IX

Two months have passed. Nothing is changed at Lagny, in that house to

which I introduced you one winter evening, except that all about its red

brick walls with their frame of gray stone and its slated roofs yellowed

by venerable moss, the springtime is in its bloom. The family is

scattered here and there, enjoying the mild and fragrant evening air;

the setting sun gilds the window-panes and the roar of the factory

mingles with the various noises of the farm. Monsieur Delmare is seated

on the steps, gun in hand, practising at shooting swallows on the wing.

Indiana, at her embroidery frame near the window of the salon, leans

forward now and then to watch with a sad face the colonel's cruel

amusement in the courtyard. Ophelia leaps about and barks, indignant at

a style of hunting so contrary to her habits; and Sir Ralph, astride the

stone railing, is smoking a cigar and, as usual, looking on impassively

at other people's pleasure or vexation.

"Indiana," cried the colonel, laying aside his gun, "do for heaven's

sake put your work away; you tire yourself out as if you were paid so

much an hour."

"It is still broad daylight," Madame Delmare replied.

"No matter; come to the window, I have something to tell you."

Indiana obeyed, and the colonel, drawing near the window, which was

almost on a level with the ground, said to her with as near an approach

to playfulness of manner as an old and jealous husband can manage:

"As you have worked hard to-day and as you are very good, I am going to

tell you something that will please you."

Madame Delmare struggled hard to smile; her smile would have driven a

more sensitive man than the colonel to despair.

"You will be pleased to know," he continued, "that I have invited one of

your humble adorers to breakfast with you to-morrow, to divert you. You

will ask me which one; for you have a very pretty collection of them,

you flirt!"

"Perhaps it's our dear old curé?" said Madame Delmare, whose melancholy

was enhanced by her husband's gayety.

"Oh! no, indeed!"

"Then it must be the mayor of Chailly or the old notary from

Fontainebleau."

"Oh! the craft of women! You know very well that it would be none of

those people. Come, Ralph, tell madame the name she has on the tip of

her tongue but doesn't choose to pronounce herself."

"You need not go through so much preparation to announce a visit from

Monsieur de Ramière," said Sir Ralph, tranquilly, as he threw away his

cigar; "I suppose that it's a matter of perfect indifference to her."

Madame Delmare felt the blood rush to her cheeks; she made a pretence of

looking for something in the salon, then returned to the window with as

calm a manner as she could command.

"I fancy that this is a jest," she said, trembling in every limb.

"On the contrary I am perfectly serious; you will see him here at eleven

o'clock to-morrow."

"What! the man who stole into your premises to obtain unfair possession

of your invention, and whom you almost killed as a criminal! You must

both be very pacific to forget such grievances!"

"You set me the example, dearest, by receiving him very graciously at

your aunt's, where he called on you."

Indiana turned pale.

"I do not by any means appropriate that call," she said earnestly, "and

I am so little flattered by it that, if I were in your place, I would

not receive him."

"You women are all false and cunning just for the pleasure of being so.

You danced with him during one whole ball, I was told."

"You were misinformed."

"Why, it was your aunt herself who told me! However, you need not defend

yourself so warmly; I have no fault to find, as your aunt desired and

assisted to bring about this reconciliation between us. Monsieur de

Ramière has been seeking it for a long while. He has rendered me some

very valuable services with respect to my business, and he has done it

without ostentation and almost without my knowledge; so, as I am not so

savage as you say, and also as I do not choose to be under obligations

to a stranger, I determined to make myself square with him."

"How so?"

"By making a friend of him; by going to Cercy this morning with Sir

Ralph. We found his mother there, who seems a delightful woman; and the

house is furnished with refinement and comfort, but without ostentation

and without a trace of the pride that attaches to venerable names. After

all, this Ramière's a good fellow, and I have invited him to come and

breakfast with us and inspect the factory. I hear favorable accounts of

his brother, and I have made sure that he cannot injure me by adopting

the same methods that I use; so I prefer that that family should profit

by them rather than any other. You see no secrets are kept very long,

and mine will soon be like a stage secret if progress in manufacturing

continues at the present rate."

"For my part," said Sir Ralph, "I have always disapproved of this

secrecy, as you know; a good citizen's discovery belongs to his country

as much as to himself, and if I----"

"_Parbleu!_ that is just like you, Sir Ralph, with your practical

philanthropy! You will make me think that your fortune doesn't belong to

you, and that, if the nation takes a fancy to it to-morrow, you are

ready to exchange your fifty thousand francs a year for a wallet and

staff! It looks well for a buck like you, who are as fond of the

comforts of life as a sultan, to preach contempt of wealth!"

"What I say," rejoined Sir Ralph, "is not meant to be philanthropic at

all; my point is that selfishness properly understood leads us to do

good to others to prevent them injuring us. I am selfish myself, as

everybody knows. I have accustomed myself not to blush for it, and,

after analyzing all the virtues, I find personal interest at the

foundation of them all. Love and devotion, which are two apparently

generous passions, are perhaps the most selfish passions that exist; nor

is patriotism less so, my word for it. I care little for men; but not

for anything in the world would I undertake to prove it to them, my fear

of them is inversely proportional to my esteem for them. We are both

selfish therefore but I admit it, whereas you deny it."

A discussion arose between them wherein each sought by all the arguments

of selfishness to demonstrate the selfishness of the others. Madame

Delmare took advantage of it to retire to her room and to abandon

herself to all the reflections to which news so entirely unexpected

naturally gave birth.

It will be well not only to admit you to the secret of her thoughts, but

also to enlighten you as to the situation of the various persons whom

Noun's death had affected in greater or less degree.

It is almost proven, so far as the reader and I myself are concerned,

that that unfortunate creature threw herself into the stream through

despair, in one of those moments of frenzy when extreme resolutions are

most easily formed. But, as she evidently did not return to the house

after leaving Raymon--as no one had met her and had an opportunity to

divine her purpose--there was no indication of suicide to throw light

upon the mystery of her death.

Two persons were in a position to attribute it with moral certainty to

her own act--Monsieur de Ramière and the gardener of Lagny. The grief

of the former was concealed beneath a pretence of illness; the terror

and remorse of the other enjoined silence upon him. This man who, from

cupidity, had connived at the intercourse of the lovers throughout the

winter, was the only person who had been in a position to remark the

young creole's secret misery. Justly fearing the reproaches of his

employers and the criticisms of his equals, he held his peace in his own

interest; and when Monsieur Delmare, who had some suspicions after the

discovery of this intrigue, questioned him as to the lengths to which it

had been carried during his absence, he boldly denied that it had

continued at all. Some people in the neighborhood--a very lonely

neighborhood, by the way--had noticed Noun walking toward Crecy at

unreasonable hours; but apparently there had been no relations between

her and Monsieur de Ramière since the end of January, and her death

occurred on the 28th of March. So far as appeared, her death was

attributable to chance; as she was walking through the park at

nightfall, she might have been deceived by the dense fog that had

prevailed for several days, have lost her way and missed the English

bridge over the stream, which was quite narrow but had very steep banks

and was swollen by recent rains.

Although Sir Ralph, who was more observant than his reflections

indicated, had found in his private thoughts grounds for strong

suspicion of Monsieur de Ramière, he communicated them to no one,

regarding as useless and cruel any reproachful words addressed to a man

who was so unfortunate as to have such a source of remorse in his life.

He even succeeded in convincing the colonel, who expressed in his

presence some suspicions in that regard, that it was most urgent, in

Madame Delmare's delicate condition, to continue to conceal from her the

possible causes of her old playmate's suicide. So it was with the poor

girl's death as with her love affair. There was a tacit agreement never

to mention it before Indiana, and ere long it ceased to be talked about

at all.

But these precautions were of no avail, for Madame Delmare had her own

reasons for suspecting a part of the truth; the bitter reproaches she

had heaped on the unhappy girl on that fatal evening seemed to her a

sufficient explanation of her sudden resolution. So it was that, at the

ghastly moment when she discovered the dead body floating in the water,

Indiana's repose, already so disturbed, and her heart, already so sad,

had received the final blow; her lingering disease was progressing

actively; and this woman, young and perhaps strong, refusing to be

cured, concealing her sufferings from her husband's undiscerning and far

from delicate affection, sank voluntarily beneath the burden of sorrow

and discouragement.

"Woe is me!" she cried as she entered her room, after learning of

Raymon's impending visit. "A curse on that man, who has entered this

house only to bring despair and death! O God! why dost Thou permit him

to come between Thee and me, to take command of my destiny at his

pleasure, so that he has only to put out his hand and say: 'She is mine!

I will derange her reason, I will bring desolation into her life; and if

she resists me I will spread mourning around her, I will encompass her

with remorse, regrets and alarms!' O God! it is not fair that a poor

woman should be so persecuted!"

She wept bitterly; for the thought of Raymon revived the memory of Noun,

more vivid and heartrending than ever.

"Poor Noun! my poor playmate! my countrywoman, my only friend!" she

exclaimed sorrowfully; "that man is your murderer. Unhappy child! his

influence was fatal to you as to me! You loved me so dearly, you were

the only one who could divine my sorrows and mitigate them by your

artless gayety! Woe to me who have lost you! Was it for this that I

brought you from so far away! By what wiles did that man surprise your

good faith and induce you to do such a despicable thing? Ah! he must

have deceived you shamefully, and you did not realize your error until

you saw my indignation! I was too harsh, Noun, I was so harsh that I was

downright cruel; I drove you to despair, I killed you! Poor girl! why

did you not wait a few hours until the wind had blown away my resentment

like a wisp of straw! Why did you not come and weep on my bosom and say:

'I was deceived; I acted without knowing what I was doing, but you know

well enough that I respect you and love you!'--I would have taken you in

my arms, we would have wept together, and you would not be dead. Dead!

dead so young and so lovely and so full of life! Dead at nineteen and

such a ghastly death!"

While thus weeping for her companion, Indiana, unknown to herself, wept

also for her three days of illusion, the loveliest days of her life, the

only days when she had really lived; for during those three days she had

loved with a passion which Raymon, had he been the most presumptuous of

men, could never have imagined. But the blinder and more violent that

love had been, the more keenly had she felt the insult she had received;

the first love of a heart like hers contains so much modesty and

sensitive delicacy!

And yet Indiana had yielded to a burst of shame and anger rather than to

a well-matured determination. I have no doubt that Raymon would have

obtained his pardon had he been allowed a few more minutes in which to

plead for it. But fate had defeated his love and his address, and Madame

Delmare honestly believed now that she hated him.

X

For his part, it was neither in a spirit of bravado nor because of the

injury to his self-esteem that he aspired more ardently than ever to

Madame Delmare's love and forgiveness. He believed that they were

unattainable, and no other woman's love, no other earthly joy seemed to

him their equivalent. Such was his nature. An insatiable craving for

action and excitement consumed his life. He loved society with its laws

and its fetters, because it offered him material for combat and

resistance; and if he had a horror of license and debauchery, it was

because they promised insipid and easily obtained pleasure.

Do not believe, however, that he was insensible to Noun's ruin. In the

first impulse, he conceived a horror of himself and loaded his pistols

with a very real purpose of blowing out his brains; but a praiseworthy

feeling stayed his hand. What would become of his mother, his aged,

feeble mother, the poor woman whose life had been so agitated and so

sorrowful, who lived only for him, her only treasure, her only hope?

Must he break her heart, shorten the few years that still remained to

her? No, surely not. The best way to redeem his wrongdoing was to devote

himself thenceforth solely to his mother, and it was with that purpose

in mind that he returned to her at Paris, and put forth all his energies

to make her forget his desertion of her during a large part of the

winter.

Raymon exerted an incredible influence over everybody about him; for,

take him for all in all, with his faults and his youthful escapades, he

was above the average of society men. We have not as yet told you upon

what his reputation for wit and talent was based, because it was aside

from the events we had to describe; but it is time to inform you that

this Raymon, whose weaknesses you have followed and whose frivolity you

have censured, is one of the men who have had the most control and

influence over your thoughts, whatever your opinions to-day may be. You

have devoured his political pamphlets, and, while reading the newspapers

of the period, you have often been captivated by the irresistible charm

of his style and the grace of his courteous and worldly logic.

I am speaking of a time already far away, in these days when time is no

longer reckoned by centuries, nor even by reigns, but by ministries. I

am speaking of the Martignac year, of that epoch of repose and doubt,

interjected in the middle of a political era, not like a treaty of

peace, but like an armistice; of those fifteen months of the reign of

doctrines, which had such a strange influence on principles and on

morals, and which may perhaps have paved the way for the extraordinary

result of our latest revolution.

It was in those days that men saw the blooming of certain youthful

talents, unfortunate in that they were born in a period of transition

and of compromise; for they paid their tribute to the conciliatory and

wavering tendencies of the time. Never, so far as I know, was knowledge

of mere words and ignorance, or pretended ignorance, of things carried

so far. It was the reign of restrictions, and it is beyond my power to

say who made the fullest use of them, short-gowned Jesuits or

long-gowned lawyers. Political moderation had become a part of the

national character, like courteous manners, and it was the same with the

first variety of courtesy as with the second: it served as a mask for

secret antipathies, and taught them how to fight without scandal and

publicity. We must say, however, in defence of the young men of that

period, that they were often towed like light skiffs in the wake of

great ships, with no very clear idea of where they were being taken,

proud and happy to be cleaving the waves and swelling out their new

sails.

Placed by his birth and his wealth among the partisans of absolute

royalty, Raymon made a sacrifice to the _youthful_ ideas of his time by

clinging religiously to the Charter; at all events that was what he

thought that he was doing and what he exerted himself to prove. But

conventions that have fallen into desuetude are subject to

interpretation, and the Charter of Louis XVIII was already in the same

plight as the Gospel of Jesus Christ; it was simply a text upon which

everybody practised his powers of eloquence, and a speech thereon

created a precedent no more than a sermon. A period of luxurious living

and indolence, when civilization lay sleeping on the brink of a

bottomless abyss, eager to enjoy its last pleasures.

Raymon had taken his stand upon the line between abuse of power and

abuse of licence, a shifting ground upon which good men still sought,

but in vain, a shelter from the tempest that was brewing. To him, as to

many other experienced minds, the rôle of conscientious statesman still

seemed possible. A manifest error at a time when people pretended to

defer to the voice of reason only to stifle it the more surely on every

side. Being without political passions, Raymon fancied that he was

without interests to promote; but he was mistaken, for society,

constituted as it then was, was agreeable and advantageous to him; it

could not be disturbed without a diminution in the sum total of his

well-being, and that perfect contentment with one's social position,

which communicates itself to the thought, is a wonderful promoter of

moderation. Who is so ungrateful to Providence as to reproach it for the

misfortunes of other people, if it has only smiles and benefactions for

him? How was it possible to persuade those young supporters of the

constitutional monarchy that the constitution was already antiquated,

that it weighed heavily on the social body and fatigued it, while they

found its burdens light and reaped only its advantages?

Nothing is so easy and so common as to deceive one's self when one does

not lack wit and is familiar with all the niceties of the language.

Language is a prostitute queen who descends and rises to all rôles,

disguises herself, arrays herself in fine apparel, hides her head and

effaces herself; an advocate who has an answer for everything, who has

always foreseen everything, and who assumes a thousand forms in order to

be right. The most honorable of men is he who thinks best and acts best,

but the most powerful is he who is best able to talk and write.

As his wealth relieved him from the necessity of writing for money,

Raymon wrote from a liking for it, and--he said it with perfect good

faith--from a sense of duty. The rare faculty that he possessed, of

refuting positive truth by sheer talent, had made him an invaluable man

to the ministry, whom he served much better by his impartial criticism

than did its creatures by their blind devotion; and even more invaluable

to that fashionable young society which was quite willing to abjure the

absurdities of its former privileges, but wished at the same time to

retain the benefit of its present advantageous position.

They were in very truth men of great talent who still supported society,

tottering on the brink of the precipice, and who, being themselves

suspended between two reefs, struggled calmly and with perfect

self-possession against the harsh reality that was on the point of

engulfing them. To succeed in such wise as to create a conviction

against every sort of probability and to keep that conviction alive for

some time among men of no convictions, is the art which most impresses

and surpasses the understanding of an uncultivated, vulgar mind which

has studied none but commonplace truths.

Thus Raymon had no sooner returned to that society, which was his

element and his home, than he felt its vital and exciting influences.

The petty love affairs that had engrossed him vanished for a moment in

the face of broader and more brilliant interests. He carried into these

the same boldness of attack, the same ardor; and when he saw that he was

more eagerly sought than ever by all the most distinguished people in

Paris, he felt that he loved life more than ever. Was he to be blamed

for forgetting a secret remorse while reaping the reward he had merited

for services rendered his country? He felt life overflowing through

every pore of his young heart, his active brain, his whole vigorous and

buoyant being, he felt that destiny was making him happy in spite of

himself; and he would crave forgiveness of an indignant ghost that came

sometimes and bewailed her fate in his dreams, for having sought in the

affection of the living a protection against the terrors of the grave.

But he had no sooner returned to life, as it were, than he felt, as in

the past, the need of mingling thoughts of love and plans of intrigue

with his political meditations, his dreams of ambition and philosophy. I

say ambition, not meaning ambition for honor and wealth, for which he

had no use, but for reputation and aristocratic popularity.

He had at first despaired of ever seeing Madame Delmare again after the

tragic ending of his double intrigue. But, as he measured the extent of

his loss, as he brooded over the thought of the treasure that had

escaped him, he conceived the hope of grasping it once more, and, at the

same time he regained determination and confidence. He calculated the

obstacles he should encounter, and realized that the most difficult to

overcome at the outset would come from Indiana herself; therefore he

must use the husband to protect him from the attack. This was not a new

idea, but it was sure; jealous husbands are particularly well adapted to

this service.

A fortnight after he had conceived this idea, Raymon was on the way to

Lagny, where he was expected to breakfast. You will not require me to

describe to you in detail the shrewdly proffered services by which he

had succeeded in making himself agreeable to Monsieur Delmare; I prefer,

as I am describing the features of the characters in this tale, to draw

a hasty sketch of the colonel for you.

Do you know what they call an _honest_ man in the provinces? He is a man

who does not encroach on his neighbor's field; who does not demand from

his debtors a sou more than they owe him; who raises his hat to every

person who bows to him; who does not ravish maidens in the public roads;

who sets fire to no other man's barn; who does not rob wayfarers at the

corner of his park. Provided that he religiously respects the lives and

purses of his fellow-citizens, nothing more is demanded of him. He may

beat his wife, maltreat his servants, ruin his children, and it is

nobody's business. Society punishes only those acts which are injurious

to it; private life is beyond its jurisdiction.

Such was Monsieur Delmare's theory of morals. He had never studied any

other social contract than this: _Every man is master in his own house._

He treated all affairs of the heart as feminine puerilities, sentimental

subtleties. Being a man devoid of wit, of tact and of education, he

enjoyed greater consideration than a man obtains by dint of talent and

amiability. He had broad shoulders and a strong wrist; he handled the

sword and the sabre perfectly, and was exceedingly quick to take

offence. As he did not always understand a joke, he was constantly

haunted by the idea that people were making fun of him. Being incapable

of suitable repartee, he had but one way of defending himself: to

enforce silence by threats. His favorite epigrams always turned upon

cowhidings to be administered and affairs of honor to be settled;

wherefore the province always prefixed to his name the epithet _brave_

because military valor apparently consists in having broad shoulders and

long moustaches, in swearing fiercely, and in putting one's hand to the

sword on the slightest pretext.

God forbid that I should believe that camp life makes all men brutes!

but I may be permitted to believe that one must have a large stock of

tact and discretion to resist the habit of passive and brutal

domination. If you have served in the army, you are familiar with what

the troops call _skin-breeches_, and will agree that there are large

numbers of them among the remains of the old imperial cohorts. Those men

who, when brought together and urged forward by a powerful hand,

performed such magnificent exploits, towered like giants amid the smoke

of the battle-field; but, having returned to civil life, the heroes

became mere soldiers once more, bold, vulgar fellows who reasoned like

machines; and it was fortunate if they did not behave in society as in

conquered territory. It was the fault of the age rather than theirs.

Ingenuous minds, they had faith in the adulation of victory, and allowed

themselves to be persuaded that they were great patriots because they

defended their country--some against their will, others for money and

honors. But how did they defend it, those tens of thousands of men who

blindly embraced the error of a single man, and who, after saving their

country, basely destroyed it? And again, if a soldier's devotion to his

captain seems to you a great and noble thing, well and good, so it does

to me; but I call that fidelity, not patriotism. I congratulate the

conquerors of Spain, I do not thank them. As for the honor of the French

name, I by no means understand that method of safeguarding it among

neighbors, and I find it difficult to believe that the Emperor's

generals were very deeply engrossed by it at that deplorable stage of

our glory; but I know that we are forbidden to discuss these matters

impartially; I hold my peace, posterity will pass judgment on them.

Monsieur Delmare had all the good qualities and all the failings of

these men. He was innocent to childishness concerning certain

refinements of the point of honor, yet he was very well able to conduct

his affairs to the best possible end without disturbing himself as to

the good or evil which might result therefrom to others. His whole

conscience was the law; his whole moral code was his rights under the

law. His was one of those rigid, unbending probities which never borrow

for fear of not returning, and never lend for fear of not recovering. He

was the honest man who neither takes nor gives aught; who would rather

die than steal a bundle of sticks in the king's forest, but would kill

you without ceremony for picking up a twig in his. He was useful to

himself alone, harmful to nobody. He took part in nothing that was going

on about him, lest he might be compelled to do somebody a favor. But,

when he deemed himself in honor bound to do it, no one could go about it

with more energy and zeal and a more chivalrous spirit. At once trustful

as a child and suspicious as a despot, he would believe a false oath and

distrust a sincere promise. As in the military profession, form was

everything with him. Public opinion governed him so exclusively that

common sense and argument counted for nothing in his decisions, and when

he said: "Such things are done," he thought that he had stated an

irrefutable argument.

Thus it will be seen that his nature was most antipathetic to his

wife's, his heart entirely unfitted to understand her, his mind entirely

incapable of appreciating her. And yet it is certain that slavery had

engendered in her woman's heart a sort of virtuous and unspoken aversion

which was not always just. Madame Delmare doubted her husband's heart

overmuch; he was only harsh and she deemed him cruel. There was more

roughness than anger in his outbreaks, more vulgarity than impertinence

in his manners. Nature had not made him evil-minded: he had moments of

compassion which led him to repentance, and in his repentance he was

almost sensitive. It was camp life that had raised brutality to a

principle in him. With a less refined, less gentle wife he would have

been as gentle as a tame wolf; but this woman was disheartened with her

fate; she did not take the trouble to try to make it happier.