Despite these never-ending dissensions, Madame Delmare clung with the
confidence of her years to the hope of a happy future. It was her first
happiness; and her ardent imagination, her rich young heart, were able
to supply it with all that it lacked. She was ingenious in creating keen
and pure joys for herself--in bestowing upon herself the complement of
the precarious favors of her destiny. Raymon loved her. In truth he did
not lie when he told her that she was the only love of his life; he had
never loved so innocently nor so long. With her he forgot everything but
her. The world and politics were blotted out by the thought of her; he
enjoyed the domestic life, the being treated like one of the family, as
she treated him. He admired her patience and her strength of will; he
wondered at the contrast between her mind and her character; he wondered
especially that, after importing so much solemnity into their first
compact, she was so unexacting, satisfied with such furtive and
infrequent joys, and that she trusted him so blindly and so absolutely.
But love was a novel and generous passion in her heart, and a thousand
noble and delicate sentiments were included in it and gave it a force
which Raymon could not understand.
For his own part, he was annoyed at first by the constant presence of
the husband or the cousin. He had intended that this love should be like
all his previous loves, but Indiana soon compelled him to rise to her
level. The resignation with which she endured the constant surveillance,
the happy air with which she glanced at him by stealth, her eyes which
spoke to him in eloquent though silent language, her sublime smile when
a sudden allusion in conversation brought their hearts nearer
together--these soon became keen pleasures which Raymon craved and
appreciated, thanks to the refinement of his mind and the culture of
education.
What a difference between that chaste creature who seemed not to
contemplate the possibility of a _dénoûment_ to her love and all those
other women who were intent only upon hastening it while pretending to
shun it! When Raymon happened to be alone with her, Indiana's cheeks did
not turn a deeper red, nor did she avert her eyes in confusion. No, her
tranquil, limpid eyes were always fixed upon him in ecstasy; an angelic
smile played always about her lips, as ruddy as a little girl's who has
known no kisses but her mother's. When he saw her so trustful, so
passionate, so pure, living solely with the heart and not realizing that
her lover's heart was in torment when he was at her feet, Raymon dared
not be a man, lest he should seem to her inferior to her dreams of him,
and, through self-love, he became as virtuous as she.
Madame Delmare, ignorant as a genuine creole, had never dreamed hitherto
of considering the momentous questions that were now discussed before
her every day. She had been brought up by Sir Ralph, who had a poor
opinion of the intelligence and reasoning power of womankind, and who
had confined himself to imparting some positive information likely to be
of immediate use. Thus she had a very shadowy idea of the world's
history, and any serious discussion bored her to death. But when she
heard Raymon apply to those dry subjects all the charm of his wit, all
the poesy of his language, she listened and tried to understand; then
she ventured timidly to ask ingenuous questions which a girl of ten
brought up according to worldly ideas would readily have answered.
Raymon took pleasure in enlightening that virgin mind which seemed
destined to open to receive his principles; but, despite the power he
exerted over her untrained, artless mind, his sophisms sometimes
encountered resistance from her.
Indiana opposed to the interests of civilization, when raised to the
dignity of principles of action, the straight-forward ideas and simple
laws of good sense and humanity; her arguments were characterized by an
unpolished freedom which sometimes embarrassed Raymon and always charmed
him by its childlike originality. He applied himself as to a task of
serious importance to the attempt to bring her around gradually to his
principles, to his beliefs. He would have been proud to dominate her
conscientious and naturally enlightened convictions; but he had some
difficulty in attaining his end. Ralph's generous theories, his
unbending hatred of the vices of society, his keen impatience for the
reign of other laws and other morals were sentiments to which Indiana's
unhappy memories responded. But Raymon suddenly unhorsed his adversary
by demonstrating that this aversion for the present was the work of
selfishness; he described with much warmth his own attachments, his
devotion to the royal family, which he had the art to clothe with all
the heroism of a perilous loyalty, his respect for the persecuted faith
of his fathers, his religious sentiments, which were not the fruit of
reasoning, he said, but to which he clung by instinct and from
necessity. And the joy of loving one's fellow-creatures, of being bound
to the present generation by all the ties of honor and philanthropy; the
pleasure of serving one's country by repelling dangerous innovations, by
maintaining domestic peace, by giving, if need be, all one's blood to
save the shedding of one drop of that of the lowest of one's countrymen!
he depicted all these attractive Utopian visions with so much art and
charm that Indiana submitted to be led on to the feeling that she must
love and respect all that Raymon loved and respected. It was fairly
proved that Ralph was an egotist; when he maintained a generous idea,
they smiled; it was clear that at such times his heart and his mind were
in contradiction. Was it not better to believe Raymon, who had such a
big, warm, expansive heart?
There were moments, however, when Raymon almost forgot his love to think
only of his antipathy. When he was with Madame Delmare, he could see
nobody but Sir Ralph, who presumed, with his rough, cool common sense,
to attack him, a man of superior talents, who had overthrown such
doughty adversaries! He was humiliated to find himself engaged with so
paltry an adversary, and thereupon would overwhelm him with the weight
of his eloquence; he would bring into play all the resources of his
talent, and Ralph, bewildered, slow in collecting his ideas, slower
still in expressing them, would be made painfully conscious of his
weakness.
At such moments it seemed to Indiana that Raymon's thoughts were
altogether diverted from her; she had spasms of anxiety and terror as
she reflected that perhaps all those noble and high-sounding sentiments
so eloquently declaimed were simply the pompous scaffolding of words,
the ironical harangue of the lawyer, listening to himself and practising
the comedy which is to take by surprise the good-nature of the tribunal.
She was especially fearful when, as her eyes met his, she fancied that
she saw gleaming in them, not the pleasure of having been understood by
her, but the triumphant self-satisfaction of having made a fine
argument. She was afraid at such times, and her thoughts turned to
Ralph, the egotist, to whom they had perhaps been unjust; but Ralph was
not tactful enough to say anything to prolong this uncertainty, and
Raymon was very skilful in removing it.
Thus there was but one really perturbed existence, but one really ruined
happiness in that domestic circle: the existence and happiness of Sir
Ralph Brown, a man born to misfortune, for whom life had displayed no
brilliant aspects, no intense, heart-filling joys; a victim of great but
secret unhappiness, who complained to no one and whom no one pitied; a
truly accursed destiny, in the poetic sense without thrilling
adventures; a commonplace, bourgeois, melancholy destiny, which no
friendship had sweetened, no love charmed, which was endured in silence,
with the heroism which the love of life and the need of hoping give; a
lonely mortal who had had a father and mother like everybody else, a
brother, a wife, a son, a friend, and who had reaped no benefit,
retained nothing of all those ties; a stranger in life who went his way
melancholy and indifferent, having not even that exalted consciousness
of his misfortune which enables one to find some fascination in sorrow.
Despite his strength of character, he sometimes felt discouraged with
virtue. He hated Raymon, and it was in his power to drive him from Lagny
with a word; but he did not say it, because he had one belief, a single
one, which was stronger than Raymon's countless beliefs. It was neither
the church, nor the monarchy, nor society, nor reputation, nor the law,
which dictated his sacrifices and his courage--it was his conscience.
He had lived so alone that he had not accustomed himself to rely upon
others; but he had learned, in his isolation, to know himself. He had
made a friend of his own heart; by dint of self-communion, of asking
himself the cause of the unjust acts of others, he had assured himself
that he had not earned them by any vice; he had ceased to be irritated
by them, because he set little store by his own personality, which he
knew to be insipid and commonplace. He understood the indifference of
which he was the object, and he had chosen his course with regard to it;
but his heart told him that he was capable of feeling all that he did
not inspire, and, while he was disposed to forgive everything in others,
he had decided to tolerate nothing in himself. This wholly inward life,
these wholly private sensations gave him all the outward appearance of a
selfish man; indeed nothing resembles selfishness more closely than
self-respect.
However, as it often happens that, because we attempt to do too much
good, we do much less than enough, it happened that Sir Ralph made a
great mistake from over-scrupulousness and caused Madame Delmare an
irreparable injury from dread of burdening his own conscience with a
cause of reproach. That mistake was his failure to enlighten her as to
the real reasons of Noun's death. Had he done so she would doubtless
have reflected on the perils of her love for Raymon; but we shall see
later why Monsieur Brown dared not inform his cousin and what painful
scruples led him to keep silence on so momentous a question. When he
decided to break his silence it was too late; Raymon had had time to
establish his empire.
An unforeseen event occurred to cloud the future prospects of the
colonel and his wife; a business house in Belgium, upon which all the
prosperity of the Delmare establishment depended, had suddenly failed,
and the colonel, who had hardly recovered his health, started in hot
haste for Antwerp.
He was still so weak and ill that his wife wished to accompany him; but
Monsieur Delmare, being threatened with complete ruin and resolved to
honor all his obligations, feared that his journey would then seem too
much like a flight; so he determined to leave his wife at Lagny as a
pledge of his return. He even declined the company of Sir Ralph and
begged him to remain and stand by Madame Delmare in case of any trouble
on the part of anxious or over-eager creditors.
At this painful crisis Indiana was alarmed at nothing save the
possibility of having to leave Lagny and be separated from Raymon; but
he comforted her by convincing her that the colonel would surely go to
Paris. Moreover he gave her his word that he would follow her, on some
pretext or other, wherever she might go, and the credulous creature
deemed herself almost happy in a misfortune which enabled her to put
Raymon's love to the test. As for him, a vague hope, a persistent,
importunate thought had absorbed his mind ever since he had heard of
this event: he was to be alone with Indiana at last, the first time for
six months. She had never seemed to attempt to avoid a tête-à-tête,
and although he was in no haste to triumph over a love whose ingenuous
chastity had for him the attraction of novelty, he was beginning to feel
that his honor was involved in bringing it to some conclusion. He
honorably repelled any malicious insinuation concerning his relations
with Madame Delmare; he declared very modestly that there was nothing
more than a placid and pleasant friendship between them; but not for
anything in the world would he have admitted, even to his best friend,
that he had been passionately in love for six months and had as yet
obtained no fruit of that love.
He was somewhat disappointed in his anticipations when he saw that Sir
Ralph seemed determined to replace Monsieur Delmare so far as
surveillance was concerned, that he appeared at Lagny in the morning and
did not return to Bellerive until night; indeed, as their road was the
same for some distance, Ralph, with an intolerable affectation of
courtesy, insisted upon timing his departure by Raymon's. This
constraint soon became intensely disagreeable to Monsieur de Ramière,
and Madame Delmare fancied that she could detect in it not only a
suspicion insulting to herself, but a purpose to assume despotic control
over her conduct.
Raymon dared not request a secret interview; whenever he had made the
attempt, Madame Delmare had reminded him of certain conditions agreed
upon between them. Meanwhile a week had passed since the colonel's
departure; he might return very soon; the present opportunity must be
turned to advantage. To allow Sir Ralph the victory would be a disgrace
to Raymon. One morning he slipped this letter into Madame Delmare's
hand:
"Indiana! do you not love me as I love you? My angel! I am unhappy and
you do not see it. I am sad, anxious concerning your future, not my own;
for, wherever you may be, there I shall live and die. But the thought of
poverty alarms me on your account; ill and frail as you are, my poor
child, how will you endure privation? You have a rich and generous
cousin: your husband will perhaps accept at his hands what he will
refuse at mine. Ralph will ameliorate your lot, and I shall be able to
do nothing for you!
"Be sure, be sure, my dear love, that I have reason to be depressed and
disappointed. You are heroic, you laugh at everything, you insist that I
must not grieve. Ah! how I crave your gentle words, your sweet glances,
to sustain my courage! But, by a monstrous fatality, these days that I
hoped to pass freely at your feet, have brought me nothing but a
constraint that grows ever more galling.
"Say a word, Indiana, so that we may be alone at least an hour, that I
may weep upon your white hands and tell you all that I suffer, and that
a word from you may console and comfort me.
"And then, Indiana, I have a childish caprice, a genuine lover's
caprice. I would like to enter your room. Oh! don't be frightened, my
gentle creole! It is my bounden duty not only to respect you, but to
fear you; that is the very reason why I would like to enter your room,
to kneel in that place where you were so angry with me, and where, bold
as I am, I dared not look at you. I would like to prostrate myself
there, to pass a meditative, happy hour there; I would crave no other
favor, Indiana, than that you should place your hand on my heart and
cleanse it of its crime, pacify it if it beats too rapidly, and give it
your confidence once more if you find me worthy of you at last. Yes! I
would like to prove to you that now I am worthy, that I know you through
and through, that I worship you with an adoration as pure and holy as
ever maiden conceived for her Madonna! I would like to be sure that you
no longer fear me, that you esteem me as much as I revere you; I would
like to live an hour as angels live, with my head upon your heart. Tell
me, Indiana, may I? One hour--the first, perhaps the last!
"It is time to forgive me, Indiana, to give me back your confidence, so
cruelly snatched from me, so dearly redeemed. Are you not satisfied with
me? Have I not passed six months behind your chair, confining my desires
to a glance at your snow-white neck through the curls of your black
hair, as you leaned over your work, to a breath of the perfume which
emanates from you and which the air from the window at which you sit
brings faintly to my nostrils? Does not such submission deserve the
reward of a kiss? a sister's kiss, if you will, a kiss on the forehead?
I will remain true to our agreements, I swear it. I will ask for
nothing. But, cruel one, will you grant me nothing? Are you afraid of
yourself?"
Madame Delmare went to her room to read this letter; she replied to it
instantly, and handed him the reply with a key to the park-gate, which
he knew too well.
"I afraid of you, Raymon? Oh! no, not now. I know too well that you love
me, I am too blissfully happy in the belief that you love me. Come then,
for I am not afraid of myself either; if I loved you less, perhaps I
should be less calm; but I love you with a love of which you yourself
have no idea. Go away early, so that Ralph may suspect nothing. Return
at midnight; you are familiar with the park and the house; here is the
key of the small gate; lock it after you."
This ingenuous, generous confidence made Raymon blush. He had tried to
inspire it, with the purpose of abusing it; he had counted on the
darkness, the opportunity, the danger. If Indiana had shown any fear,
she was lost; but she was perfectly calm; she placed her trust in his
good faith; he swore that he would give her no cause to repent. But the
important point was to pass a night in her bedroom, in order not to be a
fool in his own eyes, in order to defeat Ralph's prudence, and to be
able to laugh at him in his sleeve. That was a personal gratification
which he craved.