Indiana (Oxford World's Classics)

by George Sand

  When Raymon woke up, a half-light was filtering through the slits of the shutters and, for a long time, he remained motionless, lost in vague surprise and looking at the place where he was and the bed he had slept in as at a vision in a dream. Everything in Madame Delmare’s room had been set to rights. First thing in the morning, Noun, who had fallen asleep queen of the room, had woken up a lady’s maid. She had removed the flowers and cleared the remains of the refreshments. The furniture was back in place, nothing betrayed the night’s orgy of love, and Indiana’s room had recovered its look of innocence and modesty.

  Overcome with shame, he got up and wanted to leave the room, but he was locked in. The window was thirty feet above ground and he had to stay stuck in this remorse-filled room, like Ixion* on his wheel.

  Then he fell to his knees, his face pressed against the disordered, ravaged bed which made him blush.

  ‘Oh Indiana!’ he cried, wringing his hands. ‘What an outrage I have committed against you! Could you ever forgive me such an infamy? Even if you were to do so, I would not forgive myself. Resist me now, gentle, trusting Indiana, for you don’t know to what a vile brute you are willing to surrender the treasures of your innocence. Reject me, trample me underfoot! I have not respected the abode of your sacred modesty, I got drunk on your wines like a lackey, cheek by jowl with your maid, I sullied your gown with my accursed breath and your modest dress with my infamous kisses on another’s breast. I did not fear to poison the rest of your solitary nights and to spill the effusions of seduction and adultery right onto this bed which even your husband respected. What safety will you find henceforth behind these curtains whose mystery I did not fear to profane? What impure dreams, what bitter, consuming thoughts will seep into your mind and harden your heart? What phantoms of vice and shamelessness will creep between the virginal sheets of your resting place? And your sleep, pure as a child’s, what chaste divinity will be willing to protect it now? Have I not opened the door of your alcove to the devil of lust? Have I not sold it your soul? And the mad ardour which inflames the limbs of that sensual Creole, will it not come, like Deianeira’s tunic,* and cling to yours and gnaw at them? Oh guilty wretch, wretch that I am! If only I could wash away with my blood the shame that I have left on this bed!’

  And Raymon bathed it with his tears.

  When Noun returned, wearing her scarf and apron, and saw Raymon on his knees, she thought he was saying his prayers. She did not know that society people do not say any. So she stood, waiting silently, till he deigned to notice her presence.

  When he saw her, Raymon felt embarrassed and annoyed, neither brave enough to scold her nor strong enough to say a kind word to her.

  ‘Why did you lock me in here?’ he said at last. ‘Do you realize that it’s broad daylight and that I can’t go out without openly compromising you?’

  ‘So you won’t go out,’ said Noun affectionately. ‘The house is deserted, no one can find you. The gardener never comes to this part of the house and I’m the only one with the keys. You’ll stay with me still today; you’re my prisoner.’

  This arrangement drove Raymon to despair. The only feeling he had now for his mistress was a kind of aversion. But he had to put up with the situation and, in spite of what he was suffering in this room, perhaps an unconquerable attraction still held him there.

  When Noun left him to go and get his breakfast, he began to examine in the daylight all the mute testimony to Indiana’s solitude. He opened her books, leafed through her albums, then closed them hastily, for he still feared committing another profanation and violating feminine mysteries. Finally he began to walk up and down, and he noticed on the wood panel opposite Madame Delmare’s bed a large, richly-framed picture, covered with a double veil of gauze.

  Perhaps it was Indiana’s portrait. Raymon, eager to look at it, forgot his scruples, climbed up onto a chair, undid the curtain pins, and was surprised to discover the full-length portrait of a handsome young man.

  VIII

  ‘I THINK I know that face,’ he said to Noun, trying to look indifferent.

  ‘Fie! Monsieur,’ said the girl, putting down on the table the breakfast she was bringing. ‘It’s not nice to want to pry into my mistress’s secrets.’

  This idea made Raymon turn pale.

  ‘Secrets!’ he said. ‘If that’s a secret, it’s been confided to you, Noun, and you’re doubly guilty in bringing me to this room.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not a secret,’ Noun said with a smile, ‘for it was M. Delmare himself who helped hang Sir Ralph’s portrait on that panel. Could Madame have secrets with such a jealous husband?’

  ‘Sir Ralph, you say? Who is Sir Ralph?’

  ‘Sir Rodolphe Brown, Madame’s cousin, her childhood friend, I could say mine as well. He’s so kind.’

  Raymon, surprised, examined the picture anxiously.

  We have already said that Sir Ralph, apart from his facial expression, was a very handsome fellow, fair and rosy, with a good physique and abundant hair, always perfectly dressed, and able, if not to turn a romantic head, at least to satisfy the vanity of a materialistic one. The placid baronet was painted in a riding habit, almost as we saw him in the first chapter of this story, and surrounded by his dogs, the beautiful pointer Ophelia at their head, because of her lovely silvery-grey, silky coat and her pure Scottish pedigree. In one hand Sir Ralph held a hunting horn, in the other the bridle of a magnificent dapple-grey, English horse which almost filled the whole of the picture’s background. It was an admirably painted portrait, a real family picture with all its perfection of detail, all its trivia of likeness, all its commonplace minutiae. It was a portrait to make a nurse weep, to make dogs bark, and to make a tailor swoon with delight. There was only one thing more insignificant than this portrait, it was the original.

  Yet it aroused a feeling of violent anger in Raymon.

  ‘What!’ he said to himself. ‘That stolid, young Englishman has the privilege of being admitted to Madame Delmare’s inner sanctum! The picture of his insipid face is always there looking coldly down on the most intimate actions of her life! He watches over her, he protects her, he follows all her movements, she is his at any time! At night he can see her sleep and surprise the secret of her dreams; in the morning, when, all pale and trembling, she rises from her bed, he can perceive her dainty foot as she steps onto the carpet; and, when she carefully puts on her clothes, when she closes her window-curtains and even forbids the daylight to be too indiscreet in entering her room, when she thinks she’s quite alone and well hidden, that insolent face is there feasting on her charms! That man in hunting-boots watches her dress.—Does that gauze usually cover this picture?’ he asked the maid.

  ‘Always,’ she replied, ‘when Madame’s away. But don’t bother putting it back; Madame’s coming back in a few days.’

  ‘In that case, Noun, you should tell her that that face has an impertinent expression . . . If I were M. Delmare, I’d have agreed to leave it here only after putting its eyes out . . . But that’s what the crude jealousy of husbands is like! They imagine everything and understand nothing!’

  ‘But what have you got against that kind M. Brown’s face?’ asked Noun as she made her mistress’s bed. ‘He’s such an excellent master! I used not to like him much before, because I always heard Madame say he was selfish, but since the day he took such great care of you . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ interrupted Raymon. ‘It was he who looked after me; I recognize him now . . . But I owe his concern only to Madame Delmare’s intervention.’

  ‘That’s because my mistress is so kind,’ said poor Noun. ‘Who wouldn’t become kind when they’re with her?’

  Whenever Noun spoke of Madame Delmare, Raymon listened to her with an interest she did not suspect.

  So the day went by fairly quietly, without Noun daring to mention the real point of the conversation. At last, towards evening, she made an effort and forced Raymon to declare his intentions.

  Raymon’s only inte
ntion was to get rid of a dangerous accomplice and of a woman he no longer loved. But he wanted to assure her future and, apprehensively, he made her the most liberal offers . . .

  This was a bitter blow to the poor girl. She tore her hair and would have battered her head against the wall if Raymon had not forcibly restrained her. Then, using all the resources of language and intelligence which nature had given him, he made her understand that it was not to her, but to the child of which she was going to be the mother, that he wanted to offer help.

  ‘It’s my duty,’ he said. ‘It’s as an inheritance for him that I give you my help, and you would be guilty towards him if a false delicacy made you reject it.’

  Noun calmed down and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I accept it if you will promise to go on loving me; for in fulfilling your obligations to the child, you won’t be doing so for the mother. Your bounty will give him enough to live on, but your indifference will kill me. Can’t you take me as a maid in your house? You see, I’m not demanding; I don’t aspire to what another in my place might have had the skill to get. But let me at least be your servant. Find a place for me in your mother’s house. She’ll be pleased with me, I assure you, and, if you don’t love me, at least I’ll see you.’

  ‘You’re asking the impossible, my dear Noun. In your present condition, you can’t think of being anyone’s servant. And to deceive my mother, to betray her trust in me, would be something I could never agree to stoop to. Go to Lyons or Bordeaux. I undertake to see that you lack for nothing until you’re fit to appear. Then I’ll get you a job with someone I know, even in Paris if you like . . . if you’re keen to be near me . . . but, under the same roof, that’s impossible . . .’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Noun, wringing her hands with grief. ‘I see clearly that you despise me; you are ashamed of me . . . Well, I won’t go far away; I won’t go, humiliated and alone, to die abandoned in some distant town where you’ll forget me. What does my reputation matter to me? It’s your love I want to keep! . . .’

  ‘Noun, if you’re afraid I’m deceiving you, come with me. The same carriage will take us to the place you choose. I’ll follow you anywhere, except to Paris, or to my mother’s house; I’ll follow you, I’ll give you all the care I ought . . .’

  ‘Yes, to abandon me the day after you’ve left me, a useless burden, in a strange country!’ she said, with a bitter smile. ‘No, Monsieur, no. I’m staying. I don’t want to lose everything at once. To follow you, I’d have sacrificed the person I loved best in the world before I knew you. But I’m not so anxious to hide my dishonour as to sacrifice both my love and my friendship. I’ll throw myself at Madame Delmare’s feet, I’ll tell her everything and she’ll forgive me, I know; for she’s kind and she loves me. We were born almost on the same day, she’s my foster sister. We’ve never separated, she won’t want me to leave her. She’ll weep with me, she’ll take care of me, she’ll love my child, my poor child. Who knows? She hasn’t the happiness of being a mother, perhaps she’ll bring him up as her own . . . Oh, I was crazy to want to leave her, for she’s the only person in the world who’ll take pity on me.’

  This decision put Raymon in a terrible dilemma, when suddenly they heard the sound of a carriage in the courtyard. Noun, terror-stricken, ran to the window.

  ‘It’s Madame Delmare!’ she cried. ‘Go quickly!’

  In their disarray, they could not find the key to the secret staircase. Noun took Raymon’s arm and hastily pulled him into the corridor, but they had not gone half way when they heard steps in the passage. Madame Delmare’s voice could be heard ten steps ahead of them and a candle, carried by an accompanying servant, was already casting its flickering light on their frightened faces. Noun, still pulling Raymon, had time only to retrace her steps and go back to the bedroom with him.

  A dressing room with a glass door might offer a refuge for a few moments. But there was no means of locking it and Madame Delmare might go into it as soon as she arrived. So as not to be discovered immediately, Raymon was forced to dash into the bed-recess and hide behind the curtains. It was not likely that Madame Delmare would go to bed right away, and before then, Noun might find a moment in which to contrive his escape.

  Indiana came in briskly, threw her hat on the bed, and kissed Noun with the warmth of a sister. There was so little light in the room that she did not notice her companion’s agitation.

  ‘Were you expecting me, then?’ Indiana asked, going up to the fire. ‘How did you know I was coming?’

  And, without waiting for a reply, she added,

  ‘Monsieur Delmare will be here tomorrow. I left as soon as I got his letter. I have my reasons for welcoming him here and not in Paris. I’ll tell you what they are. But say something; you don’t look as pleased to see me as usual.’

  ‘I’m unhappy,’ said Noun as she knelt down to take off her mistress’s shoes. ‘I’ve got things to tell you too, but later. Now let’s go into the sitting-room.’

  ‘Heaven forbid! What an idea! It’s mortally cold there.’

  ‘No, there’s a good fire.’

  ‘You’re dreaming. I’ve just walked through it.’

  ‘But your supper’s waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t want any supper. In any case, there’s nothing ready. Go and get my feather-boa; I’ve left it in the carriage.’

  ‘Presently.’

  ‘Why not right away? Go on!’

  As she said this, she gave Noun a playful push and Noun, seeing that she had to be calm and take a risk, went out for a few moments. But she was scarcely out of the room when Madame Delmare bolted the door, took off her fur cloak, and put it on the bed beside her hat. At that moment she was so near Raymon that he tried to draw back, but the bed, evidently on castors which moved easily, gave way with a slight noise. Madame Delmare, surprised but not frightened (for she could think she herself had pushed the bed), nevertheless leaned forward, drew the curtain back a little, and, in the half-light of the fire, discovered a man’s head against the wall.

  Terrified, she screamed and rushed to the fireplace to ring the bell and call for help. Raymon would rather have been taken again for a thief than be recognized in this situation. But if he did not decide on the latter alternative, Madame Delmare was going to call her servants and compromise herself. He took hope in the love he had inspired in her and, dashing towards her, tried to stop her shrieks and to pull her away from the bell, saying in a low voice for fear of being overheard by Noun who could not have been far away:

  ‘It’s me, Indiana. Recognize me and pity an unhappy man who’s out of his mind because of you and couldn’t accept your return to your husband before seeing you once more.’

  But as he was pressing Indiana in his arms, to arouse her feelings as much as to prevent her from ringing the bell, Noun, in great distress, knocked at the door. Madame Delmare, freeing herself from Raymon’s arms, ran to open it and collapsed into an armchair.

  Pale and half-fainting, Noun threw herself against the passage door to prevent the servants, who were going to and fro, from interrupting this strange scene. Even paler than her mistress, her knees trembling, her back pressed against the door, she awaited her fate.

  Raymon felt that with a little skill he might deceive both these women simultaneously.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, going down on his knees before Indiana, ‘my presence here must seem an outrage to you; I am on my knees before you to beg forgiveness. Grant me a few moments in private, and I’ll explain . . .’

  ‘Say no more, Monsieur, and leave my room,’ cried Madame Delmare, recovering all the dignity of her position. ‘Go openly. Noun, open that door so that all the servants can see him and all the shame of such behaviour fall on him.’

  Noun, thinking her situation had been discovered, fell to her knees beside Raymon. Madame Delmare, saying nothing, looked at her with amazement.

  Raymon tried to grasp her hand, but she withdrew it indignantly. Red with anger, she got up and, pointin
g to the door, repeated:

  ‘Go; go, for your conduct is infamous. So that’s the means you wanted to use! You, Monsieur, hidden in my room like a thief! So it’s your habit to get into families like this. So that’s the pure attachment you were swearing to me yesterday evening! That’s how you were to protect, respect, and defend me! That’s the way you worship me! You see a woman who has helped you with her own hands, who, to bring you back to life, has braved her husband’s anger. You deceive her with feigned gratitude, you swear to her a love worthy of her, and as a reward for her care, as a reward for her credulity, you want to surprise her in her sleep and hasten your success by some indescribable infamy. You bribe her maid, you almost sneak into her bed like an already accepted lover. You’re not afraid of letting her servants into the secret of an intimacy which doesn’t exist. . . Go, Monsieur, you’ve taken care to open my eyes very quickly. Leave, I say, don’t stay another moment in my house. And you, miserable girl, who have such little respect for your mistress’s honour, you deserve to be dismissed. Get away from that door, I tell you . . .’

  Noun, half-dead with amazement and despair, had her eyes fixed on Raymon as if to ask him for an explanation of this extraordinary mystery. Then, distraught and trembling, she dragged herself to Indiana and gripping her arm, her face contorted with anger, cried: