“Sir Ralph, you say? Who is Sir Ralph?”
“Sir Rodolphe Brown, madame’s cousin, her playmate in childhood, and my own, too, I might say; he is such a good man!”
Raymon scrutinized the picture with surprise and some uneasiness.
We have said that Sir Ralph was an extremely comely person, physically; with a red and white complexion and abundant hair, a tall figure, always perfectly dressed, and capable, if not of turning a romantic brain, of satisfying the vanity of an unromantic one. The peaceable baronet was represented in hunting costume, about as we saw him in the first chapter of this narrative, and surrounded by his dogs, the beautiful pointer Ophelia in the foreground, because of the fine silver-gray tone of her silky coat and the purity of her Scotch blood. Sir Ralph had a hunting-horn in one hand and in the other the rein of a superb, dapple-gray English hunter, who filled almost the whole background of the picture. It was an admirably executed portrait, a genuine family picture with all its perfection of detail, all its puerile niceties of resemblance, all its bourgeois minutiae picture to make a nurse weep, dogs bark and a tailor faint with joy. There was but one thing on earth more insignificant than the portrait, and that was the original.
Nevertheless it kindled a violent flame of wrath in Raymon.
“Upon my word!” he said to himself, “this dapper young Englishman enjoys the privilege of being admitted to Madame Delmare’s most secret apartment! His vapid face is always here, looking coldly on at the most private acts of her life! He watches her, guards her, follows her every movement, possesses her every hour in the day! At night he watches her asleep and surprises the secret of her dreams; in the morning, when she comes forth, all white and quivering, from her bed, he sees the dainty bare foot that steps lightly on the carpet; and when she dresses with all precaution—when she believes that she is quite alone, hidden from every eye—that insolent face is there, feasting on her charms! That man, all booted and spurred, presides over her toilet. Is this gauze usually spread over the picture?” he asked the maid.
“Always,” she replied, “when madame is absent. But don’t take the trouble to replace it, for madame is coming in a few days.”
“In that case, Noun, you would do well to tell her that the expression of the face is very impertinent. If I had been in Monsieur Delmare’s place I wouldn’t have consented to leave it here unless I had cut out the eyes. But that’s just like the stupid jealousy of the ordinary husband! They imagine everything and understand nothing.”
“For heaven’s sake, what have you against good Monsieur Brown’s face?” said Noun, as she made her mistress’s bed; “he is such an excellent master! I used not to care much for him, because I always heard madame say that he was selfish; but ever since the day that he took care of you—”
“True,” Raymon interrupted her, “it was he who helped me that day; I remember him perfectly now. But I owe his interest only to Madame Delmare’s prayers.”
“Because she is so kind-hearted,” said poor Noun. “Who could help being kind-hearted after living with her?”
When Noun spoke of Madame Delmare, Raymon listened with an interest of which she had no suspicion.
The day passed quietly enough, but Noun dared not lead the conversation to her real object. At last, toward evening, she made an effort and compelled him to declare his intentions.
Raymon had no other intention than to rid himself of a dangerous witness and of a woman whom he no longer loved. But he proposed to assure her future, and in fear and trembling he made her the most liberal offers.
It was a bitter affront to the poor girl; she tore her hair, and would have beaten her head against the wall if Raymon had not put forth all his strength to hold her. Thereupon, employing all the resources of language and intellect with which nature had endowed him, he made her understand that it was not for her, but for the child she was to bring into the world, that he desired to make provision.
“It is my duty,” he said; “I hand the funds over to you as the child’s heritage, and you would fail in your duty to him if a false sense of delicacy should lead you to reject them.”
Noun became calmer and wiped her eyes.
“Very well,” she said, “I will accept the money if you will promise to keep on loving me; for, just by doing your duty to the child, you will not do it to the mother. Your gift will keep him alive, but your indifference will kill me. Can’t you take me into your service? I am not exacting; I don’t aspire to all that another woman in my place might have had the skill to obtain. But let me be your servant. Obtain a place for me in your mother’s family. She will be satisfied with me, I give you my word; and, even if you don’t love me, I shall at least see you.”
“What you ask is impossible, my dear Noun. In your present condition you cannot think of entering anyone’s service; and to deceive my mother—to play upon her confidence in me—would be a base act to which I shall never consent. Go to Lyon or Bordeaux; I will undertake to see to it that you want for nothing until such time as you can show yourself again. Then I will obtain a place for you with some one of my acquaintances—at Paris, if you wish, if you insist upon being near me—but as to living under the same roof, that is impossible.”
“Impossible!” echoed Noun, wringing her hands in a passion of grief. “I see that you despise me—that you blush for me. But no, I will not go away, alone and degraded, to die abandoned in some distant city where you will forget me. What do I care for my reputation? Your love is what I wanted to retain.”
“Noun, if you fear that I am deceiving you, come with me. The same carriage shall take us to whatever place you choose. I will go with you anywhere, except to Paris or to my mother’s, and I will bestow upon you all the care and attention that I owe you.”
“Yes, to abandon me on the day after you have put me down, a useless burden, in some foreign land!” she rejoined, smiling bitterly. “No, monsieur, no, I will stay here; I do not choose to lose everything at once. I should sacrifice, by following you, the person whom I loved best in the world before I knew you; but I am not anxious enough to conceal my dishonor to sacrifice both my love and my friendship. I will go and throw myself at Madame Delmare’s feet; I will tell her all, and she will forgive me, I know, for she is kind and she loves me. We were born on almost the same day, and she is my foster sister. We have never been separated, and she will not want me to leave her. She will weep with me; she will take care of me, and she will love my child—my poor child! Who knows! she has not the good fortune to be a mother; perhaps she will bring it up as her own! Ah! I was mad to think of leaving her, for she is the only person on earth who will take pity on me!”
This determination plunged Raymon in horrible perplexity; but suddenly the rumbling of a carriage was heard in the courtyard. Noun, in dismay, ran to the window.
“It’s Madame Delmare!” she cried; “go instantly!”
In that moment of excitement the key to the secret staircase could not be found. Noun took Raymon’s arm and hurriedly pulled him into the hall; but they were not half way to the stairs when they heard footsteps in the same passage; they heard Madame Delmare’s voice ten steps in front of them, and a candle carried by a servant who attended her cast its flickering light almost on their terrified faces. Noun had barely time to retrace her steps, still pulling Raymon after her, and to return with him to the bedroom.
A dressing room, with a glass door, might afford a place of refuge for a few moments; but there was no way of locking the door, and it was possible that Madame Delmare might go to the dressing-room at once. To avoid being detected instantly, Raymon was obliged to rush into the alcove and hide behind the curtains. It was not probable that Madame Delmare would retire at once, and meanwhile Noun might find an opportunity to help him to escape.
Indiana busted into the room tossed her hat on the bed and kissed Noun with the familiarity of a sister. There was so little lig
ht in the room that she did not notice her companion’s emotion.
“You expected me, did you?” she said, going to the fire; “how did you know I was coming?—Monsieur Delmare,” she added, not waiting for a reply, “will be here tomorrow. I started at once on receiving his letter. I have certain reasons for receiving him here and not in Paris. I will tell you what they are. But, in heaven’s name, why don’t you speak to me? you don’t seem so glad to see me as usual.”
“I am low-spirited,” said Noun, kneeling by her mistress to remove her shoes. “I have something to tell you, too, but later; come to the salon now.”
“God forbid! what an idea! it’s deathly cold there!”
“No, there’s a good fire.”
“You are dreaming! I just came through it.”
“But your supper is waiting for you.”
“I don’t want any supper; besides, there is nothing ready. Go and get my boa, I left it in the carriage.”
“In a moment.”
“Why not now? Go, I say, go!”
As she spoke, she pushed Noun toward the door with a playful air; and the maid, seeing that she must be bold and self-possessed, went out for a few moments. But she had no sooner left the room than Madame Delmare threw the bolt and removed her cloak, placing it on the bed beside her hat. As she did it, she went so near to Raymon, that he instinctively stepped back, and the bed, which apparently rested on well-oiled castors, moved with a slight noise. Madame Delmare was surprised but not frightened, for it was quite possible that she had herself moved the bed; she stretched forth her neck, drew the curtain aside and revealed a man’s head outlined against the wall in the half-light cast by the fire on the hearth.
In her terror she uttered a shriek and rushed to the mantel to seize the bell cord and summon help. Raymon would have preferred to be taken for a thief again than to be recognized in that situation. But if he did not make himself known, Madame Delmare would call her servants and compromise her own reputation. He place his trust in the love he had inspired in her, and, rushing to her, tried to stop her shrieks and to keep her away from the bell cord, saying to her in an undertone, for fear of being heard by Noun, who was probably not far away:
“It is I, Indiana; look at me and forgive me! Indiana! forgive an unhappy wretch whose reason you have led astray, and who could not make up his mind to give you back to your husband until he had seen you once more.”
And while he held Indiana in his arms, no less in the hope of moving her than to keep her from ringing, Noun was knocking at the door in an agony of apprehension. Madame Delmare, extricating herself from Raymon’s arms, ran and opened the door, then sank into a chair.
Pale as death and almost fainting, Noun threw herself against the door to prevent the servants, who were running hither and thither, from interrupting this strange scene; paler than her mistress, with trembling knees and her back glued to the door, she awaited her fate.
Raymon felt that with due address he might still deceive both women at once.
“Madame,” he said, falling on his knees before Indiana, “my presence here must seem to you an outrageous insult; here at your feet I implore your forgiveness. Grant me an interview of a few moments and I will explain—”
“Hush, monsieur, and leave this house,” cried Madame Delmare, recovering all the dignity befitting her situation; “leave this house openly. Open the door, Noun, and allow monsieur to go, so that all my servants may see him and that the disgrace of such a proceeding may fall upon him.”
Noun, believing that she was detected, threw herself on her knees by Raymon’s side. Madame Delmare looked at her in amazement, but said nothing.
Raymon tried to take her hand; but she indignantly withdrew it. Flushed with anger, she rose and pointed to the door.
“Go, I tell you!” she said; “go, for your conduct is despicable. So these are the means you chose to employ! you, monsieur, hiding in my bedroom, like a thief! It seems that it is a habit of yours to introduce yourself into families in this way! and this is the pure attachment that you offered me the night before last! This is the way you were to protect me, respect me and defend me! This is the way you worship me! You see a woman who has nursed you with her hands, who, to restore you to life, defied her husband’s anger; you deceive her by a pretence of gratitude, you promise her a love worthy of her, and as a reward for her attentions, as the price of her credulity, you seek to surprise her in her sleep and to hasten your triumph by indescribable infamy! You bribe her maid, you almost creep into her bed, like a lover already favored; you do not shrink from admitting her servants to the secret of an intimacy that does not exist. Go, monsieur; you have taken pains to undeceive me very quickly! Go, I say! do not remain another moment under my roof! And you, wretched girl, who have so little regard for your mistress’s honor—you deserve to be dismissed. Stand away from that door, I tell you!”
Noun, half dead with surprise and despair, gazed fixedly at Raymon as if to ask him for an explanation of this incredible mystery. Then, with a wild gleam in her eyes, hardly able to stand, she dragged herself to Indiana and seized her arm fiercely.
“What was that you said?” she cried, her teeth clenched with rage; “this man loved you?”
“Eh! you must have known that he did!” said Madame Delmare, pushing her away contemptuously and with all her strength; “you must have known what reasons a man has for hiding behind a woman’s curtains. Ah! Noun,” she added, noticing the girl’s evident despair, “it was a dastardly thing, and one of which I would never have believed you to be capable; you consented to sell her honor who had such perfect faith in yours!”
Madame Delmare was shedding tears, tears of indignation as well as of grief. Raymon had never seen her so lovely; but he hardly dared look at her, for her haughty air, the air of an insulted woman, forced him to lower his eyes. He was terror-stricken, too, petrified by Noun’s presence. If he had been alone with Madame Delmare, he might perhaps have been able to soften her. But Noun’s expression was terrifying; her features were distorted by rage and hatred.
A knock at the door startled them all three. Noun rushed forward once more to keep out intruders; but Madame Delmare, pushing her aside imperatively, motioned to Raymon to withdraw to the corner of the room. Then, with the self-possession which made her so remarkable at critical moments, she wrapped herself in a shawl, partly opened the door herself, and asked the servant who had knocked what he had to say to her.
“Monsieur Rodolphe Brown is here,” was the reply; “he wishes to know if madame will receive him.”
“Say to Monsieur Rodolphe Brown that I am delighted that he has come and that I will join him at once. Make a fire in the salon and bid them prepare some supper. One moment! Go and get the key to the small park.”
The servant retired. Madame Delmare remained at the door, holding it open, not deigning to listen to Noun and imperiously enjoining silence on Raymon.
The servant returned in a few moments. Madame Delmare, still holding the door open between him and Monsieur de Ramière, took the key from him, bade him hurry up the supper, and, as soon as he had gone, turned to Raymon.
“The arrival of my cousin, Sir Rodolphe Brown,” she said, “saves you from the public scandal which I intended to inflict on you; he is a man of honor, who would eagerly assume the duty of defending me; but as I should be very sorry to expose a man like him to danger at the hands of such a man as you, I will allow you to go without scandal. Noun, who admitted you, will find a way to let you out. Go!”
“We shall meet again, madame,” replied Raymon with an attempt at self-assurance; “and although I am culpable, you will perhaps regret the harshness with which you treat me now.”
“I trust, monsieur, that we shall never meet again,” she rejoined.
And still standing at the door, not deigning to bow, she watched him depart with his miserable and
trembling accomplice.
When he was alone with Noun in the obscurity of the park, Raymon expected reproaches from her; but she did not speak to him. She led him to the gate of the small park, and, when he tried to take her hand, she had already vanished. He called her in a low voice, for he was anxious to learn his fate; but she did not reply, and the gardener, suddenly appearing, said to him:
“Come, monsieur, you must be off; madame is here and you may be discovered.”
Raymon took his departure with death in his heart; but in his despair at having offended Madame Delmare he almost forgot Noun and thought of nothing but possible methods of appeasing her mistress; for it was a part of his nature to be irritated by obstacles and never to cling passionately except to things that were well-nigh desperate.
At night, when Madame Delmare, after supping silently with Sir Ralph, withdrew to her own apartments, Noun did not come, as usual, to undress her; she rang for her to no purpose, and when she had concluded that the girl was resolved not to obey, she locked her door and went to bed. But she passed a horrible night, and, as soon as the day broke, went down into the park. She was feverish and agitated; she longed to feel the cold enter her body and allay the fire that consumed her breast. The day before, at that hour, she was happy, abandoning herself to the novel sensations of that intoxicating love. What a ghastly disillusionment in twenty-four hours! First of all, the news of her husband’s return several days earlier than she expected; those four or five days which she had hoped to pass in Paris were to her a whole lifetime of never-ending bliss, a dream of love never to be interrupted by awakening; but in the morning she had to abandon the hope, to resume the yoke, and to go to meet her master in order that he might not meet Raymon at Madame de Carvajal’s; for Indiana thought that it would be impossible for her to deceive her husband if he should see her in Raymon’s presence. And then this Raymon, whom she loved as a god—it was by him of all men that she was thus basely insulted! And lastly, her life-long companion, the young creole whom she loved so dearly, suddenly proved to be unworthy of her confidence and her esteem!
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