Indiana (Oxford World's Classics)

by George Sand

  Noun had not heard him. She had turned her eyes towards her mistress, who had just started on her couch as if the movement of the air had given her senses an electric shock. At almost the same moment, the sound of a gunshot rattled all the drawing-room windows and Noun fell on her knees.

  ‘What petty feminine fears!’ cried Sir Ralph, tired of women’s agitation. ‘They’ll soon triumphantly bring you a rabbit killed in the hunt and you’ll laugh at yourselves.’

  ‘No, Ralph,’ said Madame Delmare, going towards the door with a steady step, ‘I tell you, human blood has been spilt.’

  With a piercing shriek, Noun fell on her face.

  Then they heard Lelièvre shouting from the grounds:

  ‘There he is! There he is! Good shot, Colonel! The bandit’s on the ground . . .’ Sir Ralph began to be concerned. He followed Madame Delmare. Some moments later, a man, blood-stained and showing no sign of life, was brought on to the verandah.

  ‘Don’t make so much noise! Don’t shout so much!’ the Colonel was saying with a rough cheerfulness to all his frightened servants crowding round the wounded man. ‘It’s just a farce. My gun was only loaded with salt. I don’t think I even hit him. He fell with fright.’

  ‘But this blood, Monsieur,’ said Madame Delmare very reproachfully, ‘was it fear that made it flow?’

  ‘Why are you here, Madame?’ cried M. Delmare. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am here to repair the harm you are doing, as is my duty,’ she replied coldly.

  And going up to the wounded man with a courage that no one present had yet felt capable of, she brought a light close to his face.

  Then instead of the coarse features and clothing they had expected to see, they found a very aristocratic-looking young man, elegantly dressed although he was wearing a riding habit. One of his hands was slightly wounded but his torn clothing and his unconscious state showed he had had a bad fall.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lelièvre. ‘He fell twenty feet. He was climbing over the top of the wall when the Colonel shot him, and a few little pellets or grains of salt in his right hand will have prevented him from holding on. The fact is, I saw him fall, and once he was on the ground he didn’t even think of running away, poor devil.’

  ‘Can you believe that a man who is so well-dressed should want to steal?’ asked one of the maids.

  ‘And his pockets are full of money,’ said another servant, who had undone the waistcoat of the alleged thief.

  ‘It’s strange,’ said the Colonel who, not without being deeply moved, was looking at the man stretched out before him. ‘If this man is dead, it’s not my fault. Look at his hand, Madame, and if you find one little pellet . . .’

  ‘I want to believe you, Monsieur,’ replied Madame Delmare, and with a sang-froid and moral strength of which no one would have thought her capable, she was carefully feeling his pulse and the arteries of his neck. ‘And indeed,’ she added, ‘he’s not dead but he needs immediate attention. He doesn’t look like a thief and perhaps deserves to be looked after, and even if he didn’t deserve it, it’s our duty, as women, to care for him.’

  Then Madame Delmare had the wounded man carried into the nearest room, the billiard room. A mattress was placed on some benches and Indiana helped by her maids, looked after dressing the wounded hand while Sir Ralph, who had some surgical knowledge, bled the wounded man profusely.

  Meanwhile, the Colonel, looking embarrassed, was in the situation of a man who has behaved more badly than he had meant to. He felt the need to justify himself in the eyes of the others, or rather for the others to justify him in his own eyes. So he stayed with the servants below the verandah, delivering the heatedly long-winded and completely useless explanations that are always made after the event. Lelièvre had already explained twenty times, with the utmost detail, the gunshot, the fall, and its consequences, while the Colonel, who had become good-humoured again amongst his own staff, as he always did after he had vented his anger, blamed the intentions of a man who gets into private property at night by climbing over the wall. They were all agreeing with their master, when the gardener quietly drew him aside and affirmed that the thief, and a young landowner recently settled in the neighbourhood, were as alike as two peas, and that three days earlier he had seen him speaking to Mademoiselle Noun at the Rubelles* village fête.

  This information gave a different direction to M. Delmare’s thoughts. A large vein, which with him always swelled up before a storm, stood out on his wide, gleaming, bald forehead.

  ‘My God!’ he said to himself, clenching his fists, ‘Madame Delmare takes a great interest in this womanizer who steals into my grounds by climbing over the wall!’

  Then, pale and trembling with anger, he went into the billiard room.

  III

  ‘DON’T worry, Monsieur,’ said Indiana. ‘The man you killed will be quite well in a few days; at least we hope so, though he can’t speak yet.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Madame,’ said the Colonel sullenly. ‘I want you to tell me the name of this interesting invalid and what fit of absent-mindedness made him mistake the wall of my grounds for the driveway to my house.’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what it is,’ replied Madame Delmare so coldly and proudly that her terrible husband was for a moment quite taken aback.

  But returning quickly to his jealous suspicions:

  ‘I’ll find out, Madame. You may be sure I’ll find out,’ he said under his breath.

  Then, as Madame Delmare pretended not to notice his rage and continued looking after the wounded man, he left the room so as not to lose his temper in front of the maids, and called back the gardener.

  ‘What’s the name of this man who you say looks like our robber?’

  ‘M. de Ramière. He’s the man who’s just bought M. de Cercy’s little English house.’

  ‘What kind of a man is he? A nobleman, a fop, a fine gentleman?’

  ‘A very fine gentleman, a nobleman, I think.’

  ‘He would be,’ continued the Colonel pointedly. ‘M. de Ramière! Tell me, Louis,’ he added in a low voice, ‘have you ever seen that fop prowling around here?’

  ‘Monsieur . . . last night,’ replied Louis hesitantly, ‘I certainly saw . . . to say he was a fop, I know nothing about that, but it certainly was a man.’

  ‘And you saw him?’

  ‘Beneath the orangery windows, as clearly as I can see you.’

  ‘And you didn’t go after him with your spade handle?’

  ‘Monsieur, I was going to, but I saw a woman in white coming out of the orangery and going up to him. So I said to myself, ‘Perhaps it’s Monsieur and Madame who have fancied going for a walk before daylight. And I went home to bed. But this morning, I heard Lelièvre talking about a thief whose footprints he saw in the garden, and I said to myself, ‘There’s something fishy about this.’

  ‘And why didn’t you tell me right away, you stupid fellow?’

  ‘Oh well, Monsieur, there are some delicate situations in life . . .’

  ‘I understand you. You let yourself doubt. You are a fool. If you ever happen to have an insolent idea of that kind, I’ll cut your ears off. I know perfectly well who this robber is and what he was looking for in my garden. I only asked you all these questions to see how you were looking after your orangery. You must realize that I have some rare plants there that Madame values highly and that there are plant-lovers crazy enough to come and rob their neighbours’ greenhouses. It was me you saw last night with Madame Delmare.’

  And the poor Colonel went away more tortured and angry than before, leaving his gardener not at all convinced that there were horticulturists so fanatical that they would risk being shot so as to gain possession of a sucker or a cutting.

  M. Delmare, having returned to the billiard room, paid no attention to the signs of consciousness the wounded man was showing at last, and the Colonel was starting to search the pockets of the intruder’s jacket which was lying on a chair,
when, stretching out his arm, he said faintly:

  ‘You want to know who I am, Monsieur, but there’s no point in searching my pockets. I’ll tell you when we’re alone together. Till then, spare me the embarrassment of making myself known in the ridiculous and awkward situation in which I am placed.’

  ‘That really is a great pity!’ the Colonel replied tartly. ‘But I must admit it doesn’t bother me much. However, as I hope we’ll see each other again alone, I’m willing to defer our acquaintanceship till then. Meanwhile, please tell me where I should have you taken.’

  ‘To the inn of the nearest village, if you’d be so kind.’

  ‘But Monsieur is not in a fit condition to be taken anywhere,’ Madame Delmare said quickly. ‘Isn’t that so, Ralph?’

  ‘You’re too much affected by Monsieur’s condition, Madame,’ said the Colonel. ‘Leave the room the rest of you,’ he said to the maids. ‘Monsieur is feeling better and he’ll be strong enough now to explain his presence in my house.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ replied the wounded man, ‘and I ask all those who were kind enough to look after me to be so good as to listen to the confession of my wrongdoing. I feel that it’s very important that there should be no misunderstanding here about my behaviour, and it’s important to me not to pass for what I am not. I must tell you what underhand scheme led me to your house. By very simple methods, known only to you, you have set up a factory whose work and products are infinitely superior to those of all the factories of that kind in the district. My brother has a very similar establishment in the south of France but its upkeep absorbs enormous amounts of money. His business was heading for disaster, when I heard of the success of yours. So I decided to come and ask your advice, as a generous service which couldn’t harm your interests, since my brother deals with products of quite a different kind. But the gate of your English garden was firmly closed to me, and when I asked to speak to you, I was told in reply that you wouldn’t even allow me to visit your establishment. Put off by these unkind refusals, I then decided even at the risk of my own life and honour, to save my brother’s life and honour. I stole into your grounds at night by climbing over the wall, and I tried to get into the factory to examine the machinery. In short, I had decided to hide in a corner, bribe the workforce, and steal your secret for the benefit of an honest man without hurting you. That was my crime. Now, Monsieur, if you require satisfaction other than what you have just taken, I’m ready to oblige you and even to ask you to take it as soon as I’m strong enough.’

  ‘I think we ought to call it a day, Monsieur,’ replied the Colonel, half relieved of a great anxiety. ‘The rest of you witnessed the explanation Monsieur has given me. I’ve been more than satisfied, even if I needed satisfaction. Go now, and leave us to talk about my successful business.’

  The servants left the room, but only they were duped by this reconciliation. The wounded man, weakened by his long speech, could not appreciate the tone of the Colonel’s last remark. He fell back into the arms of Madame Delmare and lost consciousness a second time. Bending over him, she did not deign to raise her eyes to look at her husband’s anger, and M. Delmare and M. Brown, their two faces so different, the one pale and distorted with irritation, the other calm and impassive as usual, questioned each other silently.

  M. Delmare did not need to say a word to make himself understood, but he drew Sir Ralph aside and pressing his hands hard, said:

  ‘My good friend, it’s a very well planned intrigue. I’m satisfied, perfectly satisfied, with the presence of mind with which this young man was able to preserve my honour in front of my servants. But, by God! He’ll pay dearly for the insult which I feel to the depths of my heart. And this woman who is looking after him and pretends not to know him! Oh, how innately cunning these creatures are . . .’

  Sir Ralph, appalled, walked steadily three times round the room. After his first round, he concluded, improbable, after the second, impossible, after the third, proved. Then, coming back to the stony-faced Colonel, he pointed to Noun, who stood behind the wounded man, wringing her hands, her eyes haggard and her lips white, petrified with despair, terror, and bewilderment.

  There is such an immediate and overwhelming power of conviction in a real discovery that the Colonel was more struck by Sir Ralph’s forceful gesture than he would have been by the most eloquent oratory. M. Brown had probably more than one clue to put him on the right track. He had just recalled Noun’s presence in the grounds at the very moment when he had been looking for her, her wet hair and damp, muddy shoes which bore witness to her strange whim of taking a walk in the rain, small details which he had not noticed much when Madame Delmare had fainted, but which came back to him now. Then the strange fear and convulsive agitation she had manifested, and the scream she had let out when she heard the gunshot . . .

  M. Delmare did not need all these clues. More clear-sighted, perhaps because he was more concerned to be so, he had only to study the girl’s face to see that she alone was guilty. But his wife’s assiduous attentions to the hero of this amorous adventure were more and more distasteful to him.

  ‘Indiana,’ he said, ‘go to your room. It’s late, and you aren’t well. Noun will stay beside Monsieur to look after him tonight, and tomorrow, if he’s better, we’ll consider how to have him taken home.’

  There was no objection to be made to this unexpected arrangement. Madame Delmare, who was so capable of standing up to her husband’s violent temper, always gave in when he was gentle. She asked Sir Ralph to stay with the patient a little longer and retired to her room.

  It was not unintentionally that the Colonel had made this arrangement. An hour later, when everyone was in bed and the house was quiet, he slipped noiselessly into the room where M. de Ramière was, and concealed behind a curtain, he was able to have his suspicions confirmed by the conversation between the young man and his wife’s maid, that it was a matter of an amorous intrigue between them. The young Creole’s unusual beauty had created a sensation at the village balls of the neighbourhood. She had not lacked admirers, even amongst the leading people of the district. More than one handsome lancers’ officer, garrisoned at Melun, had put himself out to attract her, but Noun was involved in her first love affair and only one admirer’s attentions had made an impression on her—M. de Ramière’s.

  Colonel Delmare had no wish to follow the course of their liaison, so he withdrew as soon as he was quite reassured that his wife had not for a moment been the concern of the Almaviva* of this intrigue. Nevertheless he heard enough to understand the difference between the love felt by poor Noun, who threw herself into it with all the violence of her passionate temperament, and that of the young man of good social position who yielded to a temporary infatuation without giving up the right to return to his senses the next day.

  When Madame Delmare woke up she saw Noun at her bedside, sad and embarrassed. But Indiana had naively believed M. de Ramière’s explanation, all the more so because people interested in the trade had already tried by cunning or deceit to steal the secrets of Delmare’s factory. So she attributed her companion’s disarray to the emotions and fatigue of the night, and Noun was reassured when she saw the Colonel walk calmly into his wife’s room and talk to her about the previous evening’s incident as if it were something quite normal.

  In the morning, Sir Ralph had checked up on the patient’s condition. Although the fall was violent, there had been no serious consequences. The wound had already begun to heal. M. de Ramière, who wanted to be taken to Melun straight away, had distributed the contents of his purse to the servants so as to ensure their keeping quiet about the incident, saying he did not want to frighten his mother, who lived a few miles away. So news of what had happened spread only slowly and in different versions. Some information about the English factory of a M. de Ramière, brother of the intruder, supported the story that he had fortunately made up on the spur of the moment. The Colonel and Sir Brown had the tact to keep Noun’s secret without even letting her k
now they knew it, and the Delmare family soon ceased to be concerned with the incident.

  IV

  IT is perhaps difficult for you to believe that M. Raymon de Ramière, a brilliant young man, intelligent, talented and with many virtues, used to social success and fashionable love-affairs, should have conceived a lasting attachment for the housekeeper of a little industrial establishment in the Brie. But M. de Ramière was neither a fop nor a libertine. We have said he was intelligent, that is to say, he appreciated the advantages of birth at their true value. He was a man of principle who reasoned with himself, but ardent passions would often sweep him away from his theories. At such times he was incapable of reflection, or he would avoid confrontation with his conscience; he would do wrong, as if in spite of himself, and the next day would try to deceive himself about what he had done the night before. Unfortunately the most striking thing about him was not his principles (he shared these with many other white-gloved philosophers and they did not preserve him, any more than them, from inconsistency) but his passions, which principles could not stifle, and which set him apart in that dubious society in which it is so difficult to be different without being ridiculous. Raymon had the art of often being guilty without making himself hated, often unusual without upsetting people; sometimes he even managed to arouse pity in those who had most reason to complain of him. There are men who are spoiled like this by all around them. A cheerful expression and a lively way of speaking are sometimes all that their feelings cost them. We have no intention of judging M. Raymon de Ramière very harshly, nor of sketching his portrait before showing him in action. For the moment we are studying him from a distance, as one of the crowd who see him pass by.

  M. de Ramière was in love with the young Creole with big black eyes who had aroused the admiration of the whole county at the Rubelles fête, but in love with her and nothing more. He had perhaps approached her in an idle moment and success had inflamed his desire. He had obtained more than he had asked for, and the day he conquered her easily-won heart he went home, alarmed at his victory, and, striking his forehead, said to himself: