He found her awake; she was accustomed to rise early, the result of
habits of hard-working activity which she had formed during the
emigration, and which she had not abandoned when she recovered her
wealth.
Seeing Raymon enter her room so late, pale and excited, and in full
dress, she realized that he was struggling in one of the frequent crises
of his stormy life. She had always been his refuge and salvation in
these periods of agitation, of which no trace remained save a deep and
sorrowful one in her mother-heart. Her life had been withered and used
up by all that Raymon had acquired and reacquired. Her son's character,
impetuous yet cold, reflective yet passionate, was a consequence of her
inexhaustible love and generous indulgence. He would have been a better
man with a mother less kind; but she had accustomed him to make the most
of all the sacrifices that she consented to make for him; she had taught
him to seek and to advance his own well-being as zealously and as
powerfully as she sought it. Because she deemed herself created to
preserve him from all sorrows and to sacrifice all her own interests to
him, he had accustomed himself to believe that the whole world was
created for him and would place itself in his hand at a word from his
mother. By an abundance of generosity she had succeeded only in forming
a selfish heart.
She turned pale, did the poor mother, and, sitting up in bed, gazed
anxiously at him. Her glance said at once: "What can I do for you? Where
must I go?"
"Mother," he said, grasping the dry, transparent hand that she held out
to him, "I am horribly unhappy, I need your help. Save me from the
troubles by which I am surrounded. I love Madame Delmare, as you
know----"
"I did not know it," said Madame de Ramière, in a tone of affectionate
reproof.
"Don't try to deny it, dear mother," said Raymon, who had no time to
waste; "you did know it, and your admirable delicacy prevented you
speaking of it first. Well, that woman is driving me to despair, and my
brain is going."
"Tell me what you mean!" said Madame de Ramière, with the youthful
vivacity born of ardent maternal love.
"I do not mean to conceal anything from you, especially as I am not
guilty this time. For several months I have been trying to calm her
romantic brain and bring her back to a sense of her duties; but all my
efforts serve only to intensify this thirst for danger, this craving for
adventure that ferments in the brains of all the women of her country.
At this moment she is here, in my room, against my will, and I cannot
induce her to go away."
"Unhappy child!" said Madame de Ramière, dressing herself in haste.
"Such a timid, gentle creature! I will go and see her, talk to her! that
is what you came to ask me to do, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes," said Raymon, moved involuntarily by his mother's goodness of
heart; "go and make her understand the language of reason and kindness.
She will love virtue from your lips, I doubt not; perhaps she will give
way to your caresses; she will recover her self-control, poor creature!
she suffers so keenly!"
Raymon threw himself into a chair and began to weep, the divers emotions
of the morning had so shaken his nerves. His mother wept with him and
could not make up her mind to go down until she had forced him to take
a few drops of ether.
Indiana was not weeping and rose with a calm and dignified air when she
recognized her. Madame de Ramière was so little prepared for such a
dignified and noble bearing, that she felt embarrassed before the
younger woman, as if she had shown lack of consideration for her by
taking her by surprise in her son's bedroom. She yielded to the deep and
true emotion of her heart and opened her arms impulsively. Madame
Delmare threw herself into them; her despair found vent in bitter sobs
and the two women wept a long while on each other's bosom.
But when Madame de Ramière would have spoken, Indiana checked her.
"Do not say anything to me, madame," she said, wiping away her tears;
"you could find no words to say that would not cause me pain. Your
interest and your kisses are enough to prove your generous affection; my
heart is as much relieved as it can be. I will go now; I do not need
your urging to realize what I have to do."
"But I did not come to send you away, but to comfort you," said Madame
de Ramière.
"I cannot be comforted," she replied, kissing her once more; "love me,
that will help me a little; but do not speak to me. Adieu, madame; you
believe in God--pray for me."
"You shall not go alone!" cried Madame de Ramière; "I will myself go
with you to your husband, to justify you, defend you and protect you."
"Generous woman!" said Indiana, embracing her warmly, "you cannot do it.
You alone are ignorant of Raymon's secret; all Paris will be talking
about it to-night, and you would play an incongruous part in such a
story. Let me bear the scandal of it alone; I shall not suffer long."
"What do you mean? would you commit the crime of taking your own life?
Dear child! you too believe in God, do you not?"
"And so, madame, I start for Ile Bourbon in three days."
"Come to my arms, my darling child! come and let me bless you! God will
reward your courage."
"I trust so," said Indiana, looking up at the sky.
Madame de Ramière insisted on sending for a carriage; but Indiana
resisted. She was resolved to return alone and without causing a
sensation. In vain did Raymon's mother express her alarm at the idea of
her undertaking so long a journey on foot in her exhausted, agitated
condition.
"I have strength enough," she said; "a word from Raymon sufficed to give
me all I need."
She wrapped herself in her cloak, lowered her black lace veil and left
the house by a secret door to which Madame de Ramière showed her the
way. As soon as she stepped into the street she felt as if her trembling
legs would refuse to carry her; it seemed to her every moment that she
could feel her furious husband's brutal hand seize her, throw her down
and drag her in the gutter. Soon the noise in the street, the
indifference of the faces that passed her on every side and the
penetrating chill of the morning air restored her strength and
tranquillity, but it was a pitiable sort of strength and a tranquillity
as depressing as that which sometimes prevails on the ocean and alarms
the far-sighted sailor more than the howling of the tempest. She walked
along the quays from the Institute to the Corps Législatif; but she
forgot to cross the bridge and continued to wander by the river,
absorbed in a bewildered reverie, in meditation without ideas, and
walking aimlessly on and on.
[Illustration 04: _SIR RALPH SAVES INDIANA_
_In that moment of vertigo she leaned against a
wall and bent forward, fascinated, over what seemed
to her a solid mass. But the bark of a dog that was
capering about her distracted her thoughts and delayed
for some seconds the accomplishment of her
design. Meanwhile a man ran to the spot, guided
by the dog's voice, seized her around the waist,
dragged her back and laid her on the ruins of an
abandoned boat on the shore._]
She gradually drew nearer to the river, which washed pieces of ice
ashore at her feet and shattered them on the stones along the shore with
a dry sound that suggested cold. The greenish water exerted an
attractive force on Indiana's senses. One becomes accustomed to horrible
ideas; by dint of dwelling on them one takes pleasure in them. The
thought of Noun's suicide had soothed her hours of despair for so many
months, that suicide had assumed in her mind the form of a tempting
pleasure. A single thought, a religious thought, had prevented her from
deciding definitely upon it; but at this moment no well-defined thought
controlled her exhausted brain. She hardly remembered that God existed,
that Raymon ever existed, and she walked on, still drawing nearer the
bank, obeying the instinct of unhappiness and the magnetic force of
suffering.
When she felt the stinging cold of the water on her feet, she woke as if
from a fit of somnambulism, and on looking about to discover where she
was, saw Paris behind her and the Seine rushing by at her feet, bearing
in its oily depths the white reflection of the houses and the grayish
blue of the sky. This constant movement of the water and the immobility
of the ground became confused in her bewildered mind, and it seemed to
her that the water was sleeping and the ground moving. In that moment of
vertigo she leaned against a wall and bent forward, fascinated, over
what seemed to her a solid mass. But the bark of a dog that was capering
about her distracted her thoughts and delayed for some seconds the
accomplishment of her design. Meanwhile a man ran to the spot, guided by
the dog's voice, seized her around the waist, dragged her back and laid
her on the ruins of an abandoned boat on the shore. She looked in his
face and did not recognize him. He knelt at her foot, unfastened his
cloak and wrapped it about her, took her hands in his to warm them and
called her by name. But her brain was too weak to make an effort; for
forty-eight hours she had forgotten to eat.
However, when the blood began to circulate in her benumbed limbs, she
saw Ralph kneeling beside her, holding her hands and watching for the
return of consciousness.
"Did you meet Noun?" she asked him. "I saw her pass along there," she
added, pointing to the river, distracted by her fixed idea. "I tried to
follow her, but she walked too fast, and I am not strong enough to walk.
It was like a nightmare."
Ralph looked at her in sore distress. He too felt as if his head were
bursting and his brain running wild.
"Let us go," she continued; "but first see if you can find my feet; I
lost them on the stones."
Ralph saw that her feet were wet and paralyzed by cold. He carried her
in his arms to a house near by, where the kindly care of a hospitable
woman restored her to consciousness. Meanwhile Ralph sent word to
Monsieur Delmare that his wife was found; but the colonel had not
returned home when the news arrived. He was continuing his search in a
frenzy of anxiety and wrath. Ralph, being more perspicacious, had gone
to Monsieur de Ramière's, but he had found Raymon, who had just gone to
bed and who was very cool and ironical in his reception of him. Then he
had thought of Noun and had followed the river in one direction, while
his servant did the same in the other direction. Ophelia had speedily
found her mistress's scent and had led Ralph to the place where he found
her.
When Indiana was able to recall what had taken place during that
wretched night, she tried in vain to remember the occurrences of her
moments of delirium. She was unable therefore to explain to her cousin
what thoughts had guided her action during the last hour; but he divined
them and understood the state of her heart without questioning her. He
simply took her hand and said to her in a gentle but grave tone:
"Cousin, I require one promise from you; it is the last proof of
friendship which I shall ever ask at your hands."
"Tell me what it is," she replied; "to oblige you is the only pleasure
that is left to me."
"Well then," rejoined Ralph, "swear to me that you will not resort to
suicide without notifying me. I swear to you on my honor that I will not
oppose your design in any way. I simply insist on being notified: as for
life, I care about it as little as you do, and you know that I have
often had the same idea."
"Why do you talk of suicide?" said Madame Delmare. "I have never
intended to take my own life. I am afraid of God; if it weren't for
that!----"
"Just now, Indiana, when I seized you in my arms, when this poor
beast"--and he patted Ophelia--"caught your dress, you had forgotten God
and the whole universe, poor Ralph with the rest."
A tear stood in Indiana's eye. She pressed Sir Ralph's hand.
"Why did you stop me?" she said sadly; "I should be on God's bosom now,
for I was not guilty, I did not know what I was doing."
"I saw that, and I thought that it was better to commit suicide after
due reflection. We will talk about it again if you choose."
Indiana shuddered. The cab stopped in front of the house where she was
to confront her husband. She had not the strength to mount the steps and
Ralph carried her to her room. Their whole retinue was reduced to a
single maid servant, who had gone to discuss Madame Delmare's flight
with the neighbors, and Lelièvre, who, in despair, had gone to the
morgue to inspect the bodies brought in that morning. So Ralph remained
with Madame Delmare to nurse her. She was suffering intensely when a
loud peal of the bell announced the colonel's return. A shudder of
terror and hatred ran through her every vein. She seized her cousin's
arm.
"Listen, Ralph," she said; "if you have the slightest affection for me,
you will spare me the sight of that man in my present condition. I do
not want to arouse his pity, I prefer his anger to that. Do not open the
door, or else send him away; tell him that I haven't been found."
Her lips quivered, her arms clung to Ralph with convulsive strength, to
detain him. Torn by two conflicting feelings, the poor baronet could not
make up his mind what to do. Delmare was jangling the bell as if he
would break it, and his wife was almost dying in his chair.
"You think only of his anger," said Ralph at last; "you do not think of
his misery, his anxiety; you still believe that he hates you. If you had
seen his grief this morning!"
Indiana dropped her arms, thoroughly exhausted, and Ralph went and
opened the door.
"Is she here?" cried the colonel, rushing in. "Ten thousand devils! I
have run about enough after her; I am deeply obliged to her for putting
such a pleasant duty on me! Deuce take her! I don't want to see her, for
I should kill her!"
"You forget that she can hear you," replied Ralph in an undertone. "She
is in no condition to bear any painful excitement. Be calm."
"Twenty-five thousand maledictions!" roared the colonel. "I have endured
enough myself since this morning. It's a good thing for me that my
nerves are like cables. Which of us is the more injured, the more
exhausted, which of us has the better right to be sick, I pray to
know,--she or I? And where did you find her? what was she doing? She is
responsible for my having outrageously insulted that foolish old woman,
Carvajal, who gave me ambiguous answers and blamed me for this charming
freak! Damnation! I am dead beat!"
As he spoke thus in his harsh, hoarse voice, Delmare had thrown himself
on a chair in the ante-room; he wiped his brow from which the
perspiration was streaming despite the intense cold; he described with
many oaths his fatigues, his anxieties, his sufferings; he asked a
thousand questions, and, luckily, did not listen to the answers, for
poor Ralph could not lie, and he could think of nothing in what he had
to tell that was likely to appease the colonel. So he sat on a table, as
silent and unmoved as if he were absolutely without interest in the
sufferings of those two, and yet he was really more unhappy in their
unhappiness than they themselves were.
Madame Delmare, when she heard her husband's imprecations, felt stronger
than she expected. She preferred this fierce wrath, which reconciled her
with herself, to a generous forbearance which would have aroused her
remorse. She wiped away the last trace of her tears and summoned what
remained of her strength, which she was well content to expend in a day,
so heavy a burden had life become to her. Her husband accosted her in a
harsh and imperious tone, but suddenly changed his expression and his
manner and seemed sorely embarrassed, overmatched by the superiority of
her character. He tried to be as cool and dignified as she was; but he
could not succeed.
"Will you condescend to inform me, madame," he said, "where you passed
the morning and perhaps the night?"
That _perhaps_ indicated to Madame Delmare that her absence had not been
discovered until late. Her courage increased with that knowledge.
"No, monsieur," she replied, "I do not propose to tell you."
Delmare turned green with anger and amazement.
"Do you really hope to conceal the truth from me?" he said, in a
trembling voice.
"I care very little about it," she replied in an icy tone. "I refuse to
tell you solely for form's sake. I propose to convince you that you have
no right to ask me that question?"
"I have no right, ten thousand devils. Who is master here, pray tell,
you or I? Which of us wears a petticoat and ought to be running a
distaff? Do you propose to take the beard off my chin? It would look
well on you, hussy!"
"I know that I am the slave and you the master. The laws of this country
make you my master. You can bind my body, tie my hands, govern my acts.
You have the right of the stronger, and society confirms you in it; but
you cannot command my will, monsieur; God alone can bend it and subdue
it. Try to find a law, a dungeon, an instrument of torture that gives
you any hold on it! you might as well try to handle the air and grasp
space."
"Hold your tongue, you foolish, impertinent creature; your high-flown
novelist's phrases weary me."
"You can impose silence on me, but not prevent me from thinking."
"Silly pride! pride of a poor worm! you abuse the compassion I have had
for you! But you will soon see that this mighty will can be subdued
without too much difficulty."
"I don't advise you to try it; your repose would suffer, and you would
gain nothing in dignity."
"Do you think so?" he said, crushing her hand between his thumb and
forefinger.
"I do think so," she said, without wincing.
Ralph stepped forward, grasped the colonel's arm in his iron hand and
bent it like a reed, saying in a pacific tone:
"I beg that you will not touch a hair of that woman's head."
Delmare longed to fly at him; but he felt that he was in the wrong and
he dreaded nothing in the world so much as having to blush for himself.
So he simply pushed him away, saying:
"Attend to your own business."
Then he returned to his wife.
"So, madame," he said, holding his arms tightly against his sides to
resist the temptation to strike her, "you rebel against me, you refuse
to go to Ile Bourbon with me, you desire a separation? Very well!
_Mordieu!_ I too----"
"I desire it no longer," she replied. "I did desire it yesterday, it was
my will; it is not so this morning. You resorted to violence and locked
me in my room; I went out through the window to show you that there is a
difference between exerting an absurd control over a woman's actions and
reigning over her will. I passed several hours away from your
domination; I breathed the air of liberty in order to show you that you
are not morally my master, and that I look to no one on earth but myself
for orders. As I walked along I reflected that I owed it to my duty and
my conscience to return and place myself under your control once more. I
did it of my own free will. My cousin _accompanied_ me here, he did not
_bring me back_. If I had not chosen to come with him, he could not have
forced me to do it, as you can imagine. So, monsieur, do not waste your
time fighting against my determination; you will never control it, you
lost all right to change it as soon as you undertook to assert your
right by force. Make your preparations for departure; I am ready to
assist you and to accompany you, not because it is your will, but
because it is my pleasure. You may condemn me, but I will never obey
anyone but myself."
"I am sorry for the derangement of your mind," said the colonel,
shrugging his shoulders.
And he went to his room to put his papers in order, well satisfied in
his heart with Madame Delmare's resolution and anticipating no further
obstacles; for he respected her word as much as he despised her ideas.