Indiana (Oxford World's Classics)

by George Sand

  ‘Come, good neighbour,’ he said, ‘it’s time to fulfil my obligations to you and to keep my promises. The factory is going at full blast and the workmen are all on the job. Here are pencil and paper so that you can take notes.’

  Raymon followed the Colonel, examined the factory with eager interest, made remarks which showed that he was equally familiar with chemistry and mechanical engineering, listened with unimaginable patience to M. Delmare’s endless disquisitions, agreed with some of his ideas, disagreed with others, and in every way behaved so as to show convincingly that he was greatly interested in these matters, while he was barely thinking of them and all his thoughts were directed towards Madame Delmare.

  To tell the truth, no science was unfamiliar to him, no discovery indifferent. Besides, he was serving the interests of his brother, who had really put all his capital into a similar, though much larger, enterprise. M. Delmare’s precise knowledge, the only kind of superiority he had, provided the best subject to pursue in the conversation at this moment.

  Sir Ralph, not much of a businessman, but a very wise politician, added economic considerations of quite a high order to the examination of the factory. The workmen, anxious to show their skills to a connoisseur, surpassed themselves in their understanding and in their activity. Raymon saw everything, understood everything, and replied to everything, but thought only of the love affair which brought him to this place.

  When they had exhausted the topic of the mechanism inside the factory, they fell to discussing the volume and strength of the flow of water. They went out and, climbing on to the lock-gate, asked the foreman to raise the barriers and ascertain the variations of the water-level.

  ‘Monsieur, if I may say so,’ said the foreman, turning to M. Delmare who was fixing the maximum at fifteen feet, ‘this year we saw seventeen.’

  ‘And when was that? You’re mistaken,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur. It was the evening before your return from Belgium. Yes, it was the night that Mademoiselle Noun was found drowned. You can tell from the fact that the body passed over the dam down there and only stopped here where Monsieur is standing.’

  As he was animatedly expressing this opinion, the workman pointed to the spot where Raymon was standing. The un-happy young man became pale as death. He cast a frightened look at the water which was flowing at his feet. It seemed to him that he could see her ghastly pale face reflected in it. He was overcome by giddiness and he would have fallen into the river if M. Brown had not taken him by the arm and dragged him away.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Colonel, who noticed nothing and was thinking so little of Noun that he had no inkling of Raymon’s condition. But that’s an extraordinary case and the average strength of the flow is . . . But what the devil is wrong with you two?’ he asked, stopping suddenly.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Sir Ralph. ‘As I turned round I stepped on Monsieur’s foot. I’m terribly sorry; I must have hurt him a lot.’

  Sir Ralph made this reply so calmly and naturally that Raymon was convinced that the Englishman thought he was telling the truth. A few polite remarks were exchanged and the conversation resumed its course.

  Raymon left Lagny a few hours later without seeing Madame Delmare. That was better than he expected. He was afraid he would see her calm and indifferent.

  He went back to Lagny, however, without being any more fortunate. This time the Colonel was alone. Raymon employed all his mental resources to propitiate him and skilfully descended to his level in a thousand ways. He lauded Napoleon, whom he did not like, deplored the indifference of the government, which neglected and, in a way, almost poured contempt on the illustrious remnants of the Grande Armée; he pushed opposition to the government as far as his opinions would allow and, amongst several of his convictions, he chose those which could flatter M. Delmare’s. He even made up a character for himself different from his real one so as to attract the Colonel’s trust. He transformed himself into a bon vivant, an easy-going companion, a carefree good-for-nothing.

  ‘If that man ever makes a conquest of my wife! . . .’ the Colonel said to himself as he saw him going away.

  Then he began to chuckle to himself and to think that Raymon was a charming fellow.

  Madame de Ramière was then at Cercy. Raymon praised Madame Delmare’s charms and wit to his mother and, without asking her to visit Indiana, had the skill to make her think of doing so.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘she’s the only one of my neighbours I don’t know, and since I’ve recently settled in the district, it’s for me to begin. We’ll go to Lagny next week together.’

  The appointed day came.

  ‘She can’t avoid me any more,’ thought Raymon.

  Indeed, Madame Delmare could no longer shrink from the necessity of receiving him. When she saw an elderly lady she did not know getting out of a carriage, she even came to meet her on the steps of the house. At the same time she recognized Raymon in the man who was with her, but she realized that he had deceived his mother to induce her to take this step, and the displeasure this aroused in her gave her the strength to be calm and dignified. She received Madame de Ramière with a mixture of respect and affability, but her coldness towards Raymon was so icy that he felt unable to stand it for long. He was not used to being treated with disdain and his pride was hurt at not being able to conquer with a glance the contempt with which Indiana armed herself against him. So, making up his mind like a man to whom a caprice was of no consequence, he asked if he might join M. Delmare in the grounds and left the two women together.

  Gradually Indiana, conquered by the captivating charm which a superior mind combined with a noble and generous heart can deploy in its slightest relationships, became, in her turn, kind, affectionate, and almost light-hearted with Madame de Ramière. She had not known her mother, and Madame de Carvajal, in spite of her gifts and her praise, was far from being one to her, so her heart was in a way fascinated by Raymon’s mother.

  When Raymon rejoined his mother, just as he was going back into the carriage, he saw Indiana carry to her lips the hand Madame de Ramière held out to her. Poor Indiana felt the need to become attached to somebody. Everything which offered her a hope of interest and affection in her lonely unhappy life was received by her with delight, and, moreover, she told herself that Madame de Ramière was going to keep her from falling into the trap into which Raymon wanted to push her.

  ‘I’ll throw myself into the arms of that excellent woman,’ she was already thinking, ‘and, if necessary, I’ll tell her everything. I’ll beg her to save me from her son, and her prudence will watch over him and me.’

  That was not how Raymon reasoned.

  ‘My good mother!’ he said to himself as he returned to Cercy with her. ‘Her charm and goodness work miracles. What a lot I owe her already! My education, my success in life, the esteem of society. I only lacked the happiness of owing her the heart of a woman like Indiana.’

  As you can see, Raymon loved his mother because of his need for her and of the good things he received from her. That’s how all children love their mothers.

  Some days later, Raymon received an invitation to go and spend three days at Bellrive, a magnificent, charming house between Cercy and Lagny, belonging to Sir Ralph Brown. With the co-operation of the best huntsmen of the neighbourhood, the owner wanted to destroy some of the game which was consuming his woods and gardens. Raymon did not like Sir Ralph, nor did he care for hunting, but Madame Delmare acted as her cousin’s hostess for big parties, and the hope of meeting her made it easy for Raymon to decide to go.

  The fact is that, this time, Sir Ralph did not expect Madame Delmare; she had excused herself on the grounds of the bad state of her health. But the Colonel, who got into a bad mood when his wife seemed to be looking for some entertainment, got into an even worse one when she refused the entertainment he was willing to allow her.

  ‘Do you want the whole neighbourhood to think I keep you under lock and key?’ he as
ked. ‘You make people think I’m a jealous husband; that’s a ridiculous role and I don’t want to play it any longer. In any case, what is the meaning of this lack of consideration for your cousin? When we owe him the establishment and prosperity of our business, it is not fitting for you to refuse him such a little service. He needs you and you hesitate! I don’t understand your whims. All the people I dislike, you make very welcome, but those I esteem have the misfortune not to please you.’

  ‘It seems to me that’s a very ill-deserved reproach,’ replied Madame Delmare. ‘I love my cousin like a brother and our friendship was already an old one when yours had just begun.’

  ‘Your fine words are all very well, but I know that you don’t think the poor devil’s sentimental enough. You regard him as selfish because he doesn’t like novels and doesn’t weep at a dog’s death. Anyway, it’s not only him I’m talking about. How did you receive M. de Ramière? ‘Pon my word, he’s a charming young man. When Madame de Carvajal introduces him to you, you receive him splendidly, but when I have the misfortune to want to be nice to him, you find him intolerable, and when he comes to your home, you go to bed. Do you want people to think I’m a man who doesn’t know how to behave? It’s time for this to stop and for you to begin to live like the rest of the world.’

  Raymon judged that it would not help his plans for him to show too much eagerness to come. Threats of indifference succeed with nearly all women who think they are loved. But the hunt had already been under way since early morning when he arrived at Sir Ralph’s house, and Madame Delmare was not due to arrive till dinner-time. In the meantime he thought out his course of action.

  He realized that he must find a way of vindicating himself, for the decisive moment was drawing near. He had two days in front of him and he divided out his time in the following way: during what remained of the day that was nearly over he must arouse her emotions, on the next day he must persuade her, and on the third day he would be happy. He even looked at his watch and calculated, almost to the hour, the chances of success or failure of his undertaking.

  XII

  HE had been in the drawing-room for two hours when he heard Madame Delmare’s gentle, slightly husky voice in the neighbouring room. Through thinking about his seduction plan, he had become enthusiastic about it like an author for his subject or a lawyer for his case, and his emotion on seeing Indiana could be compared to that of an actor engrossed in his part who, finding himself face to face with the principal character of the play, can no longer distinguish between the artificialities of the stage and reality.

  She was so altered that a feeling of genuine concern nevertheless slipped into Raymon’s excited mind. Grief and illness had been so strongly imprinted on her face that she was almost not pretty any more, and there was more glory than pleasure in undertaking to conquer her . . . But Raymon owed it to himself to give her back happiness and life.

  When he saw her so sad and pale, he thought he would not have to fight against a very strong will. So frail an exterior could not conceal a strong moral power of resistance.

  He thought he must first arouse her interest in herself, frighten her with her ill-fortune and her wasted condition, so that he could then arouse in her heart the desire and the hope for a better fate.

  ‘Indiana,’ he said with a secret self-confidence completely hidden beneath a look of deep sadness, ‘so this is how I was to see you again! I didn’t know that the moment I’ve so long awaited and so eagerly sought would bring me such terrible pain!’

  Madame Delmare did not at all expect this kind of language. She thought she would find Raymon in the position of an ashamed and guilty man before her, and, instead of accusing himself, of telling her of his repentance and grief, his sorrow and pity was for her alone! So she must look very depressed and very worn, since she aroused pity in the man who ought to have been begging for hers!

  A Frenchwoman, someone used to society life, would not have lost her head in such a delicate situation. But Indiana did not know how to behave. She had neither the skill nor the deceitfulness required to retain the advantage of her position. His language brought to her mind the whole range of her suffering, and her eyes glistened with tears.

  ‘I am indeed ill,’ she said as, weak and weary, she sat down on the armchair that Raymon brought forward for her! ‘I feel very ill, and in your presence, Monsieur, I have the right to complain.’

  Raymon had not expected to make such quick progress. He took the bull by the horns, as they say, and grasping a hand that he thought cold and lifeless, he said:

  ‘Indiana, don’t say that, don’t say that I’m the author of your ills, for you’d make me mad with grief and joy.’

  ‘Joy!’ she repeated staring at him, her large blue eyes filled with sadness and amazement.

  ‘I ought to have said hope, for if I’m the cause of your sorrows, Madame, perhaps I can put an end to them. Say one word,’ he added, going on his knees beside her on one of the divan cushions which had just fallen down, ‘ask me for my blood, my life . . .’

  ‘Oh, say no more!’ said Indiana, withdrawing her hand. ‘You have made a horribly bad use of promises, so try to repair the harm you have done.’

  ‘I want to, I will!’ he exclaimed, trying to regain her hand.

  ‘It’s too late,’ she said. ‘Give me back my companion, my sister; give me back Noun, my only friend.’

  A mortal chill coursed through Raymon’s veins. This time, he did not need to exaggerate his emotion; there are some, terrible and powerful, which are aroused unaided by art.

  ‘She knows everything,’ he thought, ‘and she passes judgement on me.’

  Nothing was so humiliating for him as to be reproached for his crime by the woman who had been his innocent accomplice, nothing so bitter as to see Noun mourned by her rival.

  ‘Yes,’ said Indiana, lifting her head, her face bathed in tears, ‘it’s your doing . . .’

  But she stopped short when she saw Raymon’s white face. It must have been terrifying, for he had never before suffered so much.

  Then all the goodness of her heart and all the involuntary affection he aroused in Madame Delmare regained their ascendancy over her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, frightened. ‘I’m hurting you a lot. I’ve suffered so much. Sit down and let’s talk of something else.’

  This sudden expression of generous kindness intensified Raymon’s emotion. Sobs escaped him; he raised Indiana’s hand to his lips and covered it with tears and kisses. This was the first time he had been able to weep since Noun’s death and it was Indiana who was relieving his heart from the terrible weight.

  ‘Oh, since you mourn her so,’ she said, ‘you, who didn’t know her, since you so keenly regret the harm you’ve done me, I daren’t reproach you any more. Let us mourn her together, Monsieur, so that from heaven above she can see us and forgive us!’

  A cold sweat broke out on Raymon’s forehead. If those words: You who didn’t know her had delivered him from a cruel anxiety, this appeal to his victim’s memory, in Indiana’s innocent mouth, struck him with superstitious terror. Overcome, he got up; in a state of agitation he went to a window and sat down on the sill to get his breath. When she saw Raymon weeping like a child and turn faint like a woman, she felt a kind of secret joy.

  ‘He’s kind,’ she said to herself, ‘he loves me; his heart is warm and generous. He has done wrong, but his repentance absolves him and I ought to have pardoned him sooner.’

  She looked at him affectionately, she regained her trust in him. She mistook the guilty man’s remorse for the tenderness of love.

  ‘Don’t cry any more,’ she said, getting up and going to him. ‘It’s I who killed her, I alone am guilty. Remorse for this will weigh on me all my life. I gave in to an emotion of angry suspicion. I humiliated her, wounded her to the heart. I vented on her all the anger I felt against you. It was you alone who had insulted me and I punished my poor friend. I was very hard on her.’

  ‘And on me,’
said Raymon, suddenly forgetting the past and thinking only of the present.

  Madame Delmare blushed.

  ‘Perhaps I ought not to have blamed you for the cruel loss I suffered that night,’ she said. ‘The insensitivity of such a romantic and guilty plan hurt me greatly . . . I thought you loved me then . . . and you didn’t even respect me!’

  Raymon regained his strength, his will-power, his love, his hopes; the fatal impression which had made him turn cold vanished like a nightmare. He awoke, young, ardent, full of desire, passion, and hope for the future.

  ‘I am guilty if you hate me,’ he said, eagerly throwing himself at her feet. ‘But if you love me, I’m not, I never have been. Tell me, Indiana, do you love me?’

  ‘Do you deserve my love?’ she said.

  ‘If, to deserve it, I must love you with adoration . . .’ said Raymon.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said, letting him take her hands and turning to him her large moist eyes, in which from time to time there shone a melancholy gleam, ‘listen to me. Do you know what it means to love a woman like me? No, you don’t know. You thought it was just a matter of satisfying a passing whim. You judged my heart in the light of all those blasé hearts over which, till now, you exercised your ephemeral sway. You don’t know that I haven’t yet been in love, that I won’t give all my virgin heart for a heart that is withered and ruined, my enthusiastic love for a love that is lukewarm, my whole life in exchange for one short day!’

  ‘Madame, I love you passionately. My heart is young and ardent, and if it is not worthy of yours, no man’s heart will ever be. I know how you must be loved; I didn’t wait till today to understand that. Don’t I know what your life is like? Didn’t I tell you at the ball, the first time I could speak to you? Didn’t I read the whole story of your heart in the first glance you let fall on me? And so what do you think I’m in love with? Just with your beauty? Oh, certainly, you’re lovely enough to make an older, less passionate man lose his head. But if I adore your dainty, charming appearance, it’s because beneath it there lies a pure, divine soul, because it is animated by a heavenly fire, because in you I see not only a woman but an angel.’