Indiana had ceased to reproach Raymon; he defended himself so badly that
she was afraid of finding him too worthy of blame. There was one thing
which she dreaded much more than being deceived, and that was being
abandoned. She could not live without her belief in him, without her
hope of the future he had promised her; for her life with Monsieur
Delmare and Ralph had become hateful to her, and if she had not expected
soon to escape from the power of those two men, she would have drowned
herself at once. She often thought of it; she said to herself that if
Raymon treated her as he had treated Noun there would be no other way
for her to avoid an unendurable future than to join Noun. That sombre
thought followed her everywhere and she took pleasure in it.
Meanwhile the time fixed for their departure from France drew near. The
colonel seemed to have no suspicion of the resistance which his wife was
meditating; every day he made some progress in the settlement of his
affairs, every day he paid off one more creditor; and Madame Delmare
looked on with a tranquil eye at all these preparations, sure as she was
of her own courage. She was preparing, too, for her struggle with the
difficulties she anticipated. She sought to procure an ally in her aunt,
Madame de Carvajal, and dilated to her upon her repugnance to the
journey; and the old marchioness who--to give her no more than her
due--built great hopes of attracting _custom_ to her salon upon her
niece's beauty, declared that it was the colonel's duty to leave his
wife in France; that it would be downright barbarity to expose her to
the fatigues and dangers of an ocean voyage when her health had just
begun to show some slight improvement; in a word, that it was his place
to go to work at rebuilding his fortune, Indiana's to remain with her
old aunt and take care of her. At first Monsieur Delmare looked upon
these insinuations as the doting talk of an old woman; but he was forced
to pay more attention to them when Madame de Carvajal gave him clearly
to understand that her inheritance was to be had only at that price.
Although Delmare loved money like a man who had worked hard all his life
to amass it, he had some pride in his composition; he pronounced his
ultimatum with decision, and declared that his wife should go with him
at any risk. The marchioness, who could not believe that money was not
the absolute sovereign of every man of good sense, did not look upon
this as Monsieur Delmare's last word; she continued to encourage her
niece in her resistance, proposing to assume the responsibility for her
action in the eyes of the world. It needed all the indelicacy of a mind
corrupted by intrigue and ambition, all the shuffling of a heart
distorted by constant devotion to mere external show, to close her eyes
thus to the real causes of Indiana's rebellion. Her passion for Monsieur
de Ramière was a secret to no one but her husband; but as Indiana had
as yet given scandal nothing to seize upon, the secret was mentioned
only in undertones, and Madame de Carvajal had been confidentially
informed of it by more than a score of persons. The foolish old woman
was flattered by it; all that she desired was to have her niece _à la
mode_ in society, and an intrigue with Raymon was a fine beginning. And
yet Madame de Carvajal's moral character was not of the Regency type;
the Restoration had given a virtuous impulse to minds of that stamp; and
as _conduct_ was demanded at court, the marchioness detested nothing so
much as the scandal that ruins and destroys. Under Madame du Barry she
would have been less rigid in her principles; under the Dauphiness she
became one of the _high-necked._ But all this was for show, for the sake
of appearances; she kept her disapprobation and her scorn for notorious
misconduct, and she always awaited the result of an intrigue before
condemning it. Those infidelities which did not cross the threshold were
venial in her eyes. She became a Spaniard once more to pass judgment on
passions inside the blinds; in her eyes there was no guilt save that
which was placarded in the streets for passers-by to see. So that
Indiana, passionate but chaste, enamored but reserved, was a precious
subject to exhibit and exploit; such a woman as she was might fascinate
the strongest brains in that hypocritical society and withstand the
perils of the most delicate missions. There was an excellent chance to
speculate on the responsibility of so pure a mind and so passionate a
heart. Poor Indiana! luckily her fatal destiny surpassed all her hopes
and led her into an abyss of misery where her aunt's pernicious
protection did not seek her out.
Raymon was not disturbed as to what was to become of her. This intrigue
had already reached the last stage of distaste, deathly ennui, so far as
he was concerned. To cause ennui is to descend as low as possible in the
regard of the person whom one loves. Luckily for the last days of her
illusion, Indiana had no suspicion of it.
One morning, on returning from a ball, he found Madame Delmare in his
room. She had come at midnight; for five mortal hours she had been
waiting! It was in the coldest part of the year; she had no fire, but
sat with her head resting on her hand, enduring cold and anxiety with
the gloomy patience which the whole course of her life had taught her.
She raised her head when he entered, and Raymon, speechless with
amazement, could detect on her pale face no indication of anger or
reproach.
"I was waiting for you," she said gently; "as you had not come to see me
for three days, and as things have happened which it is important that
you should know without delay, I came here last night in order to tell
you of them."
"It is imprudent beyond belief!" said Raymon, cautiously locking the
door behind him; "and my people know that you are here! They just told
me so."
"I made no attempt at concealment," she replied coldly; "and as for the
word you use, I consider it ill-chosen."
"I said imprudent, I should have said insane."
"And I should say _courageous._ But no matter; listen to me. Monsieur
Delmare starts for Bordeaux in three days, and sails thence for the
colony. You and I agreed that you should protect me from violence if he
employed it; there is no question that he will, for I made known my
determination last evening and he locked me into my room. I escaped
through a window; see, my hands are bleeding. They may be looking for me
at this moment, but Ralph is at Bellerive so that he will not be able to
tell where I am. I have decided to remain in hiding until Monsieur
Delmare has made up his mind to leave me behind. Have you thought about
making ready for my flight, of preparing a hiding-place for me? It is so
long since I have been able to see you alone, that I do not know what
your present inclinations are; but one day, when I expressed some doubt
concerning your resolution, you told me that you could not imagine love
without confidence; you reminded me that you had never doubted me, you
proved to me that I was unjust, and thereupon I was afraid of remaining
below your level if I did not cast aside such puerile suspicions and the
innumerable little exactions by which women degrade ordinary
love-affairs. I have endured with resignation the brevity of your calls,
the embarrassment of our interviews, the eagerness with which you seemed
to avoid any free exchange of sentiments with me; I have retained my
confidence in you. Heaven is my witness that when anxiety and fear were
gnawing at my heart I spurned them as criminal thoughts. I have come now
to seek the reward of my faith; the time has come; tell me, do you
accept my sacrifices?"
The crisis was so urgent that Raymon did not feel bold enough to pretend
any longer. Desperate, frantic to find himself caught in his own trap,
he lost his head and vented his temper in coarse and brutal
maledictions.
"You are a mad woman!" he cried, throwing himself into a chair. "Where
have you dreamed of love? in what romance written for the entertainment
of lady's-maids, have you studied society, I pray to know?"
He paused, realizing that he had been far too rough, and cudgelling his
brains to find a way of saying the same things in other terms and of
sending her away without insulting her.
But she was calm, like one prepared to listen to anything.
"Go on," she said, folding her arms over her heart, whose throbbing
gradually grew less violent; "I am listening; I presume that you have
something more than that to say to me?"
"Still another effort of the imagination, another love scene," thought
Raymon.--"Never," he cried, springing excitedly to his feet, "never will
I accept such sacrifices! When I told you that I should have the
strength to do it, Indiana, I boasted too much, or rather I slandered
myself; for the man is no better than a dastard who will consent to
dishonor the woman he loves. In your ignorance of life, you failed to
realize the importance of such a plan, and I, in my despair at the
thought of losing you, did not choose to reflect----"
"Your power of reflection has returned very suddenly!" she said,
withdrawing her hand, which he tried to take.
"Indiana," he rejoined, "do you not see that you impose the dishonorable
part on me, while you reserve the heroic part for yourself, and that you
condemn me because I desire to remain worthy of your love? Could you
continue to love me, ignorant and simple-hearted woman that you are, if
I sacrificed your life to my pleasure, your reputation to my selfish
interests?"
"You say things that are very contradictory," said Indiana; "if I made
you happy by remaining with you, what do you care for public opinion? Do
you care more for it than for me?"
"Oh! I do not care for it on my account, Indiana!"
"Is it on my account then? I anticipated your scruples and to spare you
anything like remorse I have taken the initiative; I did not wait for
you to come and carry me away from my home, I did not even consult you
with regard to crossing my husband's threshold forever. That decisive
step is taken, and your conscience cannot reproach you for it. At this
moment, Raymon, I am dishonored. In your absence I counted on yonder
clock the hours that consummated my disgrace; and now, although the dawn
finds my brow as pure as it was yesterday, I am a lost creature in
public opinion. Yesterday there was still some compassion for me in the
hearts of other women; to-day there will be no feeling left but
contempt. I considered all these things before acting."
"Infernal female foresight!" thought Raymon.
And then, struggling against her as he would have done against a bailiff
who had come to levy on his furniture, he said in a caressing fatherly
tone:
"You exaggerate the importance of what you have done. No, my love, all
is not lost because of one rash step. I will enjoin silence on my
servants."
"Will you enjoin silence on mine who, I doubt not, are anxiously looking
for me at this moment. And my husband, do you think he will quietly keep
the secret? do you think he will consent to receive me to-morrow, when I
have passed a whole night under your roof? Will you advise me to go back
and throw myself at his feet, and ask him, as a proof of his
forgiveness, to be kind enough to replace on my neck the chain which has
crushed my life and withered my youth? You would consent, without
regret, to see the woman whom you loved so dearly go back and resume
another man's yoke, when you have her fate in your hands, when you can
keep her in your arms all your life, when she is in your power, offering
to remain there forever! You would not feel the least repugnance, the
least alarm in surrendering her at once to the implacable master, who
perhaps awaits her coming only to kill her!"
A thought flashed through Raymon's brain. The moment had come to subdue
that womanly pride, or it would never come. She had offered him all the
sacrifices that he did not want, and she stood before him in overweening
confidence that she ran no other risks than those she had foreseen.
Raymon conceived a scheme for ridding himself of her embarrassing
devotion or of deriving some profit from it. He was too good a friend of
Delmare, he owed too much consideration to the man's unbounded
confidence to steal his wife from him; he must content himself with
seducing her.
"You are right, my Indiana," he cried with animation, "you bring me back
to myself, you rekindle my transports which the thought of your danger
and the dread of injuring you had cooled. Forgive my childish solicitude
and let me prove to you how much of tenderness and genuine love it
denotes. Your sweet voice makes my blood quiver, your burning words pour
fire into my veins; forgive, oh! forgive me for having thought of
anything else than this ineffable moment when I at last possess you. Let
me forget all the dangers that threaten us and thank you on my knees for
the happiness you bring me; let me live entirely in this hour of bliss
which I pass at your feet and for which all my blood would not pay. Let
him come, that dolt of a husband who locks you up and goes to sleep upon
his vulgar brutality, let him come and snatch you from my transports!
let him come and snatch you from my arms, my treasure, my life!
Henceforth you do not belong to him; you are my sweetheart, my
companion, my mistress----"
As he pleaded thus, Raymon gradually worked himself up, as he was
accustomed to do when _arguing_ his passions. It was a powerful, a
romantic situation; it offered some risks. Raymon loved danger, like a
genuine descendant of a race of valiant knights. Every sound that he
heard in the street seemed to denote the coming of the husband to claim
his wife and his rival's blood. To seek the joys of love in the stirring
emotions of such a situation was a diversion worthy of Raymon. For a
quarter of an hour he loved Madame Delmare passionately, he lavished
upon her the seductions of burning eloquence. He was truly powerful in
his language and sincere in his behavior--this man whose ardent brain
considered love-making a polite accomplishment. He played at passion so
well that he deceived himself. Shame upon that foolish woman! She
abandoned herself in ecstasy to those treacherous demonstrations; she
was happy, she was radiant with hope and joy; she forgave everything,
she almost accorded everything.
But Raymon ruined himself by over-precipitation. If he had carried his
art so far as to prolong for twenty-four hours the situation in which
Indiana had risked herself, she would perhaps have been his. But the day
was breaking, bright and rosy; the sun poured floods of light into the
room, and the noise in the street increased with every moment. Raymon
cast a glance at the clock; it was nearly seven.
"It is time to have done with it," he thought; "Delmare may appear at
any moment, and before that happens I must induce her to return home
voluntarily."
He became more urgent and less tender; the pallor of his lips betrayed
the working of an impatience more imperious than delicate. There was in
his kisses a sort of abruptness, almost anger. Indiana was afraid. A
good angel spread its wings over that wavering and bewildered soul; she
came to herself and repelled the attacks of cold and selfish vice.
"Leave me," she said; "I do not propose to yield through weakness what I
am willing to accord for love or gratitude. You cannot need proofs of my
affection; my presence here is a sufficiently decisive one, and I bring
the future with me. But allow me to keep all the strength of my
conscience to contend against the powerful obstacles that still separate
us; I need stoicism and tranquillity."
"What are you talking about?" angrily demanded Raymon, who was furious
at her resistance and had not listened to her.
And, losing his head altogether in that moment of torture and wrath, he
pushed her roughly away and strode up and down the room, with heaving
bosom and head on fire; then he took a carafe and drank a large glass of
water which suddenly calmed his excitement and cooled his love.
Whereupon he looked at her ironically and said:
"Come, madame, it is time for you to retire."
A ray of light at last enlightened Indiana and laid Raymon's heart bare
before her.
"You are right," she said.
And she walked toward the door.
"Pray take your cloak and boa," he said, detaining her.
"To be sure," she retorted, "those traces of my presence might
compromise you."
"You are a child," he said, in a coaxing tone, as he adjusted her cloak
with ostentatious care; "you know very well that I love you; but really
you take pleasure in torturing me, and you drive me mad. Wait until I go
and call a cab. If I could, I would escort you home; but that would ruin
you."
"Pray, do you not think that I am ruined already?" she asked bitterly.
"No, my darling," replied Raymon, who asked nothing better than to
persuade her to leave him in peace. "Nobody has noticed your absence, as
they have not come here yet in search of you. Although I should be the
last one to be suspected, it would be natural to inquire at the houses
of all of your acquaintances. And then you can go and place yourself
under your aunt's protection; indeed, that is the course I advise you to
take; she will arrange everything. You will be supposed to have passed
the night at her house."
Madame Delmare was not listening; she was gazing stupidly at the sun, as
it rose, huge and red, over an expanse of gleaming roofs. Raymon tried
to rouse her from her preoccupation. She turned her eyes on him but
seemed not to recognize him. Her cheeks had a greenish tinge and her
parched lips seemed paralyzed.
Raymon was terrified. He remembered the other's suicide, and, in his
alarm, not knowing which way to turn, dreading lest he should become
twice a criminal in his own eyes, but feeling too exhausted mentally to
be able to deceive her again, he pushed her gently into an easy-chair,
locked the door, and went up to his mother's room.