Indiana E-Book

George Sand

• Herausgeber: CLXBX
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 467

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Set against the lush, intoxicating backdrop of 19th-century France and the distant island of Bourbon (now Réunion), Indiana is a passionate and daring exploration of love, marriage, and a woman's struggle for freedom in a society bound by rigid conventions. At the heart of the novel is Indiana Delmare, a young Creole woman trapped in a loveless and oppressive marriage to Colonel Delmare, a much older and domineering man. Though surrounded by comfort and status, Indiana feels imprisoned—emotionally starved and yearning for genuine affection and understanding. Her fragile hope for happiness ignites when she meets the charming and ambitious Raymon de Ramière, whose attentions awaken her deepest desires. Yet Raymon's romantic promises conceal the selfishness and duplicity that define much of the male privilege of the era. Through Indiana's emotional journey, George Sand crafts a powerful critique of the legal and social constraints placed upon women in the early 1800s. At a time when wives were treated as property and denied independence, Sand boldly exposes the inequalities embedded within marriage and society. Indiana's suffering is not merely personal—it reflects the systemic injustice faced by women who dared to dream beyond obedience and submission. As the story unfolds, themes of passion, betrayal, sacrifice, and self-realization intertwine. The novel moves from the drawing rooms of Paris to the dramatic landscapes of the French countryside and the exotic shores of Bourbon, mirroring Indiana's turbulent inner world. Alongside her stands Sir Ralph Brown, a quiet and steadfast figure whose restrained devotion contrasts sharply with Raymon's reckless seduction. Through these relationships, Sand examines different models of love—romantic illusion versus enduring loyalty. More than a romantic novel, Indiana is a revolutionary work that challenged the moral and legal foundations of its time. Published in 1832 under George Sand's male pseudonym, the book established her as a fearless literary voice and an early advocate for women's rights. With lyrical prose and emotional intensity, Sand questions whether true love can exist in a society that denies women autonomy. Indiana remains a timeless and thought-provoking classic—a story of longing and liberation, of illusion and awakening, and of one woman's courageous search for dignity and self-determination in a world determined to silence her.

Leseprobe

Indiana

George Sand

Copyright © 2026 by George Sand

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

31. CONCLUSION.

Preface

If I have allowed the pages you have just read to be reprinted, it is not because they clearly and completely summarize the belief I have arrived at today regarding the rights of society over individuals. It is simply because I regard opinions freely expressed in the past as something sacred, which we must neither repeat, nor soften, nor attempt to interpret as we please. But now that I have journeyed through life and seen the horizon broaden around me, I feel compelled to tell the reader what I think of my work.

When I wrote the novel Indiana , I was young, driven by strong and sincere feelings, which flowed from there into a series of novels based more or less on the same premise: the poorly established relationship between the sexes, a consequence of society. These novels were all more or less condemned by critics as imprudent attacks on the institution of marriage. Indiana , despite the limited scope of its insights and the naiveté of its uncertainties, did not escape the indignation of several supposedly serious minds, whom I was then quite willing to take at face value and listen to obediently. But although my reason was scarcely developed enough to write on such a serious subject, I was not childish enough not to judge, in turn, the thoughts of those who judged mine. However simple an accused person may be, however skillful a magistrate may be, that accused person has enough of their own conscience to know whether the magistrate's sentence is fair or perverse, wise or absurd.

Some journalists who nowadays set themselves up as representatives and guardians of public morality (I don't know by what authority, since I don't know in the name of what faith), spoke out rigorously against the tendencies of my humble tale, and, by presenting it as a plea against the social order, gave it an importance and a kind of resonance it would not have otherwise achieved. This was to invest with a very serious and weighty role a young author barely initiated into the first social ideas, and whose only literary and philosophical baggage was a little imagination, courage, and a love of truth. Sensitive to the reproaches, and almost grateful for the lessons he was given, he examined the indictments that presented the morality of his thoughts to public opinion, and, thanks to this examination, in which he took no pride, he gradually acquired convictions that were still only feelings at the beginning of his career, and which are now principles.

For ten years, through research, scruples, and often painful but always sincere indecision, fleeing the role of pedagogue that some attributed to me to ridicule me, and detesting the accusations of pride and anger with which others pursued me to make me odious; proceeding, according to my artistic abilities, by analyzing life to seek its synthesis, I recounted events that were sometimes recognized as plausible, and portrayed characters that I was often credited with having studied carefully. I confined myself to this work, seeking to establish my own conviction rather than to shake that of others, and telling myself that, if I were mistaken, society would surely raise powerful voices to refute my arguments and repair, with wise answers, the harm that my imprudent questions might have caused. Indeed, many voices were raised to warn the public against the dangerous writer; But, as for wise answers, the public and the author are still waiting.

Long after writing the preface to Indiana , still under the sway of a lingering respect for established society, I was still trying to solve this insoluble problem: how to reconcile the happiness and dignity of individuals oppressed by that same society, without altering society itself . Bending over the victims, mingling his tears with theirs, becoming their interpreter to his readers, but, like a prudent advocate, not seeking too much to excuse his clients' wrongdoing, and appealing far more to the clemency of judges than to their severity, the novelist is the true advocate for the abstract beings who represent our passions and sufferings before the tribunal of force and the jury of public opinion. It is a task that has its gravity beneath a frivolous appearance, and one that is quite difficult to keep on its true course, troubled as one is at every turn by those who want you too serious in form, and by those who want you too light in substance.

I do not flatter myself that I have accomplished this task skillfully; but I am sure that I have attempted it seriously, amidst the inner fluctuations where my conscience, sometimes frightened by ignorance of its rights, sometimes stimulated by a heart enamored of justice and truth, nevertheless marched towards its goal without straying too far from it and without taking too many steps backward.

Introducing the public to this inner struggle through a series of prefaces and discussions would have been a childish approach, where the vanity of self-talk would have taken up too much space, in my opinion. I had to refrain from this, as well as from addressing too quickly the points that remained obscure in my understanding. The conservatives found me too audacious, the innovators too timid . I confess that I had respect and sympathy for both the past and the future, and, in the struggle, I found peace of mind only the day I truly understood that the one should not be the violation and annihilation, but the continuation and development of the other.

After these ten years of novitiate, finally initiated into broader ideas, which I drew not from myself, but from the philosophical progress taking place around me (particularly in a few vast intellects that I religiously questioned, and generally in witnessing the suffering of my fellow human beings), I finally understood that while I was right to doubt myself and hesitate to speak out during the period of ignorance and inexperience when I wrote * Indiana* , my current duty is to congratulate myself on the boldness to which I nevertheless allowed myself to be drawn.to carry out then and since; boldness which I have been so reproached for, and which would have been even greater if I had known how legitimate, honest and sacred they were.

Now, having reread the first novel of my youth with as much severity and detachment as if it were the work of another, and as I prepare to submit it to a publicity that popular publishing has not yet granted it, resolved in advance not to retract my statement (one should never retract what has been done and said in good faith), but to condemn myself had I recognized my former erroneous or dangerous tendency, I found myself so completely in agreement with the sentiment that dictated * Indiana* to me , and that would still dictate it if I were to recount this story for the first time today, that I wanted to change nothing, except for a few incorrect sentences and a few inappropriate words. No doubt, many remain, and I submit the literary merit of my writings entirely to the judgment of critics; in this respect, I acknowledge all the competence that I lack. That there is an undeniable wealth of talent in the daily press today, I do not deny, and I am happy to acknowledge it. But that there are many philosophers and moralists among this class of elegant writers, I categorically deny, much to the chagrin of those who have condemned me, and who will condemn me again at the first opportunity, from the lofty heights of their morality and philosophy.

Thus, I repeat, I wrote Indiana , and I had to write it; I yielded to a powerful instinct for complaint and reproach that God had placed within me, God who does nothing in vain, not even the most insignificant beings, and who intervenes in the smallest causes as well as the greatest. But what! Is the one I defended so small? It is that of half of humankind, it is that of all humankind; for the misfortune of woman entails that of man, just as that of the slave entails that of the master, and I sought to demonstrate this in Indiana . It has been said that it was an individual cause I was pleading; as if, supposing that a personal feeling had moved me, I were the only unfortunate being in this peaceful and radiant humanity! Enough cries of pain and sympathy have answered mine for me now to know what to make of the supreme happiness of others.

I don't believe I've ever written anything under the influence of selfish passion; I've never even thought of defending myself against it. Those who have read me without prejudice understand that I wrote * Indiana* with the admittedly unreasoned, but profound and legitimate, feeling of the injustice and barbarity of the laws that still govern a woman's existence in marriage, in the family, and in society. I didn't have to write a treatise on jurisprudence, but to wage war against public opinion; for it is public opinion that either delays or prepares social progress. The war will be long and hard; but I am neither the first, nor the only, nor the last champion of such a noble cause, and I will defend it as long as I have breath in my body.

This feeling that initially stirred within me, I have thus reasoned and developed as it has been challenged and condemned in me. Unjust or malicious criticisms have taught me more than the tranquility of impunity could have. In this respect, I am therefore grateful to the clumsy judges who enlightened me. The reasons for their judgments have cast a vivid light in my mind and instilled in my conscience a profound sense of security. A sincere mind finds profit in everything, and what would discourage vanity redoubles the fervor of devotion.

Let no one see in the reproaches that, from the depths of a heart now serious and calm, I have just addressed to most of the journalists of my time, any kind of protest against the right of control with which public morality invests the French press. That criticism often poorly fulfills and still poorly understands its mission in present-day society is obvious to everyone; but that the mission itself is providential and sacred, no one can deny, unless they are an atheist regarding progress, unless they are an enemy of truth, a blasphemer of the future, and an unworthy child of France. Freedom of thought, freedom to write and speak, holy conquest of the human spirit! What are the petty sufferings and fleeting worries engendered by your errors or abuses, compared to the infinite benefits you are preparing for the world?

Chapter1

On a cool, rainy autumn evening, three dreamy people were deeply occupied in the depths of a small castle in Brie, watching the embers burn in the hearth and the clock's hand move slowly. Two of these silent guests seemed to surrender themselves completely to the vague boredom that weighed upon them; but the third showed signs of open rebellion: he shifted in his seat, half-suppressed a few melancholy yawns, and rapped the tongs on the crackling logs, with the marked intention of fighting the common enemy.

This character, much older than the other two, was the master of the house, Colonel Delmare, an old brave man on half-pay, once handsome, now thick-skinned, with a bald forehead, a grey mustache, and a terrible eye; an excellent master before whom everything trembled, wife, servants, horses and dogs.

He finally left his chair, obviously impatient at not knowing how to break the silence, and began to walk heavily along the entire length of the living room, without losing for a moment the stiffness appropriate to all the movements of a former soldier, leaning on his back and turning all in one piece, with that perpetual self-satisfaction which characterizes the parade man and the model officer.

But those glorious days were gone, when Lieutenant Delmare breathed triumph on the air of the camps; the retired senior officer, now forgotten by an ungrateful nation, found himself condemned to suffer all the consequences of marriage. He was the husband of a young and pretty woman, the owner of a comfortable manor house with its outbuildings, and, moreover, a successful businessman; consequently, the colonel was in a bad mood, especially that evening; for the weather was damp, and the colonel suffered from rheumatism.

He paced solemnly through his old drawing room, furnished in the Louis XV style , sometimes pausing before a door surmounted by frescoed nude Cupids, chaining well-bred does and docile boars with flowers, sometimes before a panel overloaded with gaunt, tormented sculptures, whose tortuous whims and endless embraces would have been futilely exhausting to follow. But these fleeting distractions did not prevent the colonel, at each turn of his walk, from casting a lucid and profound glance at the two companions of his silent vigil, transferring from one to the other that attentive gaze which, for three years, had been guarding a fragile and precious treasure: his wife.

For his wife was nineteen years old, and if you had seen her huddled under the mantelpiece of that vast white marble fireplace inlaid with gilt copper; if you had seen her, so slender, so pale, so sad, her elbow resting on her knee, she so young, in the middle of this old household, next to this old husband, like a flower born yesterday that is made to bloom in a Gothic vase, you would have pitied Colonel Delmare's wife, and perhaps the colonel even more than his wife.

The third occupant of this isolated house sat beneath the same recess in the fireplace, at the other end of the glowing log. He was a man in the full strength and bloom of youth, whose rosy cheeks, rich, bright blond hair, and full sideburns contrasted sharply with the hair graying, withered, and withered, the boss's features were striking; but even the least artistic of men would have preferred Monsieur Delmare 's rough and austere expression to the young man's regularly bland features. The puffy face, etched in relief on the metal plate that occupied the back of the fireplace, was perhaps less monotonous, with its gaze incessantly fixed on the glowing embers, than the ruddy-faced, blond figure in this story was in the same contemplation. Moreover, the rather free-spirited vigor of his figure, the crispness of his brown eyebrows, the polished whiteness of his brow, the calmness of his clear eyes, the beauty of his hands, and even the rigorous elegance of his hunting attire, would have made him appear a very handsome horseman in the eyes of any woman who had embraced the so-called philosophical tastes of another century. But perhaps Monsieur Delmare's young and timid wife had never yet truly examined a man with her eyes; Perhaps there was, between this frail, sickly woman and this sleepy, well-fed man, a complete absence of sympathy. Certainly, his vulture-like gaze strained his marital relations without detecting a glance, a breath, a heartbeat between these two so dissimilar beings. Then, quite certain that he had not even a cause for jealousy to occupy himself, he sank back into a sadness even deeper than before, and abruptly plunged his hands to the bottom of his pockets.

The only happy and endearing figure in this group was that of a handsome hunting dog of the large griffon breed, who had stretched his head on the lap of the seated man. He was remarkable for his long stature, his broad, hairy hocks, his slender muzzle like a fox's, and his spirited countenance, bristling with unruly fur, through which two large tawny eyes shone like topaz. These hound eyes, so bloodshot and somber in the heat of the hunt, then held an indefinable feeling of melancholy and tenderness; and when the master, the object of all this instinctive love, sometimes so superior to the reasoned affections of man, ran his fingers through the silvery fur of the handsome griffon, the animal's eyes sparkled with pleasure, while his long tail swept rhythmically across the hearth, scattering the ashes on the parquet floor.

There was perhaps the subject of a Rembrandt-esque painting in this interior scene, half-lit by the hearth flame. Fleeting white glimmers intermittently flooded the room and the figures, then, turning to the red of embers, gradually faded away; the vast room darkened accordingly. At each turn of his walk, Monsieur Delmare, passing before the fire, appeared like a shadow and was immediately lost in the mysterious depths of the drawing room. Here and there, patches of gilding stood out in the light on the oval frames laden with wreaths, medallions, and wooden ribbons, on the furniture veneered with ebony and copper, and even on the jagged cornices of the wood paneling. But when an ember, dying out, gave its glow to another blazing point in the hearth, the objects, luminous just moments before, returned to shadow, and other bright features stood out against the darkness. Thus, one could have grasped in turn all the details of the scene: now the console resting on three large gilded Tritons, now the painted ceiling depicting a sky strewn with clouds and stars, now the heavy crimson damask hangings with long tassels that shimmered with satiny reflections, and whose broad folds seemed to stir, reflecting the shifting light back and forth.

It seemed, seeing the immobility of the two figures in relief before the hearth, that they were afraid to disturb the immobility of the scene; fixed and petrified like the heroes of a fairy tale, it seemed that the slightest word, the slightest movement would cause the walls of a fantastic city to collapse upon them; and the master with the darkened brow, who alone cut through the shadow and the silence with an even step, looked rather like a sorcerer who had held them under a spell.

Finally, the griffin, having received a favorable glance from its master, yielded to the magnetic power that the human eye exerts on the eyes of intelligent animals. It let out a soft bark of fearful tenderness, and threw its two paws onto its beloved's shoulders with inimitable suppleness and grace.

"Down with Ophelia! Down with her!"

And the young man addressed a stern reprimand in English to the docile animal, who, ashamed and repentant, crawled towards Madame Delmare as if seeking her protection. But Madame Delmare remained lost in her reverie, and let Ophelia's head rest on her two white hands, which she held folded on her knee, without granting her a caress.

"So this dog is completely settled in the living room?" said the colonel, secretly pleased to have found a reason to be in a bad mood to pass the time. "To the kennel, Ophelia! Come on, outside, you silly beast!"

If anyone had been observing Madame Delmare closely at that time, they might have guessed, in this trivial and vulgar circumstance of her private life, the painful secret of her entire existence. An imperceptible shiver ran through her body, and her hands, which had been unconsciously supporting the head of her favorite animal, tightened sharply around its rough, hairy neck, as if to restrain and protect it. Monsieur Delmare, then pulling his hunting whip from his jacket pocket, advanced menacingly toward poor Ophelia, who lay down at his feet, closing her eyes and letting out cries of pain and fear in advance. Madame Delmare became even paler than usual; her breast heaved convulsively, and, turning her large blue eyes toward her husband with an expression of indefinable terror:

"Please, sir," she said, "don't kill her!"

These few words made the colonel flinch. A feeling of sorrow replaced his inclinations toward anger.

“This, Madam, is a reproach I understand perfectly well,” he said, “and one you haven’t spared me since the day I had the audacity to kill your spaniel while hunting. Isn’t that a great loss? A dog who always forced the point and who ran wild on the game! How much patience he must have exhausted! Besides, you only loved him so much after his death; before, you paid him no heed; but now that it gives you the opportunity to blame me…”

— Have I ever reproached you? said Madame Delmare with that gentleness which one has out of generosity with people one loves, and out of consideration for oneself with those one does not love.

“I don’t say that,” the colonel replied, his tone half father, half husband; “but there are reproaches in the tears of some women that are more stinging than in all the imprecations of others. Good heavens! Madam, you know very well that I don’t like to see people crying around me…”

— You never see me cry, I think.

"Hey! Don't I see your eyes are always red! It's even worse, I swear!"

During this marital conversation, the young man had stood up and calmly ushered Ophelia out; then he returned to sit opposite Madame Delmare, after lighting a candle and placing it on the mantelpiece.

This act of pure chance had a sudden influence on Monsieur Delmare's mood. As soon as the candle cast a more even and less flickering light on his wife than that of the hearth, he noticed the air of suffering and dejection that, that evening, pervaded her entire person: her weary posture, her long brown hair hanging over her thin cheeks, and a purplish tint beneath her dull and feverish eyes. He paced the apartment a few times; then, returning to his wife with a rather abrupt transition:

"How are you today, Indiana?" he asked her with the awkwardness of a man whose heart and character are rarely in agreement.

— As usual; thank you, she replied without showing either surprise or resentment.

— As usual, it is not an answer, or rather it is a woman's answer, a Norman answer, which means neither yes nor no, neither good nor bad.

— So, I'm neither well nor unwell.

"Well!" he retorted, his tone once more harsh, "you're lying; I know you're not well; you told Sir Ralph here. Come now, have I lied? Speak, Mr. Ralph, did she tell you?"

"She told me," replied the phlegmatic character being addressed, without paying attention to the reproachful look Indiana was giving him.

At that moment, a fourth person entered: it was the house factotum, a former sergeant in Mr. Delmare's regiment.

He explained briefly to Mr. Delmare that he had reason to believe coal thieves had broken into the park at the same time on previous nights, and that he had come to ask for a rifle to patrol before locking up. Mr. Delmare, seeing a warlike aspect to this situation, immediately took his hunting rifle, gave another to Lelièvre, and prepared to leave the apartment.

"What!" said Madame Delmare in horror, "you would kill a poor peasant for a few bags of coal?"

“I will kill like a dog,” replied Delmare, irritated by this objection, “any man I find prowling in my enclosure at night. If you knew the law, Madam, you would know that it authorizes me to do so.”

"It's a dreadful law," Indiana resumed vehemently; then, immediately suppressing the impulse, she added in a lower tone, "But what about your rheumatism? You forget that it's raining and that you'll suffer tomorrow if you go out tonight."

"You're afraid you'll have to take care of the old husband!" replied Delmare, pushing the door open abruptly; and he left, continuing to grumble about his age and his wife.

Chapter2

M. Rodolphe Brown, restèrent vis-à-vis l’un de l’autre, aussi calmes, aussi froids que si le mari eût été entre eux deux. L’Anglais ne songeait nullement à se justifier, et madame Delmare sentait qu’elle n’avait pas de reproches sérieux à lui faire ; car il n’avait parlé qu’à bonne intention. Enfin, rompant le silence avec effort, elle le gronda doucement.

— Ce n’est pas bien, mon cher Ralph, lui dit-elle ; je vous avais défendu de répéter ces paroles échappées dans un moment de souffrance, et M. Delmare est le dernier que j’aurais voulu instruire de mon mal.

— Je ne vous conçois pas, ma chère, répondit sir Ralph ; vous êtes malade, et vous ne voulez pas vous soigner. Il fallait donc choisir entre la chance de vous perdre et la nécessité d’avertir votre mari ?

— Oui, dit madame Delmare avec un sourire triste, et vous avez pris le parti de prévenir l’autorité !

— Vous avez tort, vous avez tort, sur ma parole, de vous laisser aigrir ainsi contre le colonel ; c’est un homme d’honneur, un digne homme.

— Mais qui vous dit le contraire, sir Ralph ?…

— Eh ! vous-même, sans le vouloir. Votre tristesse, votre état maladif, et comme il le remarque lui-même, vos yeux rouges, disent à tout le monde et à toute heure que vous n’êtes pas heureuse…

— Taisez-vous, sir Ralph, vous allez trop loin. Je ne vous ai pas permis de savoir tant de choses.

— Je vous fâche, je le vois ; que voulez-vous ! je ne suis pas adroit ; je ne connais pas les subtilités de votre langue, et puis j’ai beaucoup de rapports avec votre mari. J’ignore absolument comme lui, soit en anglais, soit en français, ce qu’il faut dire aux femmes pour les consoler. Un autre vous eût fait comprendre, sans vous la dire, la pensée que je viens de vous exprimer si lourdement ; il eût trouvé l’art d’entrer bien avant dans votre confiance sans vous laisser apercevoir ses progrès, et peut-être eût-il réussi à soulager un peu votre cœur, qui se raidit et se ferme devant moi. Ce n’est pas la première fois que je remarque combien, en France particulièrement, les mots ont plus d’empire que les idées. Les femmes surtout…

— Oh ! vous avez un profond dédain pour les femmes, mon cher Ralph. Je suis ici seule contre deux ; je dois donc me résoudre à n’avoir jamais raison.

— Donne-nous tort, ma chère cousine, en te portant bien, en reprenant ta gaieté, ta fraîcheur, ta vivacité d’autrefois ; rappelle-toi l’île Bourbon et notre délicieuse retraite de Bernica, et notre enfance si joyeuse, et notre amitié aussi vieille que toi…

— Je me rappelle aussi mon père… » dit Indiana en appuyant tristement sur cette réponse et en mettant sa main dans la main de sir Ralph.

Ils retombèrent dans un profond silence.

« Indiana, dit Ralph après une pause, le bonheur est toujours à notre portée. Il ne faut souvent qu’étendre la main pour s’en saisir. Que te manque-t-il ? Tu as une honnête aisance préférable à la richesse, un mari excellent qui t’aime de tout son cœur, et, j’ose le dire, un ami sincère et dévoué… »

Madame Delmare pressa faiblement la main de sir Ralph, mais elle ne changea pas d’attitude ; sa tête resta penchée sur son sein, et ses yeux humides attachés sur les magiques effets de la braise.

« Votre tristesse, ma chère amie, poursuivit sir Ralph, est un état purement maladif ; lequel de nous peut échapper au chagrin, au spleen ? Regardez au-dessous de vous, vous y verrez des gens qui vous envient avec raison. L’homme est ainsi fait, toujours il aspire à ce qu’il n’a pas… »

Je vous fais grâce d’une foule d’autres lieux communs que débita le bon sir Ralph d’un ton monotone et lourd comme ses pensées. Ce n’est pas que sir Ralph fût un sot, mais il était là tout à fait hors de son élément. Il ne manquait ni de bon sens ni de savoir ; mais consoler une femme, comme il l’avouait lui-même, était un rôle au-dessus de sa portée. Et cet homme comprenait si peu le chagrin d’autrui, qu’avec la meilleure volonté possible d’y porter remède, il ne savait y toucher que pour l’envenimer. Il sentait si bien sa gaucherie, qu’il se hasardait rarement à s’apercevoir des afflictions de ses amis ; et cette fois, il faisait des efforts inouïs pour remplir ce qu’il regardait comme le plus pénible devoir de l’amitié.

Quand il vit que madame Delmare ne l’écoutait qu’avec effort, il se tut, et l’on n’entendit plus que les mille petites voix qui bruissent dans le bois embrasé, le chant plaintif de la bûche qui s’échauffe et se dilate, le craquement de l’écorce qui se crispe avant d’éclater, et ces légères explosions phosphorescentes de l’aubier qui fait jaillir une flamme bleuâtre. De temps à autre, le hurlement d’un chien venait se mêler au faible sifflement de la bise qui se glissait dans les fentes de la porte et au bruit de la pluie qui fouettait les vitres. Cette soirée était une des plus tristes qu’eût encore passées madame Delmare dans son petit manoir de la Brie.

Et puis je ne sais quelle attente vague pesait sur cette âme impressionnable et sur ses fibres délicates. Les êtres faibles ne vivent que de terreurs et de pressentiments. Madame Delmare avait toutes les superstitions d’une créole nerveuse et maladive ; certaines harmonies de la nuit, certains jeux de la lune lui faisaient croire à de certains événements, à de prochains malheurs, et la nuit avait pour cette femme rêveuse et triste un langage tout de mystères et de fantômes qu’elle seule savait comprendre et traduire suivant ses craintes et ses souffrances.

« Vous direz encore que je suis folle, dit-elle en retirant sa main que tenait toujours sir Ralph, mais je ne sais quelle catastrophe se prépare autour de nous. Il y a ici un danger qui pèse sur quelqu’un… sur moi, sans doute… ; mais… tenez, Ralph, je me sens émue comme à l’approche d’une grande phase de ma destinée… J’ai peur, ajouta-t-elle en frissonnant, je me sens mal. »

Et ses lèvres devinrent aussi blanches que ses joues. Sir Ralph effrayé, non des pressentiments de madame Delmare, qu’il regardait comme les symptômes d’une grande atonie morale, mais de sa pâleur mortelle, tira vivement la sonnette pour demander des secours. Personne ne vint, et Indiana s’affaiblissant de plus en plus, Ralph, épouvanté, l’éloigna du feu, la déposa sur une chaise longue, et courut au hasard, appelant les domestiques, cherchant de l’eau, des sels, ne trouvant rien, brisant toutes les sonnettes, se perdant à travers le dédale des appartements obscurs, et se tordant les mains d’impatience et de dépit contre lui-même.

Enfin l’idée lui vint d’ouvrir la porte vitrée qui donnait sur le parc, et d’appeler tour à tour Lelièvre et Noun, la femme de chambre créole de madame Delmare.

Quelques instants après, Noun accourut d’une des plus sombres allées du parc, et demanda vivement si madame Delmare se trouvait plus mal que de coutume.

« Tout à fait mal, » répondit sir Brown.

Tous deux rentrèrent au salon et prodiguèrent leurs soins à madame Delmare évanouie, l’un avec tout le zèle d’un empressement inutile et gauche, l’autre avec l’adresse et l’efficacité d’un dévouement de femme.

Noun était la sœur de lait de madame Delmare ; ces deux jeunes personnes, élevées ensemble, s’aimaient tendrement. Noun, grande, forte, brillante de santé, vive, alerte, et pleine de sang créole ardent et passionné, effaçait de beaucoup, par sa beauté resplendissante, la beauté pâle et frêle de madame Delmare ; mais la bonté de leur cœur et la force de leur attachement étouffaient entre elles tout sentiment de rivalité féminine.

Lorsque madame Delmare revint à elle, la première chose qu’elle remarqua fut l’altération des traits de sa femme de chambre, le désordre de sa chevelure humide, et l’agitation qui se trahissait dans tous ses mouvements.

« Rassure-toi donc, ma pauvre enfant, lui dit-elle avec bonté ; mon mal te brise plus que moi-même. Va, Noun, c’est à toi de te soigner ; tu maigris et tu pleures comme si ce n’était pas à toi de vivre ; ma bonne Noun, la vie est si joyeuse et si belle devant toi ! »

Noun pressa avec effusion la main de madame Delmare contre ses lèvres, et dans une sorte de délire jetant autour d’elle des regards effarés :

— Mon Dieu ! dit-elle, Madame, savez-vous pourquoi monsieur Delmare est dans le parc ?

— Pourquoi ? répéta Indiana perdant aussitôt le faible incarnat qui avait reparu sur ses joues, mais attends donc, je ne sais plus… Tu me fais peur ! Qu’y a-t-il donc ?

— Monsieur Delmare, répondit Noun d’une voix entrecoupée, prétend qu’il y a des voleurs dans le parc. Il fait sa ronde avec Lelièvre, tous deux armés de fusils…

— Eh bien ? dit Indiana, qui semblait attendre quelque affreuse nouvelle.

— Eh bien ! Madame, reprit Noun en joignant les mains avec égarement, n’est-ce pas affreux de songer qu’ils vont tuer un homme ?…

— Tuer ! s’écria madame Delmare en se levant avec la terreur crédule d’un enfant alarmé par les récits de sa bonne.

— Ah ! oui, ils le tueront, dit Noun avec des sanglots étouffés.

— Ces deux femmes sont folles, pensa sir Ralph, qui regardait cette scène étrange d’un air stupéfait. D’ailleurs, ajouta-t-il en lui-même, toutes les femmes le sont.

— Mais, Noun, que dis-tu là ? reprit madame Delmare ; est-ce que tu crois aux voleurs ?

— Oh ! si c’étaient des voleurs ! mais quelque pauvre paysan peut-être, qui vient dérober une poignée de bois pour sa famille.

— Oui, ce serait affreux, en effet !… Mais ce n’est pas probable ; à l’entrée de la forêt de Fontainebleau, et lorsqu’on peut si facilement y dérober du bois, ce n’est pas dans un parc fermé de murs qu’on viendrait s’exposer… Bah ! M. Delmare ne trouvera personne dans le parc ; rassure-toi donc…

Mais Noun n’écoutait pas ; elle allait de la fenêtre du salon à la chaise longue de sa maîtresse, elle épiait le moindre bruit, elle semblait partagée entre l’envie de courir après M. Delmare et celle de rester auprès de la malade.

Son anxiété parut si étrange, si déplacée à M. Brown, qu’il sortit de sa douceur habituelle, et, lui pressant fortement le bras :

« Vous avez donc perdu l’esprit tout à fait ? lui dit-il ; ne voyez-vous pas que vous épouvantez votre maîtresse, et que vos sottes frayeurs lui font un mal affreux ? »

Noun ne l’avait pas entendu ; elle avait tourné les yeux vers sa maîtresse, qui venait de tressaillir sur sa chaise comme si l’ébranlement de l’air eût frappé ses sens d’une commotion électrique. Presque au même instant le bruit d’un coup de fusil fit trembler les vitres du salon, et Noun tomba sur ses genoux.

— Quelles misérables terreurs de femmes ! s’écria sir Ralph, fatigué de leur émotion ; tout à l’heure on va vous apporter en triomphe un lapin tué à l’affût, et vous rirez de vous-mêmes.

— Non, Ralph, dit madame Delmare en marchant d’un pas ferme vers la porte, je vous dis qu’il y a du sang humain répandu. »

Noun jeta un cri perçant et tomba sur le visage.

On entendit alors la voix de Lelièvre qui criait du côté du parc :

« Il y est ! il y est ! Bien ajusté, mon colonel ! le brigand est par terre !… »

Sir Ralph commença à s’émouvoir. Il suivit madame Delmare. Quelques instants après on apporta sous le péristyle de la maison un homme ensanglanté et ne donnant aucun signe de vie.

« Pas tant de bruit ! pas tant de cris ! disait avec une gaieté rude le colonel à tous ses domestiques effrayés qui s’empressaient autour du blessé ; ceci n’est qu’une plaisanterie, mon fusil n’était chargé que de sel. Je crois même que je ne l’ai pas touché ; il est tombé de peur.

— Mais ce sang, Monsieur, dit madame Delmare d’un ton de profond reproche, est-ce la peur qui le fait couler ?

— Pourquoi êtes-vous ici, Madame ? s’écria M. Delmare, que faites-vous ici ?

— J’y viens pour réparer, comme c’est mon devoir, le mal que vous faites, Monsieur, » répondit-elle froidement.

Et s’avançant vers le blessé avec un courage dont aucune des personnes présentes ne s’était encore sentie capable, elle approcha une lumière de son visage.

Alors, au lieu des traits et de vêtements ignobles qu’on s’attendait à voir, on trouva un jeune homme de la plus noble figure, et vêtu avec recherche, quoique en habit de chasse. Il avait une main blessée assez légèrement, mais ses vêtements déchirés et son évanouissement annonçaient une chute grave.

« Je le crois bien ! dit Lelièvre ; il est tombé de vingt pieds de haut. Il enjambait le sommet du mur quand le colonel l’a ajusté, et quelques grains de petit plomb ou de sel dans la main droite l’auront empêché de prendre son appui. Le fait est que je l’ai vu rouler, et qu’arrivé en bas il ne songeait guère à se sauver, le pauvre diable !

— Est-ce croyable, dit une femme de service, qu’on s’amuse à voler quand on est couvert si proprement ?

— Et ses poches sont pleines d’or ! dit un autre qui avait détaché le gilet du prétendu voleur.

— Cela est étrange, dit le colonel, qui regardait, non sans une émotion profonde, l’homme étendu devant lui. Si cet homme est mort, ce n’est pas ma faute ; examinez sa main, Madame, et, si vous y trouvez un grain de plomb…

— J’aime à vous croire, monsieur, répondit madame Delmare, qui, avec un sang-froid et une force morale dont personne ne l’eût crue capable, examinait attentivement le pouls et les artères du cou. Aussi bien, ajouta-t-elle, il n’est pas mort, et de prompts secours lui sont nécessaires. Cet homme n’a pas l’air d’un voleur et mérite peut-être des soins ; et lors même qu’il n’en mériterait pas, notre devoir, à nous autres femmes, est de lui en accorder. »

Alors madame Delmare fit transporter le blessé dans la salle de billard, qui était la plus voisine. On jeta un matelas sur quelques banquettes, et Indiana, aidée de ses femmes, s’occupa de panser la main malade, tandis que sir Ralph, qui avait des connaissances en chirurgie, pratiqua une abondante saignée.

Pendant ce temps, le colonel, embarrassé de sa contenance, se trouvait dans la situation d’un homme qui s’est montré plus méchant qu’il n’avait l’intention de l’être. Il sentait le besoin de se justifier aux yeux des autres, ou plutôt de se faire justifier par les autres aux siens propres. Il était donc resté sous le péristyle au milieu de ses serviteurs, se livrant avec eux aux longs commentaires si chaudement prolixes et si parfaitement inutiles qu’on fait toujours après l’événement. Lelièvre avait déjà expliqué vingt fois, avec les plus minutieux détails, le coup de fusil, la chute et ses résultats, tandis que le colonel, redevenu bonhomme au milieu des siens, ainsi qu’il l’était toujours après avoir satisfait sa colère, incriminait les intentions d’un homme qui s’introduit dans une propriété particulière, la nuit, par-dessus les murs. Chacun était de l’avis du maître, lorsque le jardinier, le tirant doucement à part, l’assura que le voleur ressemblait comme deux gouttes d’eau de vin blanc à un jeune propriétaire récemment installé dans le voisinage, et qu’il avait vu parler à mademoiselle Noun trois jours auparavant, à la fête champêtre de Rubelles.

Ces renseignements donnèrent un autre cours aux idées de M. Delmare ; son large front, luisant et chauve, se sillonna d’une grosse veine dont le gonflement était chez lui le précurseur de l’orage.

« Morbleu ! se dit-il en serrant les poings, madame Delmare prend bien de l’intérêt à ce godelureau qui pénètre chez moi par-dessus les murs ! »

Et il entra dans la salle de billard, pâle et frémissant de colère.

Chapter3

“Don’t worry, sir,” Indiana told him; “the man you killed will be well in a few days; at least we hope so, although he hasn’t yet regained his speech…”

"That's not the point, Madam," said the colonel in a focused voice; "the point is for you to tell me the name of this..." Interesting patient, and by what distraction he mistook the wall of my park for the avenue of my house.

"I have absolutely no idea," replied Madame Delmare with such cold pride that her terrible husband was momentarily stunned; but quickly returning to his jealous suspicions:

“I will know, Madam,” he said to her in a low voice; “rest assured that I will know…”

So, as Madame Delmare pretended not to notice his fury, and continued to care for the injured man, he went out so as not to explode in front of his women, and called the gardener back.

"What is the name of this man, who, you say, resembles our thief?"

— Mr. de Ramière. He is the one who just bought Mr. de Cercy's little English house.

— What kind of man is he? A nobleman, a fop, a handsome gentleman?

— A very handsome gentleman, a nobleman, I believe…

"That must be," the colonel resumed emphatically, " Mr. de Ramière? Tell me, Louis," he added in a low voice, "have you never seen that fop prowling around here?"

— Sir… last night… replied Louis, embarrassed, I certainly saw… as for whether he was a fop, I don’t know; but, for sure, he was a man.

— And you saw it?

— As I can see you, under the windows of the orangery.

— And you didn't fall on it with the handle of your shovel?

“Sir, I was about to do it; but I saw a woman in white coming out of the orangery and approaching him. So I thought to myself: Perhaps it's Monsieur and Madame who have taken it into their heads to go for a stroll before daybreak, and I went back to bed. But this morning, I heard Lelièvre talking about a thief whose tracks he claimed to have seen in the park, and I thought to myself: There's something fishy going on.”

— And why didn't you warn me right away, you clumsy oaf?

— Good heavens! Sir, there are such delicate matters in life…

— I hear you, you allow yourself to have doubts. You are"A fool! If you ever have such an insolent idea, I'll cut off your ears. I know perfectly well who this thief is and what he was looking for in my garden. I only asked you all these questions to see how you were looking after your orangery. Remember, I have rare plants there that Madame cherishes, and there are enthusiasts foolish enough to steal from their neighbors' greenhouses; it was me you saw last night with Madame Delmare."

And the poor colonel walked away more tormented, more irritated than before, leaving his gardener very unconvinced that there were fanatical horticulturists who would risk a gunshot to appropriate a layering or a cutting.

Mr. Delmare returned to the billiard room, and, without paying attention to the signs of recognition finally given by the injured man, he was about to search the pockets of his jacket spread out on a chair, when the latter, stretching out his arm, said to him in a weak voice:

"You wish to know who I am, sir; it's unnecessary. I will tell you when we are alone together. Until then, spare me the embarrassment of revealing myself in the ridiculous and unfortunate situation in which I find myself."

“That’s a real shame!” replied the colonel bitterly; “but I confess I’m not particularly bothered by it. However, as I hope we’ll meet again face to face, I’m willing to postpone our acquaintance until then. In the meantime, would you be so kind as to tell me where I should have you taken?”

— In the inn of the nearest village, if you please.

"But sir is not in a condition to be transported!" said Madame Delmare briskly; "isn't that true, Ralph?"

"Your condition is affecting you far too much, Madam," said the colonel. "You all leave," he told the maids. "Your husband is feeling better, and he will now have the strength to explain his presence in my home."

“Yes, sir,” replied the wounded man, “and I beg all those who have been kind enough to take care of me to hear my confession. I feel it is very important here that there be no misunderstanding about my conduct, and it is important to me personally not to appear as something I am not. Know then what deception brought me to you. You have established, sir, by extremely simple means known only to you, a factory whose work and products infinitely surpass those of all the factories of this kind erected in the country. My brother owns a nearly identical establishment in the south of France, but its upkeep absorbs immense sums. His operations were becoming disastrous when I learned of the success of yours; then I promised myself I would come to ask you for some advice, as a generous service that could not harm your interests, my brother dealing in commodities of a completely different nature. But the gate of your English garden has been rigorously closed to me; And when I asked to speak with you, I was told that you wouldn't even allow me to visit your establishment. Disheartened by these dismissive refusals, I resolved then, at the very risk of my life and honor, to save my brother's honor and life: I crept into your house at night, climbing over the walls, and tried to penetrate the factory's inner workings to examine them. I was determined to hide in a corner, to seduce the workers, to steal your secret—in short, to share it with an honest man without harming you. That was my mistake. Now, sir, if you demand any other redress than that which you have just bestowed upon yourself, as soon as I am able, I am ready to offer it to you, and perhaps even to ask for it.

“I believe we should consider ourselves even, sir,” replied the colonel, half relieved of his great anxiety. “You others should witness the explanation the gentleman gave me. I am far too avenged, supposing I need avenge. Now leave, and let us discuss my profitable venture.”

The servants left; but they alone were fooled by this reconciliation. The wounded man, weakened by his long speech, could not appreciate the tone of the colonel's last words. He fell back into Madame Delmare's arms and lost consciousness a second time. She, leaning over him, did not deign to look up at her husband's anger, and the two very different faces of Monsieur Delmare and Monsieur Brown, one pale and contorted with spite, the other calm and insignificant as usual, silently questioned each other.

Mr. Delmare didn't need to say a word to make himself understood; however, he pulled Sir Ralph aside and said to him, breaking his fingers:

“My friend, it’s an admirably woven plot! I’m pleased, perfectly pleased with the wit with which this young man has managed to preserve my honor in the eyes of my people. But, damn it! He’ll pay dearly for the affront I feel deep in my heart. And that woman who nurses him and pretends not to know him! Ah! How innate cunning is in such people!…”

Sir Ralph, distraught, methodically circled the room three times. On his first circuit, he reached this conclusion: improbable ; on the second, impossible ; on the third, proven . Then, returning to the colonel with his icy expression, he pointed at Noun, who stood behind the sick man, his hands twisted, his eyes wild, his cheeks livid, and in the immobility of despair, terror, and bewilderment.

There is in a genuine discovery a power of conviction so swift, so pervasive, that the colonel was more struck by Sir Ralph's energetic gesture than he would have been by the most skillful eloquence. Mr. Brown undoubtedly had more than one way to get on the right track; he had just recalled Noun's presence in the park when he had looked for her, her wet hair, her damp, muddy shoe, which attested to a strange fancy for a walk in the rain—minor details that had only half struck him when Mrs. Delmare fainted, but which now came back to him. Then there was the bizarre terror she had displayed, the convulsive agitation, and the cry that had escaped her when she heard the gunshot…

Mr. Delmare didn't need all these details; more perceptive, because he had a greater stake in the matter, he only had to examine the girl's demeanor to see that she alone was guilty. However, his wife's constant attention to the hero of this amorous exploit displeased him more and more.

"Indiana," he told her, "retiring. It's late, and you're not well. Noun will stay with the gentleman to care for him tonight, and tomorrow, if he's better, we'll see how to get him transported home."

There was no response to this unexpected concession. Madame Delmare, who was so adept at resisting her husband's violence, always yielded to his gentleness. She asked Sir Ralph to stay a little longer with the sick man and retired to her room.

It was not without intention that the colonel had arranged things this way. An hour later, when everyone was in bed and the house was silent, he slipped quietly into the room occupied by Monsieur de Ramière, and, hidden behind a curtain, he was able to ascertain, from the young man's conversation with the chambermaid, that they were engaged in a romantic affair. The unusual beauty of the young Creole woman had caused a sensation at the country dances in the surrounding area. She had received numerous compliments, even from the most prominent men in the region. More than one handsome lancer officer stationed in Melun had gone to great lengths to please her; but Noun was experiencing her first love, and only one attention had truly flattered her: that of Monsieur de Ramière.

Colonel Delmare had little desire to follow the development of their affair; thus, he withdrew as soon as he was quite certain that his wife had not occupied the Almaviva for a moment in this affair. Nevertheless, he heard enough to understand the difference between this love and that of poor Noun, who threw herself into it with all the violenceof his ardent organization, and the son of a family who gave himself up to the training of a day without abjuring the right to regain his reason the next day.

When Madame Delmare awoke, she saw Noun beside her bed, looking confused and sad. But she had naively believed Monsieur de Ramière's explanations, especially since people with vested interests in the business had already tried to uncover, through trickery or fraud, the secret of the Delmare factory. She therefore attributed her companion's distress to the emotion and fatigue of the night, and Noun was reassured to see the colonel calmly enter his wife's room and discuss the previous day's events as if they were perfectly normal.

From early morning, Sir Ralph had checked on the patient's condition. The fall, though violent, had had no serious consequences; the hand injury had already healed. Monsieur de Ramière had requested that he be transported immediately to Melun, and he had distributed his purse to the servants to encourage them to keep quiet about the incident, so as not to frighten his mother, who lived a few leagues away. The story thus spread only slowly and in different versions. Some information about the English factory of a Monsieur de Ramière, the patient's brother, came to support the fiction he had so cleverly concocted. The colonel and Sir Brown were tactful enough to keep Noun's secret, without even letting him know they were aware of it, and the Delmare family soon ceased to concern themselves with the incident.

Chapter4

It may be difficult for you to believe that Monsieur Raymon de Ramière, a young man brilliant in wit, talent, and high character, accustomed to salon successes and romantic escapades, would have conceived such a lasting attachment to the housekeeper of a small industrial firm in Brie. Monsieur de Ramière was, however, neither a fop nor a libertine. We have said that he was intelligent, meaning that he appreciated the advantages of birth for what they were worth. He was a man of principle when he reasoned with himself, but impetuous passions often led him astray from his own systems. Then he was no longer capable of reflection, or else he avoided submitting himself to the tribunal of his conscience: he committed errors as if unwittingly, and the man of yesterday tried to deceive the man of tomorrow. Unfortunately, what was most striking about him was not his principles, which he shared with many other white-gloved philosophers, and which did not protect him from inconsistency any more than they did; it was his passions, which principles could not stifle, and which made him an outsider in this tarnished society where it is so difficult to take a stand without appearing ridiculous. Raymon had the knack of often being guilty without being hated, often eccentric without being shocking; sometimes he even managed to elicit pity from those who had the most to complain about him. There are men thus corrupted by everything around them. A cheerful face and lively speech sometimes bear the brunt of their sensitivity. We do not presume to judge Monsieur Raymon de Ramière so rigorously, nor to paint his portrait before having seen him act. We are examining him now from afar, like the crowd that sees him pass by.

M. de Ramière was in love with the young Creole girl with the large dark eyes who had impressed the whole province at the Rubelles festival; but in love and nothing more. He had approached her perhaps out of boredom, and success had kindled his desires; he had obtained more than he had asked for, and, on the day he triumphed over this easy heart, he returned home, frightened by his victory, and, striking his forehead, he said to himself:

"I just hope she doesn't love me!"

It was only after accepting all the proofs of her love that he began to doubt it. Then he repented, but it was too late; he had to either surrender to the consequences of the future or retreat cowardly into the past. Raymon did not hesitate; he allowed himself to be loved, he loved out of gratitude; he scaled the walls of the Delmare estate for the thrill of danger; he fell terribly through clumsiness, and he was so moved by the pain of his young and beautiful mistress that he now believed himself justified in his own eyes by continuing to dig the abyss into which she was destined to fall.