Indiana (Oxford World's Classics) by George Sand

Author:George Sand [Sand, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: OUP Oxford
Published: 2000-05-31T21:00:00+00:00

PART 3

XVII

AFTER leaving Sir Ralph, Madame Delmare had shut herself in her room and a thousand disturbing thoughts had crossed her mind. It was not the first time that a vague suspicion had cast its ominous light on the frail edifice of her happiness. M. Delmare had already in conversation let slip some of those crude jokes which pass for compliments. He had congratulated Raymon on his chivalrous conquests in such a way as almost to put ears that knew nothing of the incident on to the right track. Every time Madame Delmare had a word with the gardener, Noun’s name had come up, like a fatal necessity, in connection with the most trivial details; and then M. de Ramière’s had slipped in, too, by some kind of linkage of ideas which seemed to have taken hold of the man’s mind and obsessed him in spite of himself. Madame Delmare had been struck by his strange, clumsy questions. His language became confused when talking of the most unimportant matter. He seemed to be weighed down by a remorse which he betrayed in trying to conceal it. At other times, it was in Raymon’s own embarrassment that Indiana found indications that she did not seek but which haunted her. One circumstance in particular would have enlightened her if she had not shut her heart to all mistrust. On Noun’s finger they had found a very valuable ring which Madame Delmare had seen the girl wearing for some time before her death, and which she claimed to have found. Since then, Madame Delmare had always worn this token of grief and she had often seen Raymon turn pale when he grasped her hand to carry it to his lips. Once he had begged her never to talk to him of Noun, because he regarded himself as guilty of her death; and as she tried to rid him of that painful thought by taking all the wrongdoing on herself, he had replied:

‘No, poor Indiana, don’t accuse yourself. You don’t know how guilty I am.’

These words, uttered gloomily and bitterly, had frightened Madame Delmare. She had not dared insist, and now that she was beginning to find an explanation for all these fragments of discoveries she still had not the courage to apply her mind to them and to piece them together.

She opened her window and, seeing the calm night and the beautiful, pale moon behind the silvery mist on the horizon, remembering that Raymon was about to come, that perhaps he was in the grounds, and thinking of all the happiness she had been looking forward to for that mysterious hour of love, she cursed Ralph, who, with a word, had just poisoned her hopes and destroyed her peace for ever. She even felt that she hated him, the unhappy man who had been a father to her and who had just sacrificed his future for her. For his future was Indiana’s friendship; that was the only possession he valued and he resigned himself to losing it in order to save her.

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