by George Sand
I do not know how he did it, but as he escorted Madame de Carvajal and Madame Delmare to their carriage, he managed to raise Indiana’s little hand to his lips. Never before had a man’s furtive, passionate kiss touched her fingers, even though she was born in a burning-hot climate and was nineteen years old; and nineteen years old in Bourbon Island is the equivalent of twenty-five in our country.
Delicate and highly-strung as she was, the kiss almost made her cry out, and she had to be helped into the carriage. Raymon had never before come across such a sensitive temperament. Noun, the Creole, was strong and healthy, and Parisian women do not faint when their hands are kissed.
‘If I were to see her twice, I’d lose my head about her,’ Raymon said to himself as he went away.
The next day, he had completely forgotten Noun; all that he knew about her was that she belonged to Madame Delmare. Pale Indiana occupied all his thoughts and filled all his dreams. When Raymon began to feel he was in love, he usually sought distractions, not so as to stifle the incipient passion, but on the contrary, to drive out reason which told him to weigh up the consequences. Ardent in the pursuit of pleasure, he worked towards his goal relentlessly. He could not control the violent feelings that arose in his breast, any more than he could rekindle them when he felt them dwindle and expire.
So, the very next day, he managed to find out that M. Delmare had gone on a business trip to Brussels. Before leaving, he had entrusted his wife to Madame de Carvajal, whom he did not like at all but who was Madame Delmare’s only relative. He himself, a soldier risen from the ranks, had only a poor, obscure family of which he seemed ashamed for he repeatedly said he was not ashamed of it. But though he perpetually reproached his wife for a contempt which she did not feel at all, he felt he ought not to force her into intimacy with his ill-bred relatives. Moreover, in spite of his aversion to Madame de Carvajal, he could not deny her a great respect for the following reasons.
Madame de Carvajal, who came from a great Spanish family, was one of those women who cannot resign themselves to being a nobody. In the days when Napoleon ruled over Europe, she had sung his praises loudly, and together with her husband and brother-in-law had espoused the cause of Joseph as King of Spain. But when her husband was killed at the fall of the conqueror’s ephemeral dynasty, Indiana’s father had taken refuge in the French colonies. Madame de Carvajal, who was active and capable, then went to Paris where, by some financial speculation or other, she had created an adequate income for herself out of the remnants of her past splendour. By means of intelligence, scheming, and perseverance, she had, in addition, obtained the favour of the court, and her establishment, though not outstanding, was one of the most respectable amongst the protégés of the civil list.
When, after her father’s death, Indiana arrived in France, married to Colonel Delmare, Madame de Carvajal was not particularly flattered by such an obscure connection. However, as M. Delmare’s energy and good sense in business were as good as a dowry, she saw his slender capital increase and she bought for Indiana the little country house at Lagny and the factory which belonged to it. In two years, thanks to M. Delmare’s expert knowledge and to cash advances from Sir Ralph Brown, his wife’s cousin by marriage, the Colonel’s business went well; he began to pay his debts, and Madame de Carvajal, in whose eyes money was the first recommendation, showed a great affection for her niece and promised to leave her the rest of her money. Indiana, devoid of ambition, lavished care and attentions on her aunt out of gratitude and not out of self-interest, but there was as much of the latter as of the former in the assiduities of the colonel. His political views were absolutely unshakeable; he would not listen to reason about the unassailable glory of his great Emperor,* and he defended it with the blind obstinacy of a sixty-year-old child. He had, therefore, to make great efforts to be patient so as not to be continually exploding in Madame de Carvajal’s salon, where only the Restoration* was applauded. What poor Colonel Delmare suffered at the hands of five or six pious old ladies is beyond estimation. These irritations were partly the cause of his frequent bad temper with his wife.
Now that these matters have been settled, let us return to M. de Ramière. In three days he knew all about these domestic details, so assiduously had he followed up everything which might help him to come closer to the Delmare family. He knew that, by becoming a protégé of Madame Carvajal, he could see Indiana. On the evening of the third day he had himself introduced to her salon.
There were only four or five antediluvian creatures there solemnly playing reversi,* and two or three sons of good families, as insignificant as one can be when one has sixteen quarters of nobility. Indiana was quietly working at a tapestry background on her aunt’s loom. She was bending over her work, apparently absorbed in this mechanical occupation, and perhaps pleased to be able to escape in this way from the insipid chatter of her neighbours. I do not know whether, hidden by her long black hair hanging over the flowers in her tapestry, she was reliving, in her heart, the emotions of that fleeting instant which had initiated her into a new life, when the servant’s voice announcing several people made her get up. She did so mechanically, for she had not listened to the names, and had barely lifted her eyes from her embroidery when a voice struck her like an electric shock, and she had to lean against her work table so as not to fall.
VI
RAYMON had not expected such a silent drawing-room, with its few subdued figures. It was impossible to pronounce a word which was not heard in every corner of the room. The dowagers who were playing cards seemed to be there only to get in the way of the young people’s conversation, and Raymon thought he could read in their stiff features the secret satisfaction of old age which gets its own back by repressing the pleasures of others. He had counted on an easier meeting and a more affectionate conversation than the one he had had at the ball, but the opposite was the case. The unforeseen difficulty made his desire more intense, his looks more ardent, and the indirect remarks he addressed to Madame Delmare more vivacious and animated. This kind of attack was quite new to the poor girl. She had no possible defence, because nothing was asked of her, but she was forced to listen to the offer of a passionate heart, to learn how much she was loved, and to allow herself to be surrounded by all the dangers of seduction without making any resistance. Her embarrassment increased as Raymon grew bolder. Madame de Carvajal, who had valid claims to wit and to whom M. de Ramière’s had been praised, left the cards to embark with him on a stylish discussion about love, into which she put a great deal of Spanish passion and German metaphysics. Raymon eagerly accepted the challenge and, under the pretext of replying to the aunt, he said to the niece everything she would have refused to listen to. The poor young woman, with no one to protect her, exposed on all sides to such a sharp and skilful attack, could not summon up the strength to take part in this dangerous conversation. The aunt, eager to make her shine, appealed to her to confirm certain subtle points of sentimental theory. She blushingly admitted that she knew nothing about all that and Raymon, overjoyed at seeing her face change colour and her breast heave, swore that he would teach her.
Indiana slept even less that night than the previous ones. As we have said, she had not yet been in love, but for a long time her heart had been ripe for a feeling that none of the men she had met had been able to inspire in her. Brought up by an eccentric, violent father, she had never known the happiness given by the affection of others. In the colonies M. de Carvajal, inflamed by political passions and tortured by regrets for his ambitions, had become the most brutal of planters and troublesome of neighbours. His daughter had suffered cruelly from his embittered temper. But, through continually seeing the ills of slavery and enduring the vexations of solitude and dependence, she had acquired an unshakeable external patience and an adorable forbearance and kindness to her inferiors; but she had also acquired a will of iron and an incalculable strength of resistance to everything which tended to oppress her. In marrying Delmare she had only changed masters; in comin
g to live at Lagny she had only changed prisons and places of solitude. She did not love her husband, perhaps only because she was told it was her duty to love him and mental resistance to every kind of moral compulsion had become a kind of second nature to her, a principle of conduct, a law of conscience. No one had tried to teach her any other kind of law than that of blind obedience.
Brought up in the wilds, neglected by her father, and living surrounded by slaves whom she could help and console only with her pity and tears, she had become used to saying, ‘A day will come when my life will be completely changed, when I shall do good to others; it will be a day when I shall be loved and I shall give my whole heart to the man who gives me his. Meanwhile I must suffer, say nothing, and keep my love as a reward for my deliverer.’ This deliverer, this messiah, had not come. Indiana was still waiting for him. It is true, she no longer dared admit to herself the full implications of her thoughts. She had realized that under the clipped hornbeams at Lagny, even thought must be more restricted than under the wild palm trees of Bourbon Island and, when she surprised herself still saying out of habit, ‘A day will come . . . a man will come . . .’ she would push this rash wish to the bottom of her heart and say, ‘So I must die!’
So she was dying. An unknown sickness was consuming her youth. She had no strength and could not sleep. The doctors looked in vain for some visible illness, but there was none. All her faculties declined, all the organs of her body slowly deteriorated. Her heart was gradually burning away, her eyes were growing dim, her blood circulated only intermittently and feverishly. Before long, the poor captive would die. But however resigned or depressed she might be, her need was unchanged. Without realizing it, her silent broken heart was still seeking a young, generous heart to bring it back to life. The being she had loved most up till then was Noun, the vivacious, courageous companion of her woes, and the man who had shown her the most partiality was her phlegmatic cousin, Sir Ralph. What food for the ravenous activity of her thoughts were a poor girl as ignorant and abandoned as herself, and an Englishman whose only passion was fox-hunting!
Madame Delmare was really unhappy, and the first time she felt the ardent breath of a young, passionate man, the first time a tender, affectionate word enchanted her ears and a quivering mouth left its mark like a red-hot iron on her hand, she did not think of the duties imposed upon her, or of the prudence she had been recommended, or of the future that had been predicted for her. She remembered only the hated past, her long suffering, and her tyrannical masters. Nor did she think that this man might be a liar or a philanderer. She saw him as she wanted him to be and as she had imagined him, and Raymon could have deceived her if he had not been sincere.
But how would he not have been to so beautiful and affectionate a woman? What other woman had ever appeared before him with so much candour and innocence? With whom could he have found so smiling and certain a future? Was she not born to love him, this enslaved woman who was only waiting for a sign in order to break her chain, for a word in order to follow him? Surely the heavens had created for Raymon this sad child of Bourbon Island whom no one had loved and who, but for him, was bound to die.
Nevertheless, in Madame Delmare’s heart a feeling of fear followed the feverish happiness which had just overwhelmed her. She thought of her husband who was so touchy, so perceptive, and so vindictive, and she was afraid, not for herself (she was hardened to threats) but for the man who was about to embark on a fight to the death with her tyrant. She was so little acquainted with the ways of society that she turned life into a tragic novel. She was a timid creature, afraid to love for fear of endangering her lover; she did not think at all of the risk of endangering herself.
So that was the secret of her resistance, the motive for her virtue. The next day she made up her mind to avoid M. de Ramière. The same evening one of the leading bankers in Paris was giving a ball. Madame de Carvajal, who loved society life as an old lady without close affections does, wanted to take Indiana, but Raymon was to be there and Indiana resolved not to go. To avoid her aunt’s remonstrances, Madame Delmare, who could resist only in deeds, pretended to accept the suggestion. She let her dress be prepared and waited till Madame de Carvajal had dressed. Then she put on a dressing-gown, settled down by the fireside and waited for her, quite determined. When the old Spanish lady, stiff and bejewelled like a Van Dyck* portrait, came for her, Indiana announced that she was ill and did not feel strong enough to go out. In vain her aunt insisted that she should make an effort.
‘I’d like to with all my heart,’ Indiana replied. ‘But you see that I can’t stand. I’ll only be a nuisance to you this evening. Go to the ball without me, dear aunt. I’ll enjoy your pleasure.’
‘Go without you!’ said Madame Carvajal, who was longing not to have dressed for nothing and who shrank from the horror of an evening on her own. ‘But what shall I do in a society gathering, an old lady like me, whom people come and talk to only so that they can approach you? What will become of me without my niece’s good looks to make me worth anything?’
‘Your wit will make up for the lack, dear aunt,’ said Indiana.
The Marquise de Carvajal, who only asked to be persuaded, finally left. Indiana then hid her head in her hands and began to cry, for she had made a great sacrifice and thought she had already destroyed the happy castle in the air of the previous day.
But that could not be the way Raymon looked at it. The first thing he saw at the ball were the proud plumes of the old marchioness’s headdress. He looked near her in vain for Indiana’s white dress and black hair. He went up to Madame de Carvajal and heard her saying in a low voice to another woman:
‘My niece is ill, or rather,’ she added to justify her presence at the ball, ‘it’s a young woman’s whim. She wanted to stay alone in the drawing-room with a book in her hand, like a beautiful romantic heroine.’
‘Would she be avoiding me?’ wondered Raymon.
He left the ball immediately, arrived at the marchioness’s house, went in without saying a word to the concierge, and asked the first servant he found, half-asleep in the anteroom, for Madame Delmare.
‘Madame Delmare is ill.’
‘I know. I’ve come on Madame de Carvajal’s behalf to ask how she is.’
‘I’ll tell Madame . . .’
‘You don’t need to. Madame Delmare will see me.’
And Raymon went in without being announced. All the other servants had gone to bed. A gloomy silence pervaded the deserted rooms. Only one lamp, with a green taffeta shade, gave a dim light to the big drawing-room. Indiana’s back was to the door. Entirely buried in a large armchair she was sadly watching the embers burn, as on the evening Raymon had got into Lagny over the wall. But she was sadder now, for a fleeting joy, a ray of lost happiness, had succeeded a vague suffering and desires without an object.
Raymon came up to her, his dancing slippers making no sound on the thick, soft carpet. He saw her crying, and when she turned her head she found him at her feet, firmly grasping her hands which she strove vainly to withdraw. Then, I must admit, with ineffable joy she saw her plan of resistance fail. She felt that she passionately loved this man, who was not deterred by obstacles and came to bring her happiness in spite of herself. She blessed heaven which rejected her sacrifice, and instead of scolding Raymon she almost thanked him.
As for him, he already knew he was loved. He did not need to see the happiness shining through her tears to understand that he was the master and could be daring. He did not give her time to question him and, assuming her role of interrogator, without explaining his unexpected presence, without trying to make himself less guilty than he was, he said:
‘Indiana, you’re crying . . . Why are you crying? . . . I want to know!’
She started at hearing herself called by her first name, but there was even more happiness in the surprise aroused by his boldness.
‘Why do you ask?’ she said. ‘I oughtn’t to tell you.’
‘In fact I know, Indiana.
I know the whole story of your life. Nothing that concerns you is unknown to me, because nothing that concerns you is unimportant to me. I wanted to know everything about you and I’ve learned nothing that one moment spent in your house hadn’t told me when your husband got annoyed at seeing you, so beautiful and kind, support me in your soft arms and soothe me with your gentle breath. He is jealous. Oh, I well understand that! I would be, Indiana, in his place; or rather, in his place, I would kill myself. For, to be your husband, Madame, to possess you, to hold you in one’s arms, and not to deserve you, not to have your heart, is to be the most wretched or the most dastardly of men.’
‘Oh for Heaven’s sake, say no more!’ she exclaimed, closing his mouth with her hands. ‘Say no more, for you make me guilty. Why do you talk to me of him? Why do you want to teach me to speak ill of him? If he were to hear you! . . . But I have spoken no ill of him. It’s not I who give you authority to commit this crime! I do not hate him, I esteem him, I love him! . . .’
‘Say that you are horribly afraid of him, for the tyrant has broken your spirit, and fear has become installed at your bedside since you became that man’s prey. You, Indiana, sacrificed to that boor, whose iron hand has made you bow your head and blighted your life. Poor girl! So young and so beautiful to have suffered so much already! . . . For it’s not I whom you could deceive, Indiana, I, who see you with eyes different from those of the crowd; I know all the secrets of your fate and you can’t hope to hide from me. Let those who look at you because you are beautiful say, when they see your pallor and melancholy, “She is ill” . . . Well, so you are. But I, who follow you with my heart, I, whose whole soul surrounds you with solicitude and love, I know very well what your illness is. I know very well that, had heaven been willing and given you to me, unhappy wretch that I am, who ought to have his head broken for arriving so late, you wouldn’t be ill. I swear by my life, Indiana, that I would have loved you so much that you would have loved me too and would have blessed your chains. I would have carried you in my arms to prevent your feet from being hurt; I would have warmed them with my breath. I would have pressed you against my heart to protect you from suffering. I would have given all my blood to heal yours, and if you had lost sleep with me, I would have spent the night in saying sweet words to you, in smiling at you to restore your courage, while weeping to see you suffer. When at last sleep stole over your silken lashes, I would have touched them lightly with my lips to close them more gently and, kneeling by your bedside, I would have watched over you. I would have compelled the air to caress you lightly, golden dreams to throw you flowers. Silently, I would have kissed the tresses of your hair with delight, I would have counted the heavings of your breast, and on awakening, Indiana, you would have found me, at your feet, guarding you like a jealous master, serving you as a slave, watching for your first smile, seizing on your first thought, your first look, your first kiss . . .’