"It seems to me that I know that face," he said to Noun, struggling to
assume an indifferent attitude.
"Fi! monsieur," said the girl, as she placed on a table the tray that
she brought containing the breakfast; "it is not right to try and find
out my mistress's secrets."
This remark made Raymon turn pale.
"Secrets!" he said. "If this is a secret, it has been confided to you,
Noun, and you were doubly guilty in bringing me to this room."
"Oh! no, it's not a secret," said Noun with a smile; "for Monsieur
Delmare himself assisted in hanging Sir Ralph's portrait on that panel.
As if madame could have any secrets with a husband so jealous!"
"Sir Ralph, you say? Who is Sir Ralph?"
"Sir Rodolphe Brown, madame's cousin, her playmate in childhood, and my
own, too, I might say; he is such a good man!"
Raymon scrutinized the picture with surprise and some uneasiness.
We have said that Sir Ralph was an extremely comely person, physically;
with a red and white complexion and abundant hair, a tall figure, always
perfectly dressed, and capable, if not of turning a romantic brain, of
satisfying the vanity of an unromantic one. The peaceable baronet was
represented in hunting costume, about as we saw him in the first chapter
of this narrative, and surrounded by his dogs, the beautiful pointer
Ophelia in the foreground, because of the fine silver-gray tone of her
silky coat and the purity of her Scotch blood. Sir Ralph had a
hunting-horn in one hand and in the other the rein of a superb,
dapple-gray English hunter, who filled almost the whole background of
the picture. It was an admirably executed portrait, a genuine family
picture with all its perfection of detail, all its puerile niceties of
resemblance, all its bourgeois minutiæ; a picture to make a nurse weep,
dogs bark and a tailor faint with joy. There was but one thing on earth
more insignificant than the portrait, and that was the original.
Nevertheless it kindled a violent flame of wrath in Raymon.
"Upon my word!" he said to himself, "this dapper young Englishman enjoys
the privilege of being admitted to Madame Delmare's most secret
apartment! His vapid face is always here, looking coldly on at the most
private acts of her life! He watches her, guards her, follows her every
movement, possesses her every hour in the day! At night he watches her
asleep and surprises the secret of her dreams; in the morning, when she
comes forth, all white and quivering, from her bed, he sees the dainty
bare foot that steps lightly on the carpet; and when she dresses with
all precaution--when she draws the curtains at her window and forbids
even the daylight from entering her presence too boldly--when she
believes that she is quite alone, hidden from every eye--that insolent
face is there, feasting on her charms! That man, all booted and spurred,
presides over her toilet. Is this gauze usually spread over the
picture?" he asked the maid.
"Always," she replied, "when madame is absent. But don't take the
trouble to replace it, for madame is coming in a few days."
"In that case, Noun, you would do well to tell her that the expression
of the face is very impertinent. If I had been in Monsieur Delmare's
place I wouldn't have consented to leave it here unless I had cut out
the eyes. But that's just like the stupid jealousy of the ordinary
husband! They imagine everything and understand nothing."
"For heaven's sake, what have you against good Monsieur Brown's face?"
said Noun, as she made her mistress's bed; "he is such an excellent
master! I used not to care much for him, because I always heard madame
say that he was selfish; but ever since the day that he took care of
you----"
"True," Raymon interrupted her, "it was he who helped me that day; I
remember him perfectly now. But I owe his interest only to Madame
Delmare's prayers."
"Because she is so kind-hearted," said poor Noun. "Who could help being
kind-hearted after living with her?"
When Noun spoke of Madame Delmare, Raymon listened with an interest of
which she had no suspicion.
The day passed quietly enough, but Noun dared not lead the conversation
to her real object. At last, toward evening, she made an effort and
compelled him to declare his intentions.
Raymon had no other intention than to rid himself of a dangerous witness
and of a woman whom he no longer loved. But he proposed to assure her
future, and in fear and trembling he made her the most liberal offers.
It was a bitter affront to the poor girl; she tore her hair, and would
have beaten her head against the wall if Raymon had not put forth all
his strength to hold her. Thereupon, employing all the resources of
language and intellect with which nature had endowed him, he made her
understand that it was not for her, but for the child she was to bring
into the world, that he desired to make provision.
"It is my duty," he said; "I hand the funds over to you as the child's
heritage, and you would fail in your duty to him if a false sense of
delicacy should lead you to reject them."
Noun became calmer and wiped her eyes.
"Very well," she said, "I will accept the money if you will promise to
keep on loving me; for, just by doing your duty to the child, you will
not do it to the mother. Your gift will keep him alive, but your
indifference will kill me. Can't you take me into your service? I am not
exacting; I don't aspire to all that another woman in my place might
have had the skill to obtain. But let me be your servant. Obtain a place
for me in your mother's family. She will be satisfied with me, I give
you my word; and, even if you don't love me, I shall at least see you."
"What you ask is impossible, my dear Noun. In your present condition you
cannot think of entering anyone's service; and to deceive my mother--to
play upon her confidence in me--would be a base act to which I shall
never consent. Go to Lyon or Bordeaux; I will undertake to see to it
that you want nothing until such time as you can show yourself again.
Then I will obtain a place for you with some one of my acquaintances--at
Paris, if you wish, if you insist upon being near me--but as to living
under the same roof, that is impossible."
"Impossible!" echoed Noun, wringing her hands in a passion of grief. "I
see that you despise me--that you blush for me. But no, I will not go
away, alone and degraded, to die abandoned in some distant city where
you will forget me. What do I care for my reputation? Your love is what
I wanted to retain."
"Noun, if you fear that I am deceiving you, come with me. The same
carriage shall take us to whatever place you choose. I will go with you
anywhere, except to Paris or to my mother's, and I will bestow upon you
all the care and attention that I owe you."
"Yes, to abandon me on the day after you have put me down, a useless
burden, in some foreign land!" she rejoined, smiling bitterly. "No,
monsieur, no, I will stay here; I do not choose to lose everything at
once. I should sacrifice, by following you, the person whom I loved best
in the world before I knew you; but I am not anxious enough to conceal
my dishonor to sacrifice both my love and my friendship. I will go and
throw myself at Madame Delmare's feet; I will tell her all, and she will
forgive me, I know, for she is kind and she loves me. We were born on
almost the same day, and she is my foster-sister. We have never been
separated, and she will not want me to leave her. She will weep with me;
she will take care of me, and she will love my child--my poor child! Who
knows! she has not the good fortune to be a mother; perhaps she will
bring it up as her own! Ah! I was mad to think of leaving her, for she
is the only person on earth who will take pity on me!"
This determination plunged Raymon in horrible perplexity; but suddenly
the rumbling of a carriage was heard in the courtyard. Noun, in dismay,
ran to the window.
"It's Madame Delmare!" she cried; "go instantly!"
In that moment of excitement the key to the secret staircase could not
be found. Noun took Raymon's arm and hurriedly pulled him into the hall;
but they were not half way to the stairs when they heard footsteps in
the same passage; they heard Madame Delmare's voice ten steps in front
of them, and a candle carried by a servant who attended her cast its
flickering light almost on their terrified faces. Noun had barely time
to retrace her steps, still pulling Raymon after her, and to return with
him to the bedroom.
A dressing room, with a glass door, might afford a place of refuge for a
few moments; but there was no way of locking the door, and it was
possible that Madame Delmare might go to the dressing room at once. To
avoid being detected instantly, Raymon was obliged to rush into the
alcove and hide behind the curtains. It was not probable that Madame
Delmare would retire at once, and meanwhile Noun might find an
opportunity to help him to escape.
Indiana bustled into the room, tossed her hat on the bed and kissed Noun
with the familiarity of a sister. There was so little light in the room
that she did not notice her companion's emotion.
"You expected me, did you?" she said, going to the fire; "how did you
know I was coming?--Monsieur Delmare," she added, not waiting for a
reply, "will be here to-morrow. I started at once on receiving his
letter. I have certain reasons for receiving him here and not in Paris.
I will tell you what they are. But, in heaven's name, why don't you
speak to me? you don't seem so glad to see me as usual."
"I am low-spirited," said Noun, kneeling by her mistress to remove her
shoes. "I have something to tell you, too, but later; come to the salon
now."
"God forbid! what an idea! it's deathly cold there!"
"No, there's a good fire."
"You are dreaming! I just came through it."
"But your supper is waiting for you."
"I don't want any supper; besides, there is nothing ready. Go and get my
boa, I left it in the carriage."
"In a moment."
"Why not now? Go, I say, go!"
As she spoke, she pushed Noun toward the door with a playful air; and
the maid, seeing that she must be bold and self-possessed, went out for
a few moments. But she had no sooner left the room than Madame Delmare
threw the bolt and removed her cloak, placing it on the bed beside her
hat. As she did it, she went so near to Raymon, that he instinctively
stepped back, and the bed, which apparently rested on well-oiled
castors, moved with a slight noise. Madame Delmare was surprised but not
frightened, for it was quite possible that she had herself moved the
bed; she stretched forth her neck, drew the curtain aside and revealed a
man's head outlined against the wall in the half-light cast by the fire
on the hearth.
In her terror she uttered a shriek and rushed to the mantel to seize the
bell-cord and summon help. Raymon would have preferred to be taken for a
thief again than to be recognized in that situation. But if he did not
make himself known, Madame Delmare would call her servants and
compromise her own reputation. He placed his trust in the love he had
inspired in her, and, rushing to her, tried to stop her shrieks and to
keep her away from the bell-cord, saying to her in an undertone, for
fear of being heard by Noun, who was probably not far away:
"It is I, Indiana; look at me and forgive me! Indiana! forgive an
unhappy wretch whose reason you have led astray, and who could not make
up his mind to give you back to your husband until he had seen you once
more."
And while he held Indiana in his arms, no less in the hope of moving her
than to keep her from ringing, Noun was knocking at the door in an agony
of apprehension. Madame Delmare, extricating herself from Raymon's arms,
ran and opened the door, then sank into a chair.
Pale as death and almost fainting, Noun threw herself against the door
to prevent the servants, who were running hither and thither, from
interrupting this strange scene; paler than her mistress, with trembling
knees and her back glued to the door, she awaited her fate.
Raymon felt that with due address he might still deceive both women at
once.
"Madame," he said, falling on his knees before Indiana, "my presence
here must seem to you an outrageous insult; here at your feet I implore
your forgiveness. Grant me an interview of a few moments and I will
explain----"
"Hush, monsieur, and leave this house," cried Madame Delmare, recovering
all the dignity befitting her situation; "leave this house openly. Open
the door, Noun, and allow monsieur to go, so that all my servants may
see him and that the disgrace of such a proceeding may fall upon him."
Noun, believing that she was detected, threw herself on her knees by
Raymon's side. Madame Delmare looked at her in amazement, but said
nothing.
Raymon tried to take her hand; but she indignantly withdrew it. Flushed
with anger, she rose and pointed to the door.
"Go, I tell you!" she said; "go, for your conduct is despicable. So
these are the means you chose to employ! you, monsieur, hiding in my
bedroom, like a thief! It seems that it is a habit of yours to introduce
yourself into families in this way! and this is the pure attachment that
you offered me the night before last! This is the way you were to
protect me, respect me and defend me! This is the way you worship me!
You see a woman who has nursed you with her hands, who, to restore you
to life, defied her husband's anger; you deceive her by a pretence of
gratitude, you promise her a love worthy of her, and as a reward for her
attentions, as the price of her credulity, you seek to surprise her in
her sleep and to hasten your triumph by indescribable infamy! You bribe
her maid, you almost creep into her bed, like a lover already favored;
you do not shrink from admitting her servants to the secret of an
intimacy that does not exist. Go, monsieur; you have taken pains to
undeceive me very quickly! Go, I say! do not remain another moment under
my roof! And you, wretched girl, who have so little regard for your
mistress's honor--you deserve to be dismissed. Stand away from that
door, I tell you!"
Noun, half dead with surprise and despair, gazed fixedly at Raymon as if
to ask him for an explanation of this incredible mystery. Then, with a
wild gleam in her eyes, hardly able to stand, she dragged herself to
Indiana and seized her arm fiercely.
"What was that you said?" she cried, her teeth clenched with rage; "this
man loved you?"
"Eh! you must have known that he did!" said Madame Delmare, pushing her
away contemptuously and with all her strength; "you must have known what
reasons a man has for hiding behind a woman's curtains. Ah! Noun," she
added, noticing the girl's evident despair, "it was a dastardly thing,
and one of which I would never have believed you to be capable; you
consented to sell her honor who had such perfect faith in yours!"
Madame Delmare was shedding tears, tears of indignation as well as of
grief. Raymon had never seen her so lovely; but he hardly dared look at
her, for her haughty air, the air of an insulted woman, forced him to
lower his eyes. He was terror-stricken, too, petrified by Noun's
presence. If he had been alone with Madame Delmare, he might perhaps
have been able to soften her. But Noun's expression was terrifying; her
features were distorted by rage and hatred.
A knock at the door startled them all three. Noun rushed forward once
more to keep out intruders; but Madame Delmare, pushing her aside
imperatively, motioned to Raymon to withdraw to the corner of the room.
Then, with the self-possession which made her so remarkable at critical
moments, she wrapped herself in a shawl, partly opened the door herself,
and asked the servant who had knocked what he had to say to her.
"Monsieur Rodolphe Brown is here," was the reply; "he wishes to know if
madame will receive him."
"Say to Monsieur Rodolphe Brown that I am delighted that he has come and
that I will join him at once. Make a fire in the salon and bid them
prepare some supper. One moment! Go and get the key to the small park."
The servant retired. Madame Delmare remained at the door, holding it
open, not deigning to listen to Noun and imperiously enjoining silence
on Raymon.
The servant returned in a few moments. Madame Delmare, still holding the
door open between him and Monsieur de Ramière, took the key from him,
bade him hurry up the supper, and, as soon as he had gone, turned to
Raymon.
"The arrival of my cousin, Sir Rodolphe Brown," she said, "saves you
from the public scandal which I intended to inflict on you; he is a man
of honor, who would eagerly assume the duty of defending me; but as I
should be very sorry to expose a man like him to danger at the hands of
such a man as you, I will allow you to go without scandal. Noun, who
admitted you, will find a way to let you out. Go!"
"We shall meet again, madame," replied Raymon with an attempt at
self-assurance; "and although I am culpable, you will perhaps regret the
harshness with which you treat me now."
"I trust, monsieur, that we shall never meet again," she rejoined.
And still standing at the door, not deigning to bow, she watched him
depart with his miserable and trembling accomplice.
When he was alone with Noun in the obscurity of the park, Raymon
expected reproaches from her; but she did not speak to him. She led him
to the gate of the small park, and, when he tried to take her hand, she
had already vanished. He called her in a low voice, for he was anxious
to learn his fate; but she did not reply, and the gardener, suddenly
appearing, said to him:
"Come, monsieur, you must be off; madame is here and you may be
discovered."
Raymon took his departure with death in his heart; but in his despair at
having offended Madame Delmare he almost forgot Noun and thought of
nothing but possible methods of appeasing her mistress; for it was a
part of his nature to be irritated by obstacles and never to cling
passionately except to things that were well-nigh desperate.
At night, when Madame Delmare, after supping silently with Sir Ralph,
withdrew to her own apartments, Noun did not come, as usual, to undress
her; she rang for her to no purpose, and when she had concluded that the
girl was resolved not to obey, she locked her door and went to bed. But
she passed a horrible night, and, as soon as the day broke, went down
into the park. She was feverish and agitated; she longed to feel the
cold enter her body and allay the fire that consumed her breast. The day
before, at that hour, she was happy, abandoning herself to the novel
sensations of that intoxicating love. What a ghastly disillusionment in
twenty-four hours! First of all, the news of her husband's return
several days earlier than she expected; those four or five days which
she had hoped to pass in Paris were to her a whole lifetime of
never-ending bliss, a dream of love never to be interrupted by an
awakening; but in the morning she had had to abandon the hope, to resume
the yoke, and to go to meet her master in order that he might not meet
Raymon at Madame de Carvajal's; for Indiana thought that it would be
impossible for her to deceive her husband if he should see her in
Raymon's presence. And then this Raymon, whom she loved as a god--it was
by him of all men that she was thus basely insulted! And lastly, her
life-long companion, the young creole whom she loved so dearly, suddenly
proved to be unworthy of her confidence and her esteem!
Madame Delmare had wept all night long. She sank upon the turf, still
whitened by the morning rime, on the bank of the little stream that
flowed through the park. It was late in March and nature was beginning
to awake; the morning, although cold, was not devoid of beauty; patches
of mist still rested on the water like a floating scarf, and the birds
were trying their first songs of love and springtime.
Indiana felt as if relieved of a heavy weight, and a wave of religious
feeling overflowed her soul.
"God willed it so," she said to herself; "in His providence he has given
me a harsh lesson, but it is fortunate for me. That man would perhaps
have led me into vice, he would have ruined me; whereas now the vileness
of his sentiments is revealed to me, and I shall be on my guard against
the tempestuous and detestable passion that fermented in his breast. I
will love my husband! I will try to love him! At all events I will be
submissive to him, I will make him happy by never annoying him, I will
avoid whatever can possibly arouse his jealousy; for now I know what to
think of the false eloquence that men know how to lavish on us. I shall
be fortunate, perhaps, if God will take pity on my sorrows and send
death to me soon."
The clatter of the mill-wheel that started the machinery in Monsieur
Delmare's factory made itself heard behind the willows on the other
bank. The river, rushing through the newly opened gates, began to boil
and bubble on the surface; and, as Madame Delmare followed with a
melancholy eye the swift rush of the stream, she saw floating among the
reeds something like a bundle of cloth which the current strove to hurry
along in its train. She rose, leaned over the bank and distinctly saw a
woman's clothes,--clothes that she knew too well. Terror nailed her to
the spot; but the stream flowed on, slowly drawing a body from the reeds
among which it had caught, and bringing it toward Madame Delmare.
A piercing shriek attracted the workmen from the factory to the spot;
Madame Delmare had fainted on the bank, and Noun's body was floating in
the water at her feet.