by George Sand
The Captain replied with an oath that the sea would refuse to sink such a pretty schooner and that, since she came of her own accord to seek refuge from the wind, he undertook to tow her to the end of the world.
‘So you agree, Monsieur?’ Madame Delmare replied anxiously. ‘In that case, you will accept the price of my passage in advance.’
And she handed him a casket containing the jewellery that Madame de Carvajal had once given her. It was the only valuable object that she had left. But the sailor interpreted her action differently and he gave her back the casket with a remark that made the blood rise to her face.
‘I am very unfortunate, Monsieur,’ she replied, holding back the angry tears that glistened on her long eyelashes. ‘The step I am taking in approaching you gives you leave to insult me, and yet, if you knew how detestable my life is in this country, you would have more pity than contempt for me.’
Indiana’s noble, touching expression impressed Captain Random. Those who don’t make too much use of their sensibility sometimes rediscover it safe and unimpaired when it is called for. He immediately recalled the odious figure of Colonel Delmare and the reaction that his violent behaviour had aroused in the colony. As his eyes lingered amorously on the frail, pretty creature, he was struck by her frank, innocent look. Above all, he was keenly moved at seeing on her forehead a white mark which stood out against her flushed face. He had had business dealings with Delmare, which left him with resentment against a man who was so rigid and tight-fisted in business matters.
‘Damn it all!’ he cried. ‘I have nothing but contempt for a man capable of kicking such a pretty woman in the face. Delmare’s a pirate and I wouldn’t mind playing such a trick on him. But be prudent, Madame; you must realize that in doing so I risk my good name. You must escape unobserved when the moon has set, and fly away like a poor petrel from the foot of some hidden reef.’
‘I know, Monsieur, that you can’t do me this important service without breaking the law,’ she replied. ‘You may run the risk of having to pay a fine. That’s why I’m giving you this casket, which is worth at least twice the cost of the voyage.’
The Captain took the casket with a smile.
‘This is not the moment to settle our accounts,’ he said. ‘I’m quite willing to take charge of your little fortune. In the circumstances, you presumably haven’t much luggage. On the night we are to sail, go to the rocks at Lataniers creek. You’ll see a boat, manned by two good oarsmen, come towards you and you’ll be brought aboard between one and two in the morning.’
XXVII
THE day of departure went by like a dream. Indiana was afraid of finding it long and painful, but it passed like a moment. The silence of the countryside and the calm of the house contrasted with the agitated feelings which consumed Madame Delmare. She locked herself in her room to prepare the few things she intended to take with her. Then she hid them under her clothes and carried them one by one to the rocks at Lataniers Creek, where she packed them in a bark basket buried in the sand. The sea was rough and the wind grew stronger every hour. As a precaution the Eugène had left the harbour and Madame Delmare saw her white sails in the distance puffed out by the breeze, while the crew made her tack about in order to keep her in place. Indiana’s fast-beating heart then went out to the vessel, which seemed to paw with impatience like a fiery charger about to go. But when she went back into the interior of the island she found in the mountain gorges a calm, gentle atmosphere, bright sunlight, the song of birds, the humming of insects, and the activity of work going on like the day before, indifferent to the violent emotions that were torturing her. Then she had doubts about the reality of her situation and wondered if her imminent departure was not the illusion of a dream.
Towards evening, the wind dropped. The Eugène came nearer to the coast and, at sunset, Madame Delmare, from the top of her rock, heard cannon echoing through the island. It was the departure signal for the following day at the return of the sun which was then sinking below the horizon.
After supper, M. Delmare did not feel well. His wife thought that all was lost, that he would keep the household awake all night, and that her plan would fail. And then he was in pain, he needed her; this was not the moment to leave him. It was then that remorse entered her heart and she wondered who would take pity on the old man when she had deserted him. She shuddered at the thought that she was going to commit what was a crime in her own eyes, and that the voice of conscience would perhaps rise louder than society’s to condemn her. If, as usual, Delmare had demanded her attentions harshly, if he had been impervious and capricious in his suffering, resistance would have seemed sweet and legitimate to the oppressed slave. But for the first time in his life, he bore his pain good-temperedly and was grateful and affectionate to his wife. At ten o’clock, he announced that he felt quite well, insisted that she should retire to her room, and forbade any further anxiety about him. Ralph, indeed, confirmed that all symptoms of illness had disappeared and that a good sleep was the only further remedy required. When eleven o’clock struck, everything was silent and peaceful in the house. Madame Delmare fell on her knees and prayed, weeping bitterly, for she was going to burden her soul with a grievous sin, and henceforth the only pardon she could hope for would come from God. She went quietly into her husband’s room. He was sleeping deeply; his face was calm, his breathing regular. Just as she was about to withdraw, she noticed in the darkness another person asleep on an armchair. It was Ralph, who had got up without a sound to watch over her husband in his sleep, in case there should be another accident.
‘Poor Ralph!’ thought Indiana. ‘What an eloquent and cruel reproach to me!’
She longed to wake him up, to confess everything to him, to beseech him to save her from herself, and then she thought of Raymon.
‘One more sacrifice,’ she said to herself, ‘and the cruellest of all, that of my duty.’
Love is a woman’s virtue. It is for love that she glories in her sins, it is from love that she derives the heroism to defy her remorse. The more it costs her to commit the crime, the more she will have deserved from the man she loves. It is like the fanaticism which puts the dagger in the hands of the religious maniac.
She took from her neck a gold chain that her mother had given her and that she had always worn. She put it gently round Ralph’s neck as the last token of sisterly affection and turned her lamp on to her old husband’s face to assure herself that he was no longer ill. He was dreaming at the moment and said in a faint, sad voice:
‘Beware of that man, he will ruin you . . .’
Indiana trembled from head to foot and fled to her room. She wrung her hands in painful indecision. Then suddenly she seized upon the idea that she was not acting in her own interest but in Raymon’s, that she was not going to him in search of happiness but to bring happiness to him, and that, even if she were to be accursed to all eternity, she would be compensated enough if she embellished her lover’s life. She rushed out of the house and quickly reached Lataniers creek, not daring to turn round and look at what she was leaving behind her.
She immediately set about digging up her bark basket and sat on it, silent and trembling, listening to the whistling wind, the splash of the waves which were breaking at her feet, and the shrill moan of the satanite* in the great bunches of seaweed hanging from the walls of the cliffs. But above all these sounds the beating of her heart rang in her ears like a funeral bell.
She waited for a long time. She looked at her watch and saw that the appointed hour had passed. The sea was so rough, and navigation in all weathers is so difficult round the coast of the island, that she was beginning to despair of the willingness of the oarsmen ordered to take her aboard, when she espied on the gleaming water the dark outline of a piragua* which was trying to come towards the land. But the swell was so strong and the waves so high that the frail boat kept disappearing and being buried, as it were, in the dark folds of a shroud studded with silver stars. She got up and replied several times to
the signal which was made to her, but her shouts were carried away by the wind before they could reach the oarsmen. At last, when they were near enough to hear her, they rowed towards her with great difficulty. Then they stopped to wait for a breaker. As soon as they felt it raise the skiff, they redoubled their efforts, and the wave, as it broke, cast them up with the boat on to the shore.
The land on which Saint-Paul is built was made from sea-sand and mountain rubble, which the current of the River des Galets brought down from far above its mouth. These heaps of rounded pebbles around the coast form underwater mountains, which the swell drags along, overturns, and rebuilds as it pleases. Their instability makes collision with them unavoidable and the pilot’s skill is of no use as a guide amongst these reefs, which are constantly being re-formed. The big ships in the harbour of Saint-Denis are often wrenched from their anchors and smashed on the shore by the violent currents. All they can do, when the land wind begins to blow and makes the sudden retreat of the waves dangerous, is to make for the open sea as quickly as possible, and that is what the Eugène had done.
The rowing-boat carried off Indiana and her fortune amidst the wild waves, the howling of the stormy wind, and the oaths of the two oarsmen, who did not restrain themselves from loudly cursing the danger to which they were exposed for her. The ship should have weighed anchor two hours ago, they said, and it was because of her that the Captain had obstinately refused to give the order. Thereupon they added cruel, insulting remarks, to which the unhappy fugitive, swallowing her shame, made no reply. And, as one of the two men remarked that they might be punished if they were lacking in the consideration they had been ordered to show for the Captain’s mistress, the other replied with an oath:
‘Don’t bother me about that. It’s the sharks we have to reckon with tonight. If ever we see Captain Random again, he won’t be more vicious than them, I hope.’
‘As for sharks,’ said the first man, ‘I don’t know if that’s one on our scent already, but I can see in our wake a face which isn’t a Christian’s.’
‘Fool! You’re taking a dog’s face for a sea-wolf’s. Halt there, my four-legged passenger; you were left on the shore. But I’m blowed if you’re going to eat the crew’s biscuit. Our orders referred only to a young lady; there’s no mention of the lapdog. . .’
At the same time he raised his oar to hit the animal on the head, but Madame Delmare, looking distraughtly and tear fully at the sea, recognized her beautiful dog Ophelia, who had found her scent on the island rocks and was swimming after her. Just as the sailor was about to strike her, the wave she was struggling against with difficulty carried her away far from the boat and her mistress could hear her whining with distress and impatience. Indiana begged the oarsmen to take the dog on board and they pretended to get ready to do so, but just as the faithful animal was coming near them, they broke her skull with loud guffaws and Indiana saw the dead body of a creature who had loved her more than Raymon floating on the water. At the same time a violent breaker dragged the boat down as it were to the bottom of a waterfall and the sailors’ laughs turned to curses and cries of distress. But thanks to its lightness and flatness, the canoe bounced up again like a diving bird on the water, quickly rising again to the top of the wave to be hurled down into another ravine and rise yet again onto the foaming crest of the water. As the coast receded the sea became less rough and soon the boat moved swiftly and without danger towards the ship. Then the two oarsmen regained their good humour and with it their rationality. They made efforts to make up for their insulting behaviour to Indiana but their compliments were more insulting than their anger.
‘There now, young lady,’ said one of them. ‘Take heart. I’m sure the Captain will give us a drink of the best wine in the ship’s store for the pretty package we’ve fished up for him.’
The other one pretended to be sorry that the waves had wet the young lady’s clothes, but, he added, the Captain was waiting for her and would look after her well. Without moving, Indiana listened to their words in silent terror. She understood how awful her situation was and saw no other way of avoiding the insults that awaited her than to throw herself into the sea. Two or three times she almost jumped out of the boat. Then she regained courage, a sublime courage, with the thought:
‘It’s for him, it’s for Raymon that I’m enduring all this suffering. I must live, even if I’m overwhelmed with shame!’
She put her hand on her troubled heart and found the blade of a dagger that she had hidden there in the morning with a sort of instinctive foresight. The possession of this weapon restored all her confidence. It was a short, pointed stiletto that her father used to carry, an old Spanish weapon that had belonged to a Medina-Sidonia,* whose name was engraved on the steel blade with the date 1300. That good weapon had no doubt been red with noble blood; it had probably avenged more than one insult, punished more than one insolent fellow. With it in her possession, Indiana felt she became Spanish again and she went resolutely on to the ship, telling herself that a woman incurred no risk as long as she had the means of taking her own life before accepting dishonour. She avenged her guides’ harshness only by rewarding them handsomely for their fatigue. Then she retired to her quarters on deck and waited anxiously for the hour of departure.
At last day broke and the sea was covered with small craft bringing the passengers on board. Indiana, hidden behind a porthole, looked with terror at the faces of the people leaving the boats. She trembled lest she should see her husband’s face as he came to claim her. At last the echoes of the gun which signalled the departure died away on the island which had been her prison. The ship began to churn up torrents of foam, and as the sun rose in the sky, it cast a cheerful, pink glow on the white summits of the Salazes mountains, which began to sink on the horizon.
Several miles out to sea, a kind of comedy was enacted on board to evade an admission of trickery. Captain Random pretended to discover Madame Delmare on his vessel; he feigned surprise, questioned the sailors, pretended to get angry, then to calm down, and finally drew up a report on the finding of a stowaway on board. That’s the technical term used in such situations.
Allow me to end here the account of the voyage. To do Captain Random justice, it will be enough for me to tell you that, in spite of his rough career, he had enough natural good sense to understand Madame Delmare’s character quickly. He made few attempts to take advantage of her solitary state, and finally was touched by it and acted as her friend and protector. But this good man’s honourable behaviour and Indiana’s dignified bearing did not prevent the crew’s comments, the mocking looks, the insulting suspicions, and the coarse, biting jests. These were the real tortures of this unfortunate woman during the voyage, for I say nothing of the fatigue, the privations, the perils of the sea, the discomforts, and the seasickness; she herself counted them as nothing.
XXVIII
THREE days after the letter had been sent to Bourbon Island, Raymon had completely forgotten both the letter and its purpose. He had felt better and ventured to pay a visit in the neighbourhood. The Lagny estate, which M. Delmare had sold to pay his creditors, had just been bought by a rich industrialist, M. Hubert, a capable and worthy man, not in the way all rich industrialists are but like a small number of the newly-rich. Raymon found the new owner settled in the house which held so many memories for him. To start with, he was happy to give free rein to his emotion as he crossed the garden, where Noun’s light steps still seemed imprinted in the sand, and the huge rooms which still seemed to ring with the sound of Indiana’s gentle voice; but soon the presence of a new host changed the course of his thoughts.
In the large drawing-room, in the place where Madame Delmare usually sat at her work, a tall, slender young woman, with a penetrating glance that was both friendly and teasing, was sitting in front of an easel and amusing herself by copying the unusual wainscoting of the walls in water colours. The copy was quite charming, a subtle caricature clearly marked by the mocking yet courteous personality of
the artist. She had amused herself by exaggerating the pretentious elegance of the old frescoes; she had captured the false, glittering spirit of Louis XV’s century* on those stilted figures. By restoring the colours faded by time, she had given them back their affected graces, their atmosphere of courtiership, their costumes of the boudoir and of the shepherd’s hut, so curiously identical. Beside this work of historical mockery, she had written the word pastiche.
She slowly raised her long eyes with their wheedling, ironic, attractive but treacherous look to Raymon’s face; for some reason it reminded him of Shakespeare’s Anne Page.* In her demeanour, there was neither shyness, nor boldness, nor the fashionable affectation, nor lack of self-confidence. Their conversation turned on the influence of fashion on the arts.
‘Don’t you think, Monsieur, that the moral tone of the period was in that paint-brush?’ she said, pointing to the wooden panelling covered with rustic cupids in the style of Boucher.* ‘Isn’t it true that those sheep don’t walk, sleep, or graze like sheep today? And that pretty landscape, so artificial and well-groomed, those rose bushes with a hundred leaves, in the middle of woods where only wild rose hedges grow in our day, those tame birds of a species that seems to have disappeared, those pink satin dresses unfaded by the sun, don’t you think that in all that there was poetry, thoughts of ease and happiness, the feeling of a whole pleasant, useless, and harmless life? No doubt these ridiculous fictions were just as good as our gloomy political lucubrations! Why wasn’t I born in those days?’ she added with a smile. ‘Frivolous and limited woman that I am, I’d have been much better suited to painting fans or expertly unpicking thread-work than to commenting on the newspapers or understanding the debates in the Chambers.’
M. Hubert left the two young people together and gradually their conversation strayed till it came to the subject of Madame Delmare.