Now it happened that the ministry of the 8th of August, which overturned
so many things in France, dealt a serious blow at Raymon's security.
Monsieur de Ramière was not one of those blindly vain mortals who
triumph on a day of victory. He had made politics the mainspring of all
his ideas, the basis of all his dreams of the future. He had flattered
himself that the king, by adopting a policy of shrewd concessions, would
maintain for a long time to come the equilibrium which assured the
existence of the noble families. But the rise to power of the Prince de
Polignac destroyed that hope. Raymon saw too far ahead, he was too well
acquainted with the new society not to stand on his guard against
momentary triumphs. He understood that his whole future trembled in the
balance with that of the monarchy, and that his fortune, perhaps his
life, hung by a thread.
Thereupon he found himself in a delicate and embarrassing position.
Honor made it his duty to devote himself, despite all the risks of such
devotion, to the family whose interests had been thus far closely
connected with his own. In that respect he could hardly disregard his
conscience and the memory of his forefathers. But this new order of
things, this tendency toward an absolute despotism, offended his
prudence, his common-sense, and, so he said, his convictions. It
compromised his whole existence, it did worse than that, it made him
ridiculous, him, a renowned publicist who had ventured so many times to
promise, in the name of the crown, justice for all and fidelity to the
sworn compact. But now all the acts of the government gave a formal
contradiction to the young eclectic politician's imprudent assertions;
all the calm and slothful minds who, two days earlier, asked nothing
better than to cling to the constitutional throne, began to throw
themselves into the opposition and to denounce as rascality the efforts
of Raymon and his fellows. The most courteous accused him of lack of
foresight and incapacity. Raymon felt that it was humiliating to be
considered a dupe after playing such a brilliant rôle in the game. He
began secretly to curse and despise this royalty which thus degraded
itself and involved him in its downfall; he would have liked to be able
to cut loose from it without disgrace before the hour of battle. For
some time he made incredible efforts to gain the confidence of both
camps. The opposition ranks of that period were not squeamish concerning
the admission of new recruits. They needed them, and the credentials
they required were so trivial, that they enlisted considerable numbers.
Nor did they disdain the support of great names, and day after day
adroitly flattering allusions in their newspapers tended to detach the
brightest gems from that worn-out crown. Raymon was not deceived by
these demonstrations of esteem; but he did not reject them, for he was
certain of their utility. On the other hand, the champions of the throne
became more intolerant as their situation became more desperate. They
drove from their ranks, without prudence and without regard for
propriety, their strongest defenders. They soon began to manifest their
dissatisfaction and distrust to Raymon. He, in his embarrassment,
attached to his reputation as the principal ornament of his existence,
was very opportunely taken down with an acute attack of rheumatism,
which compelled him to abandon work of every sort for the moment and to
go into the country with his mother.
In his isolation Raymon really suffered to feel that he was like a
corpse amid the devouring activity of a society on the brink of
dissolution, to feel that he was prevented, by his embarrassment as to
the color he should assume no less than by illness, from enlisting under
the warlike banners that waved on all sides, summoning the most obscure
and the least experienced to the great conflict. The intense pains of
his malady, solitude, ennui and fever insensibly turned his ideas into
another channel. He asked himself, for the first time, perhaps, if
society had deserved all the pains he had taken to make himself
agreeable to it, and he judged society justly when he saw that it was so
indifferent with regard to him, so forgetful of his talents and his
glory. Then he took comfort for having been its dupe by assuring himself
that he had never sought anything but his personal gratification; and
that he had found it there, thanks to himself. Nothing so confirms us in
egotism as reflection. Raymon drew this conclusion from it: that man, in
the social state, requires two sorts of happiness, happiness in public
life and in private life, social triumphs and domestic joys.
His mother, who nursed him assiduously, fell dangerously ill; it was his
turn to forget his own sufferings and to take care of her; but his
strength was not sufficient. Ardent, passionate souls display miraculous
stores of health in times of danger; but lukewarm, indolent souls do not
arouse such supernatural outbursts of bodily strength. Although Raymon
was a good son, as the phrase is understood in society, he succumbed
physically under the weight of fatigue. Lying on his bed of pain, with
no one at his pillow save hirelings and now and then a friend who was in
haste to return to the excitements of social life, he began to think of
Indiana, and he sincerely regretted her, for at that time she would have
been most useful to him. He remembered the dutiful attentions she had
lavished on her crabbed old husband and he imagined the gentle and
beneficent care with which she would have encompassed her lover.
"If I had accepted her sacrifice," he thought, "she would be dishonored;
but what would it matter to me now? Abandoned as I am by a frivolous,
selfish world, I should not be alone; she whom everybody spurned with
contumely would be at my feet, impelled by love; she would weep over my
sufferings and would find a way to allay them. Why did I discard that
woman? She loved me so dearly that she would have found consolation for
the insults of her fellows by bringing a little happiness into my
domestic life."
He determined to marry when he recovered, and he mentally reviewed the
names and faces that had impressed him in the salons of the two
divisions of society. Fascinating apparitions flitted through his
dreams; head-dresses laden with flowers, snowy shoulders enveloped in
swansdown capes, supple forms imprisoned in muslin or satin: such
alluring phantoms fluttered their gauze wings before Raymon's heavy,
burning eyes; but he had seen these peris only in the perfumed whirl of
the ballroom. On waking, he asked himself whether their rosy lips knew
any other smiles than those of coquetry; whether their white hands could
dress the wounds of sorrow; whether their refined and brilliant wit
could stoop to the painful task of consoling and diverting a horribly
bored invalid. Raymon was a man of keen intelligence and he was more
distrustful than other men of the coquetry of women; he had a more
intense hatred of selfishness because he knew that from a selfish person
he could obtain nothing to advance his own happiness. And then Raymon
was no less embarrassed concerning the choice of a wife than concerning
the choice of his political colors. The same reasons imposed moderation
and prudence on him. He belonged to a family of high rank and unbending
pride which would brook no mésalliance, and yet wealth could no longer
be considered secure except in plebeian hands. According to all
appearance that class was destined to rise over the ruins of the other,
and in order to maintain oneself on the surface of the movement one must
be the son-in-law of a manufacturer or a stock-broker. Raymon concluded
therefore that it would be wise to wait and see which way the wind blew
before entering upon a course of action which would decide his whole
future.
These positive reflections made plain to him the utter lack of affection
which characterizes marriages of convenience, so-called, and the hope of
having some day a companion worthy of his love entered only incidentally
into his prospects of happiness. Meanwhile his illness might be
prolonged, and the hope of better days to come does not efface the keen
consciousness of present pains. He recurred to the unpleasant thought of
his blindness on the day he had declined to kidnap Madame Delmare, and
he cursed himself for having comprehended so imperfectly his real
interests.
At this juncture he received the letter Indiana wrote him from Ile
Bourbon. The sombre and inflexible energy which she retained, amid
shocks which might well have crushed her spirit, made a profound
impression on Raymon.
"I judged her ill," he thought; "she really loved me, she still loves
me; for my sake she would have been capable of those heroic efforts
which I considered to be beyond a woman's strength; and now I probably
need say but a word to draw her, like an irresistible magnet, from one
end of the world to the other. If six months, eight months, perhaps,
were not necessary to obtain that result, I would like to make the
trial!"
He fell asleep meditating that idea: but he was soon awakened by a great
commotion in the next room. He rose with difficulty, put on a
dressing-gown, and dragged himself to his mother's apartment. She was
very ill.
Toward morning she found strength to talk with him; she was under no
illusion as to the brief time she had yet to live and her mind was busy
with her son's future.
"You are about to lose your best friend," she said; "may Heaven replace
her by a companion worthy of you! But be prudent, Raymon, and do not
risk the repose of your whole life for a mere chimera of your ambition.
I have known but one woman, alas! whom I should have cared to call my
daughter; but Heaven has disposed of her. But listen, my son. Monsieur
Delmare is old and broken; who knows if that long voyage did not exhaust
the rest of his vitality? Respect his wife as long as he lives; but if,
as I believe will be the case, he is summoned soon to follow me to the
grave, remember there is still one woman in the world who loves you
almost as dearly as your mother loved you."
That evening Madame de Ramière died in her son's arms. Raymon's grief
was deep and bitter; in the face of such a loss there could be neither
false emotion nor selfish scheming. His mother was really necessary to
him; with her he lost all the moral comfort of his life. He shed
despairing tears upon her pallid forehead, her lifeless eyes. He
maligned Heaven, he cursed his destiny, he wept for Indiana. He called
God to account for the happiness He owed him. He reproached Him for
treating him like other men and tearing everything from him at once.
Then he doubted the existence of this God who chastised him; he chose to
deny Him rather than submit to His decrees. He lost all the illusions
with all the realities of life; and he returned to his bed of fever and
suffering, as crushed and hopeless as a deposed king, as a fallen angel.
When he was nearly restored to health, he cast a glance at the condition
of France. Matters were going from bad to worse; on all sides there were
threats of refusal to pay taxes. Raymon was amazed at the foolish
confidence of his party, and deeming it wise not to plunge into the
mêlée as yet, he shut himself up at Cercy with the melancholy memory
of his mother and Madame Delmare.
By dint of pondering the idea to which he had attached little importance
at its first conception, he accustomed himself to the thought that
Indiana was not lost to him, if he chose to take the trouble to beckon
her back. He detected many inconveniences in the scheme but many more
advantages. It was not in accord with his interest to wait until she was
a widow before marrying her, as Madame de Ramière had suggested.
Delmare might live twenty years longer, and Raymon did not choose to
renounce forever the chance of a brilliant marriage. He conceived a
better plan than that in his cheerful and fertile imagination. He could,
by taking a little trouble, exert an unbounded influence over his
Indiana; he felt that he possessed sufficient mental cunning and knavery
to make of that enthusiastic and sublime creature a devoted and
submissive mistress. He could shield her from the ferocity of public
opinion, conceal her behind the impenetrable wall of his private life,
keep her as a precious treasure in the depths of his retreat, and employ
her to sweeten his moments of solitude and meditation with the joys of a
pure and generous affection. He would not have to exert himself overmuch
to escape the husband's wrath; he would not come three thousand leagues
in pursuit of his wife when his business interests made his presence
absolutely necessary in the other hemisphere. Indiana would demand
little in the way of pleasure and liberty after the bitter trials which
had bent her neck to the yoke. She was ambitious only for love, and
Raymon felt that he would love her from gratitude as soon as she made
herself useful to him. He remembered also the constancy and gentleness
she had shown during the long days of his coldness and neglect. He
promised himself that he would cleverly retain his liberty, so that she
would not dare to complain. He flattered himself that he could acquire
sufficient control over her convictions to make her consent to anything,
even to his marriage; and he based that hope upon numerous examples of
secret liaisons which he had known to continue despite the laws of
society, by virtue of the prudence and skill with which the parties had
succeeded in avoiding the judgment of public opinion.
"Besides," he said to himself, "that woman will have made an
irrevocable, boundless sacrifice for me. She will have travelled the
world over for me and have left behind her all means of existence--all
possibility of pardon. Society is stern and unforgiving only to paltry,
commonplace faults. Uncommon audacity takes it by surprise, notorious
misfortune disarms it; it will pity, perhaps admire this woman who will
have done for me what no other woman would have dared to try. It will
blame her, but it will not laugh at her, and I shall not be blamed for
taking her in and protecting her after such a signal proof of her love.
Perhaps, on the contrary, my courage will be extolled, at all events I
shall have defenders, and my reputation will undergo a glorious and
indecisive trial. Society likes to be defied sometimes; it does not
accord its admiration to those who crawl along the beaten paths. In
these days public opinion must be driven with a whip."
Under the influence of these thoughts he wrote to Madame Delmare. His
letter was what it was sure to be from the pen of so adroit and
experienced a man. It breathed love, grief, and, above all, truth. Alas!
what a slender reed the truth is, to bend thus with every breath!
However, Raymon was wise enough not to express the object of his letter
in so many words. He pretended to look upon Indiana's return as a joy of
which he had no hope; but he had but little to say of her duty. He
repeated his mother's last words; he described with much warmth the
state of despair to which his loss had reduced him, the ennui of
solitude and the danger of his position politically. He drew a dismal
and terrifying picture of the revolution that was rising above the
horizon, and, while feigning to rejoice that he was to meet its coming
alone, he gave Indiana to understand that the moment had come for her to
manifest that enthusiastic loyalty, that perilous devotion of which she
had boasted so confidently. He cursed his destiny and said that virtue
had cost him very dear, that his yoke was very heavy: that he had held
happiness in his hand and had had the strength of will to doom himself
to eternal solitude.
"Do not tell me again that you once loved me," he added; "I am so weak
and discouraged that I curse my courage and hate my duties. Tell me that
you are happy, that you have forgotten me, so that I may have strength
not to come and tear you away from the bonds that keep you from me."
In a word, he said that he was unhappy; that was equivalent to telling
Indiana that he expected her.