proffer of an ardent heart, to learn how dearly she was loved,

and to allow herself to be encompassed by all the perils of seduction

without making any resistance. Her embarrassment increased with Raymon's

boldness. Madame de Carvajal, who made some reasonably well-founded

claims to wit, and to whom Monsieur de Ramière's wit had been highly

praised, left the card-table to challenge him to a refined discussion

concerning love, into which she introduced much Spanish heat and German

metaphysics. Raymon eagerly accepted the challenge, and, on the pretext

of answering the aunt, said to the niece all that she would have refused

to hear. The poor young wife, without a protector and exposed to so

lively and skilful an assault on all sides, could not muster strength to

take part in that thorny discussion. In vain did her aunt, who was

anxious to exhibit her to advantage, call upon her to testify to the

truth of certain subtle theories of sentiment; she confessed blushingly

that she knew nothing about such things, and Raymon, intoxicated with

joy to see her cheeks flush and her bosom heave, swore inwardly that he

would teach her.

Indiana slept less that night than she had done for the last two or

three nights; as we have said, she had never been in love, and her heart

had long been ripe for a sentiment which none of the men she had met

hitherto had succeeded in arousing. She had been brought up by a father

of an eccentric and violent character, and had never known the happiness

which is derived from the affection of another person. Monsieur de

Carvajal, drunk with political passions, consumed by ambitious regrets,

had become the most cruel planter and the most disagreeable neighbor in

the colonies; his daughter had suffered keenly from his detestable

humor. But, by dint of watching the constant tableau of the evils of

slavery, of enduring the weariness of solitude and dependence, she had

acquired a superficial patience, proof against every trial, an adorable

kindliness toward her inferiors, but also an iron will and an

incalculable power of resistance to everything that tended to oppress

her. By marrying Delmare she simply changed masters; by coming to live

at Lagny, she changed her prison and the locus of her solitude. She did

not love her husband, perhaps for the very reason that she was told that

it was her duty to love him, and that it had become with her a sort of

second nature, a principle of conduct, a law of conscience, to resist

mentally every sort of moral constraint. No one had attempted to point

out to her any other law than that of blind obedience.

Brought up in the desert, neglected by her father, surrounded by slaves,

to whom she could offer no other assistance or encouragement than her

compassion and her tears, she had accustomed herself to say: "A day will

come when everything in my life will be changed, when I shall do good to

others, when some one will love me, when I shall give my whole heart to

the man who gives me his; meanwhile, I will suffer in silence and keep

my love as a reward for him who shall set me free." This liberator, this

Messiah had not come; Indiana was still awaiting him. She no longer

dared, it is true, to confess to herself her whole thought. She had

realized under the clipped hedge-rows of Lagny that thought itself was

more fettered there than under the wild palms of Ile Bourbon; and when

she caught herself saying, as she used to say: "A day will come--a man

will come"--she forced that rash longing back to the depths of her

heart, and said to herself: "Death alone will bring that day!"

And so she was dying. A strange malady was consuming her youth. She was

without strength and unable to sleep. The doctors looked in vain for any

discoverable disorder, for none existed; all her faculties were failing

away in equal degree, all her organs were gradually degenerating; her

heart was burning at a slow fire, her eyes were losing their lustre, the

circulation of her blood was governed entirely by excitement and fever;

a few months more and the poor captive bird would surely die. But,

whatever the extent of her resignation and her discouragement, the need

remained the same. That silent, broken heart was still calling

involuntarily to some generous youthful heart to revivify it. The being

whom she had loved most dearly hitherto was Noun, the cheery and brave

companion of her tedious solitude; and the man who had manifested the

greatest liking for her was her phlegmatic cousin Sir Ralph. What food

for the all-consuming activity of her thoughts--a poor girl, ignorant

and neglected like herself, and an Englishman whose only passion was

fox-hunting!

Madame Delmare was genuinely unhappy, and the first time that she felt

the burning breath of a young and passionate man enter her frigid

atmosphere, the first time that a tender and caressing word delighted

her ear, and quivering lips left a mark as of a red-hot iron on her

hand, she thought neither of the duties that had been laid upon her, nor

of the prudence that had been enjoined upon her, nor of the future that

had been predicted for her; she remembered only the hateful past, her

long suffering, her despotic masters. Nor did it occur to her that the

man before her might be false or fickle. She saw him as she wished him

to be, as she had dreamed of him, and Raymon could easily have deceived

her if he had not been sincere.

But how could he fail to be sincere with so lovely and loving a woman?

What other had ever laid bare her heart to him with such candor and

ingenuousness? With what other had he been able to look forward to a

future so captivating and so secure? Was she not born to love him, this

slave who simply awaited a sign to break her chains, a word to follow

him? Evidently heaven had made for Raymon this melancholy child of Ile

Bourbon, whom no one had ever loved, and who but for him must have died.

Nevertheless a feeling of terror succeeded this all-pervading, feverish

joy in Madame Delmare's heart. She thought of her quick-tempered,

keen-eyed, vindictive husband, and she was afraid,--not for herself, for

she was inured to threats, but for the man who was about to undertake a

battle to the death with her tyrant. She knew so little of society that

she transformed her life into a tragic romance; a timid creature, who

dared not love for fear of endangering her lover's life, she gave no

thought to the danger of destroying herself.

This then was the secret of her resistance, the motive of her virtue.

She made up her mind on the following day to avoid Monsieur de Ramière.

That very evening there was a ball at the house of one of the leading

bankers of Paris. Madame de Carvajal, who, being an old woman with no

ties of affection, was very fond of society, proposed to attend with

Indiana; but Raymon was to be there and Indiana determined not to go. To

avoid her aunt's persecution, Madame Delmare, who was never able to

resist except in action, pretended to assent to the plan; she allowed

herself to be dressed and waited until Madame de Carvajal was ready;

then she changed her ball dress for a robe de chambre, seated herself in

front of the fire and resolutely awaited the conflict. When the old

Spaniard, as rigid and gorgeous as a portrait by Van Dyck, came to call

her, Indiana declared that she was not well and did not feel that she

could go out. In vain did her aunt urge her to make an effort.

"I would be only too glad to go," she said, "but you see that I can

hardly stand. I should be only a trouble to you to-night. Go to the ball

without me, dear aunt; I shall enjoy the thought of your pleasure."

"Go without you!" said Madame de Carvajal, who was sorely distressed at

the idea of having made an elaborate toilet to no purpose, and who

shrank from the horrors of a solitary evening. "Why, what business have

I in society, an old woman whom no one speaks to except to be near you?

What will become of me without my niece's lovely eyes to give me value?"

"Your wit will fill the gap, my dear aunt," said Indiana.

The Marquise de Carvajal, who only wanted to be urged, set off at last.

Whereupon, Indiana hid her face in her hands and began to weep; for she

had made a great sacrifice and believed that she had already blasted the

attractive prospect of the day before.

But Raymon would not have it so. The first thing that he saw at the ball

was the old marchioness's haughty aigrette. In vain did he look for

Indiana's white dress and black hair in her vicinity. He drew near and

heard her say in an undertone to another lady:

"My niece is ill; or rather," she added, to justify her own presence at

the ball, "it's a mere girlish whim. She wanted to be left alone in the

salon with a book in her hand, like a sentimental beauty."

"Can it be that she is avoiding me?" thought Raymon. He left the ball at

once. He hurried to the marchioness's house, entered without speaking to

the concierge, and asked the first servant that he saw, who was half

asleep in the antechamber, for Madame Delmare.

"Madame Delmare is ill."

"I know it. I have come at Madame de Carvajal's request to see how she

is."

"I will tell madame."

"It is not necessary. Madame Delmare will receive me."

And Raymon entered the salon unannounced. All the other servants had

retired. A melancholy silence reigned in the deserted apartments. A

single lamp, covered with its green silk shade, lighted the main salon

dimly. Indiana's back was turned to the door; she was completely hidden

in the depths of a huge easy-chair, sadly watching the burning logs, as

on the evening when Raymon entered the park of Lagny over the wall;

sadder now, for her former undefined sufferings, aimless desires had

given place to a fleeting joy, a gleam of happiness that was not for

her.

Raymon, his feet encased in dancing shoes, approached noiselessly over

the soft, heavy carpet. He saw that she was weeping, and, when she

turned her head, she found him at her feet, taking forcible possession

of her hands, which she struggled in vain to withdraw from his clasp.

Then, I agree, she was overjoyed beyond words to find that her scheme of

resistance had failed. She felt that she passionately loved this man who

paid no heed to obstacles and who had brought happiness to her in spite

of her efforts. She blessed heaven for rejecting her sacrifice, and,

instead of scolding Raymon, she was very near thanking him.

As for him, he knew already that she loved him. He needed not to see the

joy that shone through her tears to realize that he was master, and that

he could venture. He gave her no time to question him, but, changing

rôles with her, vouchsafing no explanation of his unlooked-for

presence, and no apology intended to make him seem less guilty than he

was, he said:

"You are weeping, Indiana. Why do you weep? I insist upon knowing."

She started when he called her by her name; but there was additional joy

in the surprise which that audacity caused her.

"Why do you ask?" she said. "I must not tell you."

"Well, I know, Indiana. I know your whole history, your whole life.

Nothing that concerns you is unknown to me, because nothing that

concerns you is indifferent to me. I resolved to know everything about

you, and I have learned nothing that was not revealed to me during the

brief moment that I passed under your roof, when I was brought, all

crushed and bleeding, to your feet, and your husband was angry to see

you, so lovely and so kind, support me with your soft arms and pour balm

upon my wounds with your sweet breath. He was jealous? oh! I can readily

understand it; I should have been, in his place, Indiana; or rather, in

his place, I would kill myself; for to be your husband, madame, to

possess you, to hold you in his arms, and not to deserve you, not to win

your heart, is to be the most miserable or the most dastardly of men!"

"O heaven! hush," she cried, putting her hand over his mouth; "hush! for

you make me guilty. Why do you speak to me of him? why seek to teach me

to curse him? If he should hear you! But I have said no evil of him; I

have not authorized you to commit this crime! I do not hate him; I

esteem him, I love him!"

"Say rather that you are horribly afraid of him; for the despot has

broken your spirit, and fear has sat at your bedside ever since you

became that man's prey. You, Indiana, profaned by the touch of that

boor, whose iron hand has bowed your head and ruined your life! Poor

child! so young and so lovely, to have suffered so horribly! for you

cannot deceive me, Indiana, who look at you with other eyes than those

of the common herd; I know all the secrets of your destiny, and you

cannot hope to hide the truth from me. Let those who look at you because

you are lovely say, when they notice your pallor and your melancholy:

'She is ill;'--well and good; but I, who follow you with my heart, whose

whole soul encompasses you with solicitude and love, I am well aware

what your disease is. I know that, if God had willed it so, if he had

given you to me, unlucky wretch that I am, who deserve to have my head

broken for having come so late, you would not be ill. On my life I

swear, Indiana, I would have loved you so that you would have loved me

the same and that you would have blessed the chain that bound us. I

would have carried you in my arms to prevent your feet from being

wounded; I would have warmed them with my breath. I would have held you

against my breast to save you from suffering. I would have given all my

blood to make up your lack of it, and if you had lost sleep with me, I

would have passed the night saying soft words to you, smiling on you to

restore your courage, weeping the while to see you suffer. When sleep

had breathed upon your silken eyelids, I would have brushed them with my

lips to close them more softly, and I would have watched over you,

kneeling by your bed. I would have forced the air to caress you gently,

golden dreams to throw flowers to you. I would have kissed noiselessly

your lovely tresses, I would have counted with ecstatic joy the

palpitations of your breast, and, at your awakening, Indiana, you would

have found me at your feet, guarding you like a jealous master, waiting

upon you as a slave, watching for your first smile, seizing upon your

first thought, your first glance, your first kiss."

"Enough! enough!" said Indiana, agitated and quivering with emotion,

"you make me faint."

And yet, if people died of happiness, Indiana would have died at that

moment.

"Do not speak so to me," she said--"to me who am destined never to be

happy; do not depict heaven upon earth to me who am doomed to die."

"To die!" cried Raymon vehemently, seizing her in his arms; "you, die!

Indiana! die before you have lived--before you have loved! No, you shall

not die; I will not let you die, for my life is bound to yours

henceforth. You are the woman of whom I dreamed, the purity that I

adored, the chimera that always fled from me, the bright star that shone

before me and said to me: 'Go forward in this life of wretchedness and

heaven will send one of its angels to bear you company.' You were always

destined for me; your soul was always betrothed to mine, Indiana! Men

and their iron laws have disposed of you; they have snatched from me the

mate God would have chosen for me, if God did not sometimes forget his

promises. But what do we care for men and laws if I love you still in

another's arms, if you can still love me, accursed and unhappy as I am

in having lost you! I tell you, Indiana, you belong to me; you are the

half of my heart, which has long been struggling to join the other half.

When you dreamed of a friend on Ile Bourbon, you dreamed of me; when, at

the word husband, a sweet thrill of fear and hope passed through your

heart, it was because I was destined to be your husband. Do you not

recognize me? Does not it seem to you that we must have met twenty years

ago? Did I not recognize you, my angel, when you stanched my blood with

your veil, when you placed your hand on my dying heart to bring back its

heat and its life? Ah! I remember distinctly enough. When I opened my

eyes I said to myself: 'There she is! she has been like that in all my

dreams--pale, melancholy and kind-hearted. She is my own; it is she who

is destined to fill my cup with unknown joys.' And the physical life

which returned to me then was your work. For we were brought together by

no commonplace circumstances, you see; it was neither chance nor

caprice, but fatality, death, which opened the gates of this new life to

me. It was your husband--your master--who, guided by his destiny,

brought me all bleeding in his arms and threw me at your feet, saying:

'Here is something for you!' And now nothing can part us."

"Yes, he can part us!" hastily interposed Madame Delmare, who, carried

away by her lover's transports, had listened to him in ecstasy. "Alas!

alas! you do not know him; he is a man who knows nothing of pardon--a

man who cannot be deceived. He will kill you, Raymon!"

She hid her face in his bosom, sobbing. Raymon embraced her

passionately.

"Let him come!" he cried; "let him come and snatch this moment of

happiness from me! I defy him! Stay here, Indiana--here against my

heart; let it be your refuge and your protection. Love me and I shall be

invulnerable. You know that it is not in that man's power to kill me; I

have already been exposed defenceless to his blows. But you, my good

angel, were hovering over me, and your wings protected me. Have no fear,

I say, we shall find a way to turn aside his wrath; and now I am not

even afraid for you, for I shall be at hand. And when this master of

yours attempts to oppress you, I will protect you against him. I will

rescue you, if necessary, from his cruel laws. Would you like me to kill

him? Tell me that you love me, and I will be his executioner if you

sentence him to death."

"Hush! hush! you make me shudder! If you wish to kill some one, kill me;

for I have lived one whole day and I ask nothing more."

"Die, then, but let it be of happiness!" cried Raymon, pressing his lips

to Indiana's.

But the storm was too severe for so fragile a plant; she turned pale,

put her hand to her heart and swooned.

At first Raymon thought that his caresses would call her blood back into

her icy veins; but in vain did he cover her hand with kisses; in vain

did he call her by the sweetest names. It was not a premeditated swoon

of the sort we so often see. Madame Delmare had been seriously ill for a

long time, and was subject to nervous paroxysms which sometimes lasted

whole hours. Raymon, in desperation, was reduced to the necessity of

calling for help. He rang; a maid appeared; but the phial that she held

escaped from her hands, and a cry from her throat, when she recognized

Raymon. He, recovering instantly all his self-possession, put his mouth

to her ear.

"Hush, Noun! I knew that you were here and I came to see you. I did not

expect to see your mistress, who was, as I supposed, at the ball. When I

came in I frightened her and she fainted. Be prudent; I am going away."

Raymon fled, leaving each of the two women in possession of a secret

which was destined to carry despair to the heart of the other.