Indiana by Amantine Aurore Dupin

Author:Amantine Aurore Dupin [Dupin, Amantine Aurore]
Language: eng
Format: epub

18

“This is a wretchedly devised falsehood,” said Raymon, as soon as the sound of Ralph’s footsteps had died away. “Sir Ralph needs a lesson, and I will administer it in such shape–”

“I forbid it,” said Indiana, in a cold, determined tone: “my husband is here: Ralph never lied. You and I are lost. There was a time when the thought would have frozen me with horror; to-day it matters little to me!”

“Very well!” said Raymon, seizing her in his arms excitedly, “since death encompasses us, be mine! Forgive everything, and let your last word in this supreme moment be a word of love, my last breath a breath of joy.”

“This moment of terror and courage might have been the sweetest moment in my life,” she said, “but you have spoiled it for me.”

There was a rumbling of wheels in the farmyard, and the bell at the gate of the château was rung by a strong and impatient hand.

“I know that ring,” said Indiana, watchful and cool. “Ralph did not lie; but you have time to escape; go!”

“I will not,” cried Raymon; “I suspect some despicable treachery and you shall not be the only victim. I will remain and my breast shall protect you–”

“There is no treachery– listen– the servants are stirring and the gate will be opened directly. Go: the trees in the garden will conceal you, and the moon is not fairly out yet. Not a word more, but go!”

Raymon was compelled to obey; but she accompanied him to the foot of the stairs and cast a searching glance about the flower-garden. All was silent and calm. She stood a long while on the last stair, listening with terror to the grinding of his footsteps on the gravel, entirely oblivious of her husband’s arrival. What cared she for his suspicions and his anger, provided that Raymon was out of danger?

As for him he crossed the stream and hurried swiftly through the park. He reached the small gate and, in his excitement, had some difficulty in opening it. He was no sooner in the road than Sir Ralph appeared in front of him and said with as much sang-froid as if he were accosting him at a party:

“Be good enough to let me have that key. If there should be a search for it, it would be less inconvenient for it to be found in my hands.”

Raymon would have preferred the most deadly insult to this satirical generosity.

“I am not the man to forget a well-meant service,” said he; “I am the man to avenge an insult and to punish treachery.”

Sir Ralph changed neither his tone nor his expression.

“I want none of your gratitude,” he rejoined, “and I await your vengeance tranquilly; but this is no time to talk. There is your path– think of Madame Delmare’s good name.”

And he disappeared.

This night of agitation had overturned Raymon’s brain so completely that he would readily have believed in witchcraft at that moment. He reached Cercy at daybreak and went to bed with a raging fever.

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