Sir Ralph, who was a poor business man but a very shrewd politician, suggested during the inspection of the factory some economical considerations of considerable importance. The workmen, being anxious to display their skill to an expert, surpassed themselves in deftness and activity. Raymon looked at everything, heard everything, answered everything, and thought of nothing but the love affair that brought him to that place.
When they had exhausted the subject of machinery the discussion fell upon the volume and force of the stream. They went out and climbed upon the dam, bidding the overseer raise the gates and mark the different depths.
“Monsieur,” said the man, addressing Monsieur Delmare, who fixed the maximum at fifteen feet, “I beg pardon, but we had it seventeen once this year.”
“When was that? You are mistaken,” said the colonel.
“Excuse me, monsieur, it was on the eve of your return from Belgium, the very night Mademoiselle Noun was found drowned; what I say is proved by the fact that the body passed over that dike yonder and did not stop until it got here, just where monsieur is standing.”
Speaking thus, with much animation, the man pointed to where Raymon stood. The unhappy young man turned pale as death; he cast a horrified glance at the water flowing at his feet; it seemed to him that the livid face was reflected in it, that the body was still floating there; he had an attack of vertigo and would have fallen into the river had not Monsieur Brown caught his arm and pulled him away.
“Very good,” said the colonel, who noticed nothing, and who gave so little thought to Noun that he did not suspect Raymon’s emotion; “but that was an extraordinary instance, and the average depth of the water is—But what the devil’s the matter with you two?” he inquired, suddenly interrupting himself.
“Nothing,” replied Sir Ralph; “as I turned I trod on monsieur’s foot; I am distressed, for I must have hurt him terribly.”
Sir Ralph made this reply in so calm and natural a tone that Raymon was convinced that he thought he was telling the truth. A few courteous words were exchanged and the conversation resumed its course.
Raymon left Lagny a few hours later without seeing Madame Delmare. It was better than he hoped; he had feared that he should find her calm and indifferent.
However he repeated his visit with no better success. That time the colonel was alone; Raymon put forth all the resources of his wit to captivate him, and shrewdly descended to innumerable little acts of condescension—praised Napoléon, whom he did not like, deplored the indifference of the government, which left the illustrious remnant of the Grande Armée in oblivion and something like contempt, carried opposition tenets as far as his opinions would permit him to go, and selected from his various beliefs those which were likely to flatter Monsieur Delmare’s. He even provided himself with a character different from his real one, in order to attract his confidence. He transformed himself into a bon vivant, a “hail fellow well met,” a careless good-for-naught.
“What if that fellow should ever make a conquest of my wife!” said the colonel to himself as he watched him drive away.
Then he began to chuckle inwardly and to think that Raymon was a charming fellow.
Madame de Ramière was at Cercy at this time: Raymon extolled Madame Delmare’s charms and wit to her, and without urging her to call upon her, had the art to suggest the thought.
“I believe she is the only one of my neighbors whom I do not know,” she said; “and as I am a new arrival in the neighborhood it is my place to begin. We will go to Lagny together next week.”
The appointed day arrived.
“She cannot avoid me now,” thought Raymon.
In truth Madame Delmare could not escape the necessity of receiving him, for when she saw an elderly woman she did not know step from the carriage, she went out on the stoop herself to meet her. At the same moment she recognized Raymon in the man who accompanied her; but she realized that he must have deceived his mother to induce her to take that step, and her displeasure on that account gave her strength to be dignified and calm. She received Madame de Ramière with a mixture of respect and affability; but her coldness to Raymon was so absolutely glacial that he felt that he could not long endure it. He was not accustomed to disdain and his pride took fire at being unable to conquer with a glance those who were prepossessed against him. Thereupon, deciding upon his course like a man who cared nothing for a woman’s whim, he asked permission to join Monsieur Delmare in the park and left the two women together.
Little by little, vanquished by the charm which a superior intellect, combined with a noble and generous heart, is capable of exerting even in its least intimate relations, Indiana became affable, affectionate and almost playful with Madame de Ramière. She had never known her mother, and Madame de Carvajal, despite her presents and her words of praise, was far from being a mother to her; so she felt a sort of fascination of the heart with Raymon’s mother.
When he joined her as she was stepping into her carriage he saw Indiana put to her lips the hand that Madame de Ramière offered her. Poor Indiana felt the need of having someone to cling to. Everything that offered a prospect of interest and of companionship in her lonely and unhappy life was welcomed by her with the keenest delight; and then she said to herself that Madame de Ramière would preserve her from the snare into which Raymon sought to lure her.
“I will throw myself into this good woman’s arms,” she was thinking already, “and, if necessary, I will tell her everything. I will implore her to save me from her son, and her prudence will stand guard over him and over me.”
Such was not Raymon’s reasoning.
“Dear mother!” he said to himself, as he drove back with her to Cercy, “her charm and her goodness of heart perform miracles. What do I not owe to them already! my education, my success in life, my standing in society. I lacked nothing but the happiness of owing to her the heart of such a woman as Indiana.”
Raymon, as we see, loved his mother because of his need of her and of the well-being he owed to her; so do all children love their mothers.
A few days later Raymon received an invitation to pass three days at Bellerive, a beautiful country seat owned by Sir Ralph Brown, between Cercy and Lagny, where it was proposed, in concert with the best hunters of the neighborhood, to destroy a part of the game that was devouring the owner’s woods and gardens. Raymon liked neither Sir Ralph nor hunting, but Madame Delmare did the honors of her cousin’s house on great occasions, and the hope of meeting her soon decided Raymon to accept the invitation.
The fact was that Sir Ralph did not expect Madame Delmare on this occasion; she had excused herself on the ground of her wretched health. But the colonel, who took umbrage when his wife sought diversion on her own account, took still greater umbrage when she declined such diversions as he chose to allow her.
“Do you want to make the whole province think that I keep you under lock and key?” he said to her. “You make me appear like a jealous husband; it’s an absurd role and one that I do not propose to play any longer. Besides, what does this lack of courtesy to your cousin mean? Does it become you, when we owe to his friendship the establishment and prosperity of our business, to refuse him such a service? You are necessary to him and you hesitate! I cannot understand your whims. All the people whom I don’t like are sure of a hearty welcome from you; but those whom I esteem are unfortunate enough not to please you.”
“That reproach has very little application to the present case, I should say,” replied Madame Delmare. “I love my cousin like a brother, and my affection for him was of long standing when yours began.”
“Oh! yes, yes, more of your fine words; but I know that you don’t find him sentimental enough, the poor devil! you call him selfish because he doesn’t like novels and doesn’t cry over the death of a dog. However, he’s not the only one. How did you receive Monsieur de Ramière? a charming young fello
w, on my word! Madame de Carvajal introduces him to you and you receive him with the greatest affability; but I have the ill-luck to think well of him and you pronounce him unendurable, and when he calls upon you, you go to bed! Are you trying to make me appear a perfect boor? It is time for this to come to an end and for you to begin to live like other people.”
Raymon deemed it inadvisable, in view of his plans, to show too much eagerness; threats of indifference are successful with almost all women who think that they are loved. But the hunting had been in progress since morning when he reached Sir Ralph’s, and Madame Delmare was not expected until dinner time. He employed the interval in preparing a plan of action.
It occurred to him that he must find some method of justifying his conduct, for the critical moment was at hand. He had two days before him and he determined to apportion the time thus: the rest of the day that was nearly ended to make an impression, the next day to persuade and the following day to be happy. He even consulted his watch and calculated almost to an hour the time when his enterprise would succeed or fail.
Chapter XII
He had been two hours in the salon when he heard Madame Delmare’s sweet and slightly husky voice in the adjoining room. By dint of reflecting on his scheme of seduction he had become as passionately interested as an author in his subject or a lawyer in his cause, and the emotion that he felt at the sight of Indiana may be compared to that of an actor thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his role who finds himself in the presence of the principal character of the drama and can no longer distinguish artificial stage effects from reality.
She was so changed that a feeling of sincere compassion found its way into Raymon’s being, amid the nervous tremors of his brain. Unhappiness and illness had left such deep traces on her face that she was hardly pretty, and that he felt that there was more glory than pleasure to be gained by the conquest. But he owed it to himself to restore this woman to life and happiness.
Seeing how pale and sad she was, he judged that he had no very strong will to contend against. Was it possible that such a frail envelope could conceal great power of moral resistance?
He reflected that it was necessary first of all to interest her in herself, to frighten her concerning her depression and her failing health, in order the more easily to open her mind to the desire and the hope of a better destiny.
“Indiana!” he began, with secret assurance perfectly concealed beneath an air of profound melancholy, “to think that I should find you in such a condition as this! I did not dream that this moment to which I have looked forward so long, which I have sought so eagerly, would cause me such horrible pain!”
Madame Delmare hardly anticipated this language; she expected to surprise Raymon in the attitude of a confused and shrinking culprit; and lo! instead of accusing himself—of telling her of his grief and repentance—his sorrow and pity were all for her! She must be sorely cast down and broken in spirit to inspire compassion in a man who should have implored hers!
A French woman—a woman of the world—would not have lost her head at such a delicate juncture; but Indiana had no tact; possessed neither the skill nor the power of dissimulation necessary to preserve the advantage of her position. His words brought before her eyes the whole picture of her sufferings and tears glistened on the edge of her eyelids.
“I am ill, in truth,” she said, as she seated herself, feebly and wearily, in the chair Raymon offered her; “I feel that I am very ill, and, in your presence, monsieur, I have the right to complain.”
Raymon had not hoped to progress so fast. He seized the opportunity by the hair, as the saying is, and, taking possession of a hand which felt cold and dry in his, he replied:
“Indiana! do not say that; do not say that I am the cause of your illness, for you make me mad with grief and joy.”
“And joy!” she repeated, fixing upon him her great blue eyes overflowing with melancholy and amazement.
“I should have said hope; for, if I have caused you unhappiness, madame, I can perhaps bring it to an end. Say a word,” he added, kneeling beside her on a cushion that had fallen from the divan, “ask me for my blood, my life!”
“Oh! hush!” said Indiana bitterly, withdrawing her hand; “you made a shameful misuse of promises before; try to repair the evil you have done!”
“I intend to do it; I will do it!” he cried, trying to take her hand again.
“It is too late,” she said. “Give me back my companion, my sister; give me back Noun, my only friend!”
A cold shiver ran through Raymon’s veins. This time he had no need to encourage her emotion; there are emotions which awake unbidden, mighty and terrible, without the aid of art.
“She knows all,” he thought, “and she has judged me.”
Nothing could be more humiliating to him than to be reproached for his crime by the woman who had been his innocent accomplice; nothing more bitter than to see Noun’s rival lamenting her death.
“Yes, monsieur,” said Indiana, raising her face, down which the tears were streaming, “you were the cause—”
But she paused when she observed Raymon’s pallor. It must have been most alarming, for he had never suffered so keenly.
Thereupon all the kindness of her heart and all the involuntary emotion which he aroused in her resumed their sway over Madame Delmare.
“Forgive me!” she said in dismay; “I hurt you terribly; I have suffered so myself! Sit down and let us talk of something else.”
This sudden manifestation of her sweet and generous nature rendered Raymon’s emotion deeper than ever. He sobbed aloud; he put Indiana’s hand to his lips and covered it with tears and kisses. It was the first time that he had been able to weep since Noun’s death, and it was Indiana who relieved his breast of that terrible weight.
“Oh! since you, who never knew her, weep for her so freely,” she said; “since you regret so bitterly the injury you have done me, I dare not reproach you anymore. Let us weep for her together, monsieur, so that, from her place in heaven, she may see us and forgive us.”
Raymon’s forehead was wet with cold perspiration. If the words you who never knew her had delivered him from painful anxiety, this appeal to his victim’s memory, in Indiana’s innocent mouth, terrified him with a superstitious terror. Sorely distressed, he rose and walked feverishly to a window and leaned on the sill to breathe the fresh air. Indiana remained in her chair, silent and deeply moved. She felt a sort of secret joy on seeing Raymon weep like a child and display the weakness of a woman.
“He is naturally kind,” she murmured to herself; “he is fond of me; his heart is warm and generous. He did wrong, but his repentance expiates his fault, and I ought to have forgiven him sooner.”
She gazed at him with a softened expression; her confidence in him had returned. She mistook the remorse of the guilty man for the repentance of love.
“Do not weep anymore,” she said, rising and walking up to him; “it was I who killed her; I alone am guilty. This remorse will sadden my whole life. I gave way to an impulse of suspicion and anger; I humiliated her, wounded her to the heart. I vented upon her all my spleen against you; it was you alone who had offended me, and I punished my poor friend for it. I was very hard to her!”
“And to me,” said Raymon, suddenly forgetting the past to think only of the present.
Madame Delmare blushed.
“I should not perhaps have reproached you for the cruel loss I sustained on that awful night,” she said; “but I cannot forget the imprudence of your conduct toward me. The lack of delicacy in your romantic and culpable project wounded me very deeply. I believed then that you loved me!—and you did not even respect me!”
Raymon recovered his strength, his determination, his love, his hopes; the sinister presentiment, which had made his blood run cold, vanished like a nightmare. He awoke once more, young, ardent, overflowi
ng with desire, with passion, and with hopes for the future.
“I am guilty if you hate me,” he said, vehemently, throwing himself at her feet; “but, if you love me, I am not guilty—I never have been. Tell me, Indiana, do you love me?”
“Do you deserve it?” she asked.
“If, in order to deserve it,” said Raymon, “I must love you to adoration—”
“Listen to me,” she said, abandoning her hands to him and fastening upon him her great eyes, swimming in tears, wherein a sombre flame gleamed at intervals. “Do you know what it is to love a woman like me? No, you do not know. You thought that it was merely a matter of gratifying the caprice of a day. You judged my heart by all the surfeited hearts over which you have hitherto exerted your ephemeral domination. You do not know that I have never loved as yet and that I will not give my untouched virgin heart in exchange for a ruined, withered heart, my enthusiastic love for a lukewarm love, my whole life for one brief day!”
“Madame, I love you passionately; my heart too is young and ardent, and, if it is not worthy of yours, no man’s heart will ever be. I know how you must be loved; I have not waited until this day to find out. Do I not know your life? did I not describe it to you at the ball, the first time that I ever had the privilege of speaking to you? Did I not read the whole history of your heart in the first one of your glances that ever fell upon me? And with what did I fall in love, think you? with your beauty alone? Ah! that is surely enough to drive an older and less passionate man to frenzy; but for my part, if I adore that gracious and charming envelope, it is because it encloses a pure and divine soul, it is because a celestial fire quickens it, and because I see in you not a woman simply, but an angel.”
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