by George Sand
‘I only hope she doesn’t love me!’
So it was only after he had accepted all the proofs of her love that he began to suspect she loved him. Then he repented, but it was too late; he had to accept the future consequences or make a cowardly retreat. Raymon did not hesitate; he let himself be loved and he himself loved out of gratitude. He scaled the walls of the Delmare estate out of love of danger; he had a nasty fall out of clumsiness and he was so touched by his beautiful young mistress’s grief that thereafter he considered himself justified in his own eyes in continuing to dig the abyss into which she was to fall.
As soon as he was well again, there was no icy winter weather, there were no nocturnal dangers, no twinges of remorse which could prevent him from crossing a corner of the forest to meet his Creole and swearing to her that he had never loved anyone but her, that he preferred her to the queens of society, and from uttering the thousand other exaggerations which are always in season with poor, credulous girls. In January Madame Delmare left for Paris with her husband. Sir Ralph Brown, their worthy neighbour, went home to his own estate, and Noun, left in charge of her master’s country house, was free to absent herself under different pretexts. It was a misfortune for her, since these easy meetings with her lover greatly shortened the ephemeral happiness she was to enjoy. The forest, its poetic beauty, its garlands of white frost, its transformation in the moonlight, the hidden little gate, the stealthy morning departure when Noun’s little feet left their imprint in the snow as she saw him to the gate, all these trimmings of a love-affair had prolonged M. de Ramière’s infatuation. Noun, in a white housecoat, with her long black hair, was a noble lady, a queen, a fairy. When he saw her emerge from the red-brick castle, a solid, square, Regency building which had a half-feudal look about it, he could easily take her for a medieval lady of the manor, and in the summer-house full of exotic flowers, where she would intoxicate him with the seductions of youth and passion, he easily forgot everything he was to remember later.
But when, despising precautions and, in her turn braving danger, Noun came to see him in his room with her white apron and her head-scarf attractively arranged in the style of her native country, she was no more than a lady’s maid, and a pretty woman’s maid, which always makes the serving-girl seem a second best. Yet Noun was very beautiful; that was how she had been dressed when he had seen her for the first time at the village fête, where he had cut through the crowd of interested spectators in order to get near her and had the little triumph of snatching her away from twenty rivals. Noun would remind him tenderly of that day. Poor girl, she did not know that Raymon’s love did not go back so far, and that what for her was a day of pride, was for him only a day of vanity. Then the courage with which she was sacrificing her reputation, that courage which ought to have made him love her more, irritated M. de Ramière. The wife of a peer of France who sacrificed herself in that way would be a prized conquest; but a lady’s maid! What is heroism in the one becomes impudence in the other. With the one, a host of jealous rivals envies you; with the other, a crowd of scandalized lackeys condemns you. The woman of rank gives up for you the twenty lovers she had; the lady’s maid only gives up for you the one husband she might have had.
What do you expect? Raymon was a man with polished manners, an elegant life-style and romantic love-affairs. For him a working-girl was not a woman, and Noun, thanks to her perfect beauty, had taken him by surprise on a day when he was letting himself go with village people. None of that was Raymon’s fault. He had been brought up for high society, all his thoughts had been directed towards a lofty goal, all his faculties had been moulded for a princely happiness, and it was in spite of himself that his passionate blood had dragged him into a lower-class love-affair. He had done all he could to be happy in it, but he could be so no longer. What was he to do now? Generously extravagant ideas had certainly crossed his mind. On the days when he had been most in love with his mistress, he had, to be sure, thought of raising her up to him, of legitimizing their union . . . Yes, on my honour, he had thought of it! But love, which legitimizes everything, was dwindling now; it was declining with the dangers of the adventure and the thrill of concealment. A marriage was no longer possible. But, take note, Raymon’s reasoning was very sound and entirely in his mistress’s interest.
If he had truly loved her, by sacrificing his future, his family, and his reputation, he could still have found happiness with her and consequently have given it to her, for love is a contract as much as marriage is. But now that he felt his love had cooled, what future could he make for a woman of this class? Would he marry her to show her, every day, a sad face, hurt feelings, and a deeply unhappy home? Would he marry her to make her detested by his family, contemptible to his equals, ridiculous to his servants; to risk introducing her into a society where she would feel out of place and humiliation would kill her; to overwhelm her with remorse by making her realize all the evils she had brought on her lover?
No, you will agree with him that it was not possible, that it would not have been generous, that one cannot struggle against society in this way, and such virtuous heroics are like Don Quixote’s breaking his lance against a windmill, an iron courage destroyed by a puff of wind, the chivalry of another century which arouses pity in this one.
Having thus considered the whole matter, M. de Ramière realized that it was better to break the unfortunate connection. Noun’s visits began to upset him. His mother, who had gone to Paris for the winter, would soon be bound to hear of this little scandal. She was already surprised by his frequent visits to Cercy, their country house, and by his spending whole weeks there. He had, to be sure, claimed to be doing a serious piece of work that he went to complete far from urban noise, but the pretext was beginning to wear thin. Raymon was unhappy at deceiving such a good mother, at depriving her of his attentions for so long. What more is there to say? He left Cercy and did not return.
Noun wept and waited and, in her unhappiness seeing time pass, she risked going so far as to write to him. Poor girl! That was the last straw! A letter from a lady’s maid! Yet she had taken the glossy writing paper and perfumed sealing wax from Madame Delmare’s writing desk, and the style from her own heart . . . But the spelling! Are you aware what a syllable more Or less adds to or detracts from the strength of feelings? Alas! The poor half-civilized girl from Bourbon Island did not even know that language had rules. She thought she wrote and spoke as well as her mistress, and when she saw that Raymon was not coming back she said to herself:
‘Yet my letter was certainly written in a style to bring him back.’
But Raymon had not the courage to read that letter to the end. Perhaps it was a masterpiece of naive, delightful passion; perhaps Virginie wrote no more charming letter to Paul* when she had left her native land . . . But M. de Ramière, afraid of being ashamed of himself, was quick to throw it in the fire. Once again, what do you expect? It is a prejudice inculcated by upbringing, and self-esteem is, in love, what self-interest is in friendship.
M. de Ramière’s absence had been noticed in society. That is saying a lot for a man in a society where all the men are alike. One can be an intelligent man and value society, just as one can be a fool and despise it. Raymon liked it and he was right; he was sought after and was popular; for him, the crowd of indifferent or mocking faces had attentive looks and interested smiles. Unhappy people may be misanthropic but people who are liked are rarely surly; at least Raymon thought so. He was grateful for the slightest signs of affection, wanted everyone’s good opinion, and was proud of a great number of friendships.
In a society where prejudice reigns supreme, he had been successful in everything; even his failings had been part of his success. And when he looked for the source of the universal affection which had always protected him, he found it in himself, in his desire to gain that affection, in the happiness it inspired in him, and in the hearty goodwill which he lavished inexhaustibly.
He owed this affection also to his mother, whose s
uperior intelligence, friendly conversation, and personal virtues set her apart from other women. It was to her that he owed the excellent principles which always brought him back to what was good and prevented him, despite the ardour of his twenty-five years, from forfeiting public esteem. People were also more indulgent towards him than towards others because his mother had the art of excusing him while blaming him, of advising indulgence while appearing to entreat it. She was one of those women who have lived through such different régimes that their minds have become as adaptable as their fortunes, who have been enriched by the experience of misfortune, who have escaped the scaffolds of ‘93,* the vices of the Directory,* the vanities of the Empire,* and the grudges of the Restoration. * There are few women of that kind and they are dying out.
It was at a ball at the Spanish Embassy that Raymon made his return to society.
‘M. de Ramière, if I’m not mistaken,’ said a young woman to her neighbour.
‘He’s a comet that appears at irregular intervals,’ the neighbour replied. ‘It’s ages since we’ve heard of that pretty fellow.’
It was a foreign, elderly woman who made this remark and her companion blushed a little.
‘He’s very good-looking,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he, Madame!’
‘Charming, upon my word,’ said the old Sicilian lady.
‘I bet you’re talking of the hero of the eclectic salons,* dark-haired Raymon,’ said a handsome Colonel of the Guards.
‘He’s got a fine head for sketching,’ continued the young woman.
‘And what you may like still more, a miscreant’s head,’ said the Colonel.
The young woman was his own wife.
‘Why a miscreant’s?’ asked the foreign lady.
‘He has quite southern style passions, Madame, strong as the beautiful sunshine of Palermo.’
Two or three young women bent their pretty flower-adorned heads so that they could hear what the Colonel was saying.
‘He really caused havoc in the garrison, this year,’ he continued. ‘The rest of us will be forced to pick a bad quarrel with him to get rid of him.’
‘If he’s a Lovelace,* no matter,’ said a young girl with a mocking expression. ‘I can’t stand people whom everyone likes.’
The Sicilian Countess waited till the Colonel was a little further away, then, giving a little rap over Mademoiselle de Nangy’s knuckles with her fan, said:
‘Don’t speak like that. You don’t know how we appreciate here a man who wants to be loved.’
‘So you think all such men need do is to want?’ said the girl with narrow, sardonic eyes.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said the Colonel, who was coming to ask her to dance, ‘take care that the handsome Raymon doesn’t hear you.’
Mademoiselle de Nangy began to laugh. But for the whole evening, her attractive group did not dare say another word about M. de Ramière.
V
M. DE RAMIÈRE was neither bored nor displeased as he wandered about in the ebb and flow of the beautifully-dressed crowd.
Yet he was struggling against depression. As he returned to the sphere to which he belonged, he was, as it were, remorseful, ashamed of all the crazy ideas which an unsuitable attachment had put into his head. He looked at these women who sparkled so in the bright lights; he listened to their subtle, sophisticated conversation; he heard people praising their talents, and in the carefully chosen splendours, in the almost regal ball-gowns, in their exquisite courtesy, he felt continually reproached for having demeaned himself below the status he was born to. But in spite of this kind of embarrassment, Raymon suffered from a more genuine remorse, for his intentions were always extremely considerate and a woman’s tears broke his heart, however hardened he was.
At this moment, the honours of the evening were awarded to a young woman whose name no one knew, and who, by the novelty of her appearance in society, enjoyed the privilege of arresting everyone’s attention. The simplicity of her dress would have been enough to make her stand out in the midst of the diamonds, feathers, and flowers which adorned the other women. Rows of pearls wound into her black hair were her only jewels. The dull white of her necklace, of her crêpe dress, and of her bare shoulders blended together from a distance, and the warmth of the rooms had barely managed to bring to her cheeks a delicate hue like that of a Bengal rose flowering in snow. She was a tiny, dainty, slender little creature; her drawing-room beauty, fairy-like in the bright light of the candles, would have been dimmed by a ray of sunshine. As she danced, she was so light that a puff of wind would have been enough to blow her away, but though light, she had no animation or enjoyment. When she was seated, she stooped as if her body were too pliable, without enough strength to hold her upright, and when she spoke, she smiled sadly. At that time, tales of the supernatural were at the height of their popularity, and so connoisseurs of the genre compared the young woman to a charming spectre, magically evoked, which would become dim and fade away like a dream when day began to dawn.
Meanwhile, they crowded round her to ask her to dance.
‘Hurry up,’ said a romantic dandy to one of his friends. ‘The cock is about to crow and your partner’s feet already no longer touch the dance-floor. I bet you can no longer feel her hand in yours.’
‘Do look at M. de Ramière’s dark-complexioned face, full of character,’ a woman with artistic pretensions said to her neighbour. ‘Don’t you think that, next to that pale, tiny young creature, his strong colouring sets off admirably the delicate tones of hers?’
‘That young creature,’ said a woman who knew everybody and who at parties fulfilled the function of a directory, ‘is the daughter of that crazy old Carvajal who wanted to set himself up as a partisan of Joseph Bonaparte* and, a ruined man, went off to die in Bourbon Island. That beautiful, exotic flower has made a pretty stupid marriage, I believe, but her aunt is in favour at court.’
Raymon had come up to the lovely girl from the Indies. A strange emotion took hold of him each time he looked at her. He must have seen that pale, sad face in one of his dreams; but he was sure he had seen her, and he kept on looking at her with the pleasure experienced at seeing again a caring face that one feared losing for ever. Raymon’s attention upset the girl who was its object. She was awkward and shy like a person unused to high society, and her success in it seemed to embarrass rather than please her. Raymon walked round the room, finally learned that the lady’s name was Madame Delmare, and went to ask her to dance.
‘You don’t remember me,’ he said when they were alone in the midst of the crowd, ‘but I have not been able to forget you, Madame. Yet I saw you for only a moment, through a cloud, but that revealed you to me so kind, so full of pity . . .’
Madame Delmare gave a start.
‘Oh yes, Monsieur,’ she said eagerly, ‘it’s you! . . . Yes, I too recognized you.’
Then she blushed and seemed afraid she had behaved improperly. She looked around as if to see whether anyone had heard her. Her shyness added to her natural charm and Raymon felt touched to the heart by the tone of her Creole voice, a little husky and so gentle that it seemed made to pray or bless.
‘I was very much afraid I should never have an opportunity to thank you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t call at your home and I knew you went out very little in society. I was afraid, too, that if I approached you, I would come into contact with M. Delmare and our mutual situation could not make that a pleasant contact. How happy I am to have this moment which allows me to pay the debt my heart owes you.’
‘It would be nicer for me if M. Delmare could take his share of the payment,’ she said. ‘If you knew him better you would know that he is as kind as he is short-tempered. You would pardon him for unintentionally wounding you, for his heart certainly bled more than your wound.’
‘Let’s not talk of M. Delmare, Madame. I forgive him with all my heart. I had wronged him, he took the law into his own hands; it only remains for me to forget him. But you, Madame, who lavished such generous, tender ca
re on me, I shall remember all my life your behaviour towards me, your pure features, your angelic gentleness, and those hands which poured balm on my wounds and which I could not kiss . . .’
As he spoke, Raymon, ready to take his place in the quadrille with Madame Delmare, was holding her hand. He pressed her hand gently in his own and all the young woman’s blood surged back to her heart.
When he brought Madame Delmare back to her place, her aunt, Madame de Carvajal, had left. The crowd at the ball was thinning out. Raymon sat down beside Indiana. He had the ease of manner that comes from some experience in affairs of the heart. It is the strength of our desires, the impetuosity of our love, which makes us stupid in our relations with women. The man who has worn out his emotions a little is more concerned to please than to love. Yet M. de Ramière felt more deeply moved beside this simple, inexperienced woman than he had been hitherto. Perhaps he owed this fleeting impression to the memory of the night he had spent in her house. What is certain is that, in talking to her eagerly, his heart did not belie his tongue.
But the habit acquired with other women gave his words a power of conviction to which Indiana, in her ignorance, succumbed without realizing that it had not all been invented for her.
Usually, and women are well aware of this, a man who talks well of love is not very much in love. Raymon was an exception. He expressed his passion with skill and he felt it keenly. Only, it was not passion which made him eloquent, it was eloquence which made him passionate. He felt attracted to a woman, became eloquent in order to seduce her, and fell in love with her in the course of the seduction. It was the kind of feeling aroused in lawyers and preachers who weep bitterly as soon as they sweat profusely. He met women who were discriminating enough not to trust these passionate improvisations. But Raymon had committed for love what are called follies. He had eloped with a well-born young woman; he had compromised women in very high positions; he had had three much publicized duels. He had not concealed the disarray and the frenzy of his thoughts from the whole company at a large party, or from the whole audience at a theatre. A man who can do all that without fear of being laughed at or cursed, and who manages to be neither the one nor the other, is unassailable. He can risk everything and hope for everything. So the women who were best able to resist gave in at the thought that when Raymon was involved, he was madly in love. In society, a man capable of folly in love is a fairly scarce prodigy, whom women do not despise.