Three days after the despatch of his letter to Ile Bourbon, Raymon had
entirely forgotten both the letter and its purpose. He had felt
decidedly better and had ventured to make a visit in the neighborhood.
The estate of Lagny, which Monsieur Delmare had left to be sold for the
benefit of his creditors, had been purchased by a wealthy manufacturer,
Monsieur Hubert, a shrewd and estimable man, not like all wealthy
manufacturers, but like a small number of the newly-rich. Raymon found
the new owner comfortably settled in that house which recalled so many
memories. He took pleasure in giving a free rein to his emotion as he
wandered through the garden where Noun's light footprints seemed to be
still visible on the gravel, and through those great rooms which seemed
still to retain the echoes of Indiana's soft words; but soon the
presence of a new hostess changed the current of his thoughts.
In the main salon, on the spot where Madame Delmare was accustomed to
sit and work, a tall, slender young woman, with a glance that was at
once pleasant and mischievous, caressing and mocking, sat before an
easel, amusing herself by copying in water-colors the odd hangings on
the walls. The copy was a fascinating thing, a delicate satire instinct
with the bantering yet refined nature of the artist. She had amused
herself by exaggerating the pretentious finicalness of the old frescoes;
she had grasped the false and shifting character of the age of Louis
XIV. on those stilted figures. While refreshing the colors that time had
faded, she had restored their affected graces, their perfume of
courtiership, their costumes of the boudoir and the shepherd's hut, so
curiously identical. Beside that work of historical raillery she had
written the word _copy._
She raised her long eyes, instinct with merriment of a caustic,
treacherous, yet attractive sort, slowly to Raymon's face. For some
reason she reminded him of Shakespeare's Anne Page. There was in her
manner neither timidity nor boldness, nor affectation, nor
self-distrust. Their conversation turned upon the influence of fashion
in the arts.
"Is it not true, monsieur, that the moral coloring of the period was in
that brush?" she said, pointing to the wainscoting, covered with rustic
cupids after the style of Boucher. "Isn't it true that those sheep do
not walk or sleep or browse like sheep of to-day? And that pretty
landscape, so false and so orderly, those clumps of many-petalled roses
in the middle of the forest where naught but a bit of eglantine grows in
our days, those tame birds of a species that has apparently disappeared,
and those pink satin gowns which the sun never faded--is there not in
all these a deal of poesy, ideas of luxury and pleasure, of a whole
useless, harmless, joyous life? Doubtless these absurd fictions were
quite as valuable as our gloomy political deliverances! If only I had
been born in those days!" she added with a smile; "frivolous and
narrow-minded creature that I am, I should have been much better fitted
to paint fans and produce masterpieces of thread-work than to read the
newspapers and understand the debates in the Chambers!"
Monsieur Hubert left the young people together; and their conversation
drifted from one subject to another, until it fell at last upon Madame
Delmare.
"You were very intimate with our predecessors in this house," said the
young woman, "and it is generous on your part to come and see new faces
here. Madame Delmare," she added, with a penetrating glance at him, "was
a remarkable woman, so they say; she must have left memories here which
place us at a disadvantage, so far as you are concerned."
"She was an excellent woman," Raymon replied, unconcernedly, "and her
husband was a worthy man."
"But," rejoined the reckless girl, "she was something more than an
excellent woman, I should judge. If I remember rightly there was a charm
about her personality which calls for a more enthusiastic and more
poetic description. I saw her two years ago, at a ball at the Spanish
ambassador's. She was fascinating that night; do you remember?"
Raymon started at this reminder of the evening that he spoke to Indiana
for the first time. He remembered at the same moment that he had noticed
at that ball the distingué features and clever eyes of the young woman
with whom he was now talking; but he did not then ask who she was.
Not until he had taken his leave of her and was congratulating Monsieur
Hubert on his daughter's charms, did he learn her name.
"I have not the good fortune to be her father," said the manufacturer;
"but I did the best I could by adopting her. Do you not know my story?"
"I have been ill for several months," Raymon replied, "and have heard
nothing of you beyond the good you have already done in the province."
"There are people," said Monsieur Hubert with a smile, "who consider
that I did a most meritorious thing in adopting Mademoiselle de Nangy;
but you, monsieur, who have elevated ideas, will judge whether I did
anything more than true delicacy required. Ten years ago, a widower and
childless, I found myself possessed of funds to a considerable amount,
the results of my labors, which I was anxious to invest. I found that
the estate and château of Nangy in Bourgogne, national property, were
for sale and suited me perfectly. I had been in possession some time
when I learned that the former lord of the manor and his seven-year-old
granddaughter were living in a hovel, in extreme destitution. The old
man had received some indemnity, but he had religiously devoted it to
the payment of debts incurred during the emigration. I tried to better
his condition and to give him a home in my house; but he had retained in
his poverty all the pride of his rank. He refused to return to the house
of his ancestors as an object of charity, and died shortly after my
arrival, having steadfastly refused to accept any favors at my hands.
Then I took his child there. The little patrician was proud already and
accepted my assistance most unwillingly; but at that age prejudices are
not deeply rooted and resolutions do not last long. She soon accustomed
herself to look upon me as her father and I brought her up as my own
daughter. She has rewarded me handsomely by the happiness she has
showered on my old age. And so, to make sure of my happiness, I have
adopted Mademoiselle de Nangy, and my only hope now is to find her a
husband worthy of her and able to manage prudently the property I shall
leave her."
Encouraged by the interest with which Raymon listened to his
confidences, the excellent man, in true bourgeois fashion, gradually
confided all his business affairs to him. His attentive auditor found
that he had a fine, large fortune administered with the most minute
care, and which simply awaited a younger proprietor, of more fashionable
tastes than the worthy Hubert, to shine forth in all its splendor. He
felt that he might be the man destined to perform that agreeable task,
and he gave thanks to the ingenious fate which reconciled all his
interests by offering him, by favor of divers romantic incidents, a
woman of his own rank possessed of a fine plebeian fortune. It was a
chance not to be let slip, and he put forth all his skill in the effort
to grasp it. Moreover, the heiress was charming; Raymon became more
kindly disposed toward his providence.
As for Madame Delmare, he would not think of her. He drove away the
fears which the thought of his letter aroused from time to time; he
tried to persuade himself that poor Indiana would not grasp his meaning
or would not have the courage to respond to it; and he finally succeeded
in deceiving himself and believing that he was not blameworthy, for
Raymon would have been horrified to find that he was selfish. He was not
one of those artless villains who come on the stage to make a naïve
confession of their vices to their own hearts. Vice is not reflected in
its own ugliness, or it would frighten itself; and Shakespeare's Iago,
who is so true to life in his acts, is false in his words, being forced
by our stage conventions to lay bare himself the secret recesses of his
deep and tortuous heart. Man rarely tramples his conscience under foot
thus coolly. He turns it over, squeezes it, pinches it, disfigures it;
and when he has distorted it and exhausted it and worn it out, he
carries it about with him as an indulgent and obliging mentor which
accommodates itself to his passions and his interests, but which he
pretends always to consult and to fear.
He went often to Lagny, therefore, and his visits were agreeable to
Monsieur Hubert; for, as you know, Raymon had the art of winning
affection, and soon the rich bourgeois's one desire was to call him his
son-in-law. But he wished that his adopted daughter should choose him
freely and that they should be allowed every opportunity to know and
judge each other.
Laure de Nangy was in no haste to assure Raymon's happiness; she kept
him perfectly balanced between fear and hope. Being less generous than
Madame Delmare, but more adroit, distant yet flattering, haughty yet
cajoling, she was the very woman to subjugate Raymon; for she was as
superior to him in cunning as he was to Indiana. She soon realized that
her admirer craved her fortune much more than herself. Her placid
imagination anticipated nothing better in the way of homage; she had too
much sense, too much knowledge of the world to dream of love when two
millions were at stake. She had chosen her course calmly and
philosophically, and she was not inclined to blame Raymon; she did not
hate him because he was of a calculating, unsentimental temper like the
age in which he lived; but she knew him too well to love him. She made
it a matter of pride not to fall below the standard of that cold and
scheming epoch; her self-esteem would have suffered had she been swayed
by the foolish illusions of an ignorant boarding-school miss; she would
have blushed at being deceived as at being detected in a foolish act; in
a word, she made her heroism consist in steering clear of love, as
Madame Delmare's consisted in sacrificing everything to it.
Mademoiselle de Nangy was fully resolved, therefore, to submit to
marriage as a social necessity; but she took a malicious pleasure in
making use of the liberty which still belonged to her, and in imposing
her authority for some time on the man who aspired to deprive her of it.
No youth, no sweet dreams, no brilliant and deceptive future for that
girl, who was doomed to undergo all the miseries of wealth. For her,
life was a matter of stoical calculation, happiness a childish delusion
against which she must defend herself as a weakness and an absurdity.
While Raymon was at work building up his fortune, Indiana was drawing
near the shores of France. But imagine her surprise and alarm, when she
landed, to see the tri-colored flag floating on the walls of Bordeaux!
The city was in a state of violent agitation; the prefect had been
almost murdered the night before; the populace were rising on all sides;
the garrison seemed to be preparing for a bloody conflict, and the
result of the revolution was still unknown.
"I have come too late!" was the thought that fell upon Madame Delmare
like a stroke of lightning.
In her alarm she left on board the little money and the few clothes that
she possessed, and ran about through the city in a state of frenzy. She
tried to find a diligence for Paris, but the public conveyances were
crowded with people who were either escaping or going to claim a share
in the spoils of the vanquished. Not until evening did she succeed in
finding a place. As she was stepping into the coach an improvised patrol
of National Guards objected to the departure of the passengers and
demanded to see their papers. Indiana had none. While she argued against
the absurd suspicions of the triumphant party, she heard it stated all
about her that the monarchy had fallen, that the king was a fugitive,
and that the ministers had been massacred with all their adherents. This
news, proclaimed with laughter and stamping and shouts of joy, dealt
Madame Delmare a deadly blow. In the whole revolution she was personally
interested in but one fact; in all France she knew but one man. She fell
on the ground in a swoon, and came to herself in a hospital--several
days later.
After two months she was discharged, without money or linen or effects,
weak and trembling, exhausted by an inflammatory brain fever which had
caused her life to be despaired of several times. When she found herself
in the street, alone, hardly able to walk, without friends, resources or
strength, when she made an effort to recall the particulars of her
situation and realized that she was hopelessly lost in that great city,
she had an indescribable thrill of terror and despair as she thought
that Raymon's fate had long since been decided and that there was not a
solitary person about her who could put an end to her horrible
uncertainty. The horror of desertion bore down with all its might upon
her crushed spirit, and the apathetic despair born of hopeless misery
gradually deadened all her faculties. In the mental numbness which she
felt stealing over her, she dragged herself to the harbor, and,
shivering with fever, sat down on a stone to warm herself in the
sunshine, gazing listlessly at the water plashing at her feet. She sat
there several hours, devoid of energy, of hope, of purpose; but suddenly
she remembered her clothes and her money, which she had left on the
_Eugène_, and which she might possibly recover; but it was nightfall,
and she dared not go among the sailors who were just leaving their work
with much rough merriment and question them concerning the ship.
Desiring, on the other hand, to avoid the attention she was beginning to
attract, she left the quay and concealed herself in the ruins of a house
recently demolished behind the great esplanade of Les Quinconces. There,
cowering in a corner, she passed that cold October night, a night laden
with bitter thoughts and alarms. At last the day broke; hunger made
itself felt insistent and implacable. She decided to ask alms. Her
clothes, although in wretched condition, still indicated more
comfortable circumstances than a beggar is supposed to enjoy. People
looked at her curiously, suspiciously, ironically, and gave her nothing.
Again she dragged herself to the quays, inquired about the _Eugène_ and
learned from the first waterman she addressed that she was still in the
roadstead. She hired him to put her aboard and found Random at
breakfast.
"Well, well, my fair passenger," he cried, "so you have returned from
Paris already! You have come in good time, for I sail to-morrow. Shall I
take you back to Bourbon?"
He informed Madame Delmare that he had caused search to be made for her
everywhere, that he might return what belonged to her. But Indiana had
not a scrap of paper upon her from which her name could be learned when
she was taken to the hospital. She had been entered on the books there
and also on the police books under the designation _unknown_; so the
captain had been unable to learn anything about her.
The next day, despite her weakness and exhaustion, Indiana started for
Paris. Her anxiety should have diminished when she saw the turn
political affairs had taken; but anxiety does not reason, and love is
fertile in childish fears.
On the very evening of her arrival at Paris she hurried to Raymon's
house and questioned the concierge in an agony of apprehension.
"Monsieur is quite well," was the reply; "he is at Lagny."
"At Lagny! you mean at Cercy, do you not?"
"No, madame, at Lagny, which he owns now."
"Dear Raymon!" thought Indiana, "he has bought that estate to afford me
a refuge where public malice cannot reach me. He knew that I would
come!"
Drunk with joy, she hastened, light of heart and instinct with new life,
to take apartments in a furnished house, and devoted the night and part
of the next day to rest. It was so long since the unfortunate creature
had enjoyed a peaceful sleep! Her dreams were sweet and deceptive, and
when she woke she did not regret them, for she found hope at her pillow.
She dressed with care; she knew that Raymon was particular about all the
minutiæ of the toilet, and she had ordered the night before a pretty
new dress which was brought to her just as she rose. But, when she was
ready to arrange her hair, she sought in vain the long and magnificent
tresses she had once had; during her illness they had fallen under the
nurse's shears. She noticed it then for the first time, her
all-engrossing thoughts had diverted her mind so completely from small
things.
Nevertheless, when she had curled her short black locks about her pale
and melancholy brow, when she had placed upon her shapely head a little
English hat, called then, by way of allusion to the recent blow to great
fortunes, a _three per cent._; when she had fastened at her girdle a
bunch of the flowers whose perfume Raymon loved, she hoped that she
would still find favor in his sight; for she was as pale and fragile as
in the first days of their acquaintance, and the effect of her illness
had effaced the traces of the tropical sunshine.
She hired a cab in the afternoon and arrived about nine at night at a
village on the outskirts of Fontainebleau. There she ordered the driver
to put up his horse and wait for her until the next day, and started off
alone, on foot, by a path which led to Lagny park by a walk of less than
quarter of an hour through the woods. She tried to open the small gate
but found it locked on the inside. It was her wish to enter by stealth,
to avoid the eyes of the servants and take Raymon by surprise. She
skirted the park wall. It was quite old; she remembered that there were
frequent breaches, and, by good luck, she found one and passed over
without much difficulty.
When she stood upon ground which belonged to Raymon and was to be
thenceforth her refuge, her sanctuary, her fortress and her home, her
heart leaped for joy. With light, triumphant foot she hastened along the
winding paths she knew so well. She reached the English garden, which
was dark and deserted on that side. Nothing was changed in the
flower-beds; but the bridge, the painful sight of which she dreaded, had
disappeared, and the course of the stream had been altered; the spots
which might have recalled Noun's death had been changed, and no others.
"He wished to banish that cruel memory," thought Indiana. "He was wrong,
I could have endured it. Was it not for my sake that he planted the
seeds of remorse in his life? Henceforth we are quits, for I too have
committed a crime. I may have caused my husband's death. Raymon can open
his arms to me, we will take the place of innocence and virtue to each
other."
She crossed the stream on boards laid across where a bridge was to be
built and passed through the flower-garden. She was forced to stop, for
her heart was beating as if it would burst; she looked up at the windows
of her old bedroom. O bliss! a light was shining through the blue
curtains, Raymon was there. As if he could occupy any other room! The
door to the secret stairway was open.
"He expects me at any time," she thought; "he will be happy but not
surprised."
At the top of the staircase she paused again to take breath; she felt
less strong to endure joy than sorrow. She stooped and looked through
the keyhole. Raymon was alone, reading. It was really he, it was Raymon
overflowing with life and vigor; his trials had not aged him, the
tempests of politics had not taken a single hair from his head; there he
sat, placid and handsome, his head resting on his white hand which was
buried in his black hair.
Indiana impulsively tried the door, which opened without resistance.
"You expected me!" she cried, falling on her knees and resting her
feeble head upon Raymon's bosom; "you counted the months and days, you
knew that the time had passed, but you knew too that I could not fail to
come at your call. You called me and I am here, I am here! I am dying!"
Her ideas became tangled in her brain; for some time she knelt there,
silent, gasping for breath, incapable of speech or thought. Then she
opened her eyes, recognized Raymon as if just waking from a dream,
uttered a cry of frantic joy, and pressed her lips to his, wild, ardent
and happy. He was pale, dumb, motionless, as if struck by lightning.
"Speak to me, in Heaven's name," she cried; "it is I, your Indiana, your
slave whom you recalled from exile and who has travelled three thousand
leagues to love you and serve you; it is your chosen companion, who has
left everything, risked everything, defied everything, to bring you this
moment of joy! You are happy, you are content with her, are you not? I
am waiting for my reward; with a word, a kiss I shall be paid a hundred
fold."
But Raymon did not reply; his admirable presence of mind had abandoned
him. He was crushed with surprise, remorse and terror when he saw that
woman at his feet; he hid his face in his hands and longed for death.
"My God! my God! you don't speak to me, you don't kiss me, you have
nothing to say to me!" cried Madame Delmare, pressing Raymon's knees to
her breast; "is it because you cannot? Joy makes people ill, it kills
sometimes, I know! Ah! you are not well, you are suffocating, I
surprised you too suddenly! Try to look at me; see how pale I am, how
old I have grown, how I have suffered! But it was for you, and you will
love me all the better for it! Say one word to me, Raymon, just one."
"I would like to weep," said Raymon in a stifled tone.
"And so would I," said she, covering his hands with kisses. "Ah! yes,
that would do you good. Weep, weep on my bosom, and I will wipe your
tears away with my kisses. I have come to bring you happiness, to be
whatever you choose--your companion, your servant or your mistress.
Formerly I was very cruel, very foolish, very selfish. I made you suffer
terribly, and I refused to understand that I demanded what was beyond
your strength. But since then I have reflected, and as you are not
afraid to defy public opinion with me, I have no right to refuse to make
any sacrifice. Dispose of me, of my blood, of my life, as you will; I am
yours body and soul. I have travelled three thousand leagues to tell you
this, to give myself to you. Take me, I am your property, you are my
master."
I cannot say what infernal project passed rapidly through Raymon's
brain. He removed his clenched hands from his face and looked at Indiana
with diabolical _sang-froid_; then a wicked smile played about his lips
and made his eyes gleam, for Indiana was still lovely.
"First of all, we must conceal you," he said, rising.
"Why conceal me here?" she said; "aren't you at liberty to take me in
and protect me, who have no one but you on earth, and who, without you,
shall be compelled to beg on the public highway? Why, even society can
no longer call it a crime for you to love me; I have taken everything on
my own shoulders! But where are you going?" she cried, as she saw him
walking toward the door.
She clung to him with the terror of a child who does not wish to be left
alone a single instant, and dragged herself along on her knees behind
him.
His purpose was to lock the door; but he was too late. The door opened
before he could reach it, and Laure de Nangy entered. She seemed less
surprised than exasperated, and did not utter an exclamation, but
stooped a little to look with snapping eyes at the half-fainting woman
on the floor; then, with a cold, bitter, scornful smile, she said:
"Madame Delmare, you seem to enjoy placing three persons in a very
strange situation; but I thank you for assigning me the least ridiculous
rôle of the three, and this is how I discharge it. Be good enough to
retire."
Indignation renewed Indiana's strength; she rose and drew herself up to
her full height.
"Who is this woman, pray?" she said to Raymon, "and by what right does
she give me orders in your house?"
"You are in my house, madame," retorted Laure.
"Speak, in heaven's name, monsieur," cried Indiana fiercely, shaking the
wretched man's arm; "tell me whether she is your mistress or your wife!"
"She is my wife," Raymon replied with a dazed air.
"I forgive your uncertainty," said Madame de Ramière with a cruel
smile. "If you had remained where your duty required you to remain, you
would have received cards to monsieur's marriage. Come, Raymon," she
added in a tone of sarcastic amiability, "I am moved to pity by your
embarrassment. You are rather young; you will realize now, I trust, that
more prudence is advisable. I leave it for you to put an end to this
absurd scene. I would laugh at it if you didn't look so utterly
wretched."
With that she withdrew, well satisfied with the dignity she had
displayed, and secretly triumphant because the incident had placed her
husband in a position of inferiority and dependence with regard to her.
When Indiana recovered the use of her faculties she was alone in a close
carriage, being driven rapidly toward Paris.