The Wandering Jew, Book I.

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THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue



A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR OF

The Wandering Jew

EUGENE SUE

(1804-1857)

Time and again physicians and seamen have made noteworthy reputations as
novelists. But it is rare in the annals of literature that a man trained
in both professions should have gained his greatest fame as a writer of
novels. Eugene Sue began his career as a physician and surgeon, and then
spent six years in the French Navy. In 1830, when he returned to France,
he inherited his father's rich estate and was free to follow his
inclination to write. His first novel, "Plick et Plock", met with an
unexpected success, and he at once foreswore the arts of healing and
navigation for the precarious life of a man of letters. With varying
success he produced books from his inexhaustible store of personal
experiences as a doctor and sailor. In 1837, he wrote an authoritative
work on the French Navy, "Histoire de la marine Francaise".

More and more the novel appealed to his imagination and suited his gifts.
His themes ranged from the fabulous to the strictly historical, and he
became popular as a writer of romance and fictionized fact. His plays,
however, were persistent failures. When he published "The Mysteries of
Paris", his national fame was assured, and with the writing of "The
Wandering Jew" he achieved world-wide renown. Then, at the height of his
literary career, Eugene Sue was driven into exile after Louis Napoleon
overthrew the Constitutional Government in a coup d'etat and had himself
officially proclaimed Emperor Napoleon III. The author of "The Wandering
Jew" died in banishment five years later.



Book I.

Part First.--The Transgression.
Prologue.--The Lands End of the World.
I. Morok
II. The Travellers
III. The Arrival
IV. Morok and Dagobert
V. Rose and Blanche
VI. The Secret
VII. The Traveller
VIII. Extracts from General Simon's Diary
IX. The Cages
X. The Surprise
XI. Jovial and Death
XII. The Burgomaster
XIII. The Judgment
XIV. The Decision
XV. The Despatches
XVI. The Orders



Book II.

Interval.--The Wandering Jew's Sentence.

XVII. The Ajoupa
XVIII. The Tattooing
XIX. The Smuggler
XX. M. Joshua Van Dael
XXI. The Ruins of Tchandi
XXII. The Ambuscade
XXIII. M. Rodin
XXIV. The Tempest
XXV. The Shipwreck
XXVI. The Departure for Paris
XXVII. Dagobert's Wife
XXVIII. The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen
XXIX. Agricola Baudoin
XXX. The Return
XXXI. Agricola and Mother Bunch
XXXII. The Awakening
XXXIII. The Pavilion
XXXIV. Adrienne at her Toilet
XXXV. The Interview



Book III.

XXXVI. A Female Jesuit
XXXVII. The Plot
XXXVIII. Adrienne's Enemies
XXXIX. The Skirmish
XL. The Revolt
XLI. Treachery
XLII. The Snare
XLIII. A False Friend
XLIV. The Minister's Cabinet
XLV. The Visit
XLVI. Presentiments
XLVII. The Letter
XLVIII. The Confessional
XLIX. My Lord and Spoil-sport
L. Appearances
LI. The Convent
LII. The Influence of a Confessor
LIII. The Examination



Book IV.

Part Second.--The Chastisement.
Prologue.--The Bird's-Eye View of Two Worlds.

I. The Masquerade
II. The Contrast
III. The Carouse
IV. The Farewell
V. The Florine
VI. Mother Sainte-Perpetue
VII. The Temptation
VIII. Mother Bunch and Mdlle. De Cardoville
IX. The Encounters--The Meeting
XI. Discoveries
XII. The Penal Code
XIII. Burglary



Book V.

XIV. The Eve of a Great Day
XV. The Thug
XVI. The Two Brothers of the Good Work
XVII. The House in the Rue Saint-Francois
XVIII. Debit and Credit
XIX. The Heir
XX. The Rupture
XXI. The Change
XXII. The Red Room
XXIII. The Testament
XXIV. The Last Stroke of Noon
XXV. The Deed of Gift


Book VI.

Part Second.--The Chastisement. (Concluded.)

XXVI. A Good Genius
XXVII. The First Last, And the Last First
XXVIII. The Stranger
XXIX. The Den
XXX. An Unexpected Visit
XXXI. Friendly Services
XXXII. The Advice
XXXIII. The Accuser
XXXIV. Father d'Aigrigny's Secretary
XXXV. Sympathy
XXXVI. Suspicions
XXXVII. Excuses
XXXVIII. Revelations
XXXIX. Pierre Simon



Book VII.

XL. The East Indian in Paris
XLI. Rising
XLII. Doubts
XLIII. The Letter
XLIV. Adrienne and Djalma
XLV. The Consultation
XLVI. Mother Bunch's Diary
XLVII. The Diary Continued
XLVIII. The Discovery
XLIX. The Trysting-Place of the Wolves
L. The Common Dwelling-House
LI. The Secret
LII. Revelations

Book VIII.

Part Third.--The Redemption.

I. The Wandering Jew's Chastisement
II. The Descendants of the Wandering Jew
III. The Attack
IV. The Wolves and the Devourers
V. The Return
VI. The Go-Between
VII. Another Secret
VIII. The Confession
IX. Love
X. The Execution
XI. The Champs-Elysees
XII. Behind the Scenes
XIII. Up with the Curtain
XIV. Death



Book IX.

XV. The Constant Wanderer
XVI. The Luncheon
XVII. Rendering the Account
XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame
XIX. The Cholera Masquerade
XX. The Defiance
XXI. Brandy to the Rescue
XXII. Memories
XXIII. The Poisoner
XXIV. In the Cathedral
XXV. The Murderers
XXVI. The Patient
XXVII. The Lure
XXVIII. Good News
XXIX. The Operation
XXX. The Torture
XXXI. Vice and Virtue
XXXII. Suicide



Book X.

XXXIII. Confessions
XXXIV. More Confessions
XXXV. The Rivals
XXXVI. The Interview
XXXVII. Soothing Words
XXXVIII. The Two Carriages
XXXIX. The Appointment
XL. Anxiety
XLI. Adrienne and Djalma
XLII. "The Imitation"
XLIII. Prayer
XLIV. Remembrances
XLV. The Blockhead
XLVI. The Anonymous Letters
XLVII. The Golden City
XLVIII. The Stung Lion
XLIX. The Test



Book XI.

L. The Ruins of the Abbey of St. John the Baptist
LI. The Calvary
LII. The Council
LIII. Happiness
LIV. Duty
LV. The Improvised Hospital
LVI. Hydrophobia
LVII. The Guardian Angel
LVIII. Ruin
LIX. Memories
LX. The Ordeal
LXI. Ambition
LXII. To a Socius, a Socius and a Half
LXIII. Faringhea's Affection
LXIV. An Evening at St. Colombe's
LXV. The Nuptial Bed
LXVI. A Duel to the Death
LXVII. A Message
LXVIII. The First of June


Epilogue.

I. Four Years After
II. The Redemption




The Wandering Jew.

First Part.--The Transgression.

Prologue.

The Land's End of Two Worlds.

The Arctic Ocean encircles with a belt of eternal ice the desert confines
of Siberia and North America--the uttermost limits of the Old and New
worlds, separated by the narrow, channel, known as Behring's Straits.

The last days of September have arrived.

The equinox has brought with it darkness and Northern storms, and night
will quickly close the short and dismal polar day. The sky of a dull and
leaden blue is faintly lighted by a sun without warmth, whose white disk,
scarcely seen above the horizon, pales before the dazzling, brilliancy of
the snow that covers, as far as the eyes can reach, the boundless
steppes.

To the North, this desert is bounded by a ragged coast, bristling with
huge black rocks.

At the base of this Titanic mass lied enchained the petrified ocean,
whose spell-bound waves appear fired as vast ranges of ice mountains,
their blue peaks fading away in the far-off frost smoke, or snow vapor.

Between the twin-peaks of Cape East, the termination of Siberia, the
sullen sea is seen to drive tall icebergs across a streak of dead green.
There lies Behring's Straits.

Opposite, and towering over the channel, rise the granite masses of Cape
Prince of Wales, the headland of North America.

These lonely latitudes do not belong to the habitable world; for the
piercing cold shivers the stones, splits the trees, and causes the earth
to burst asunder, which, throwing forth showers of icy spangles seems
capable of enduring this solitude of frost and tempest, of famine and
death.

And yet, strange to say, footprints may be traced on the snow, covering
these headlands on either side of Behring's Straits.

On the American shore, the footprints are small and light, thus betraying
the passage of a woman.

She has been hastening up the rocky peak, whence the drifts of Siberia
are visible.

On the latter ground, footprints larger and deeper betoken the passing of
a man. He also was on his way to the Straits.

It would seem that this man and woman had arrived here from opposite
directions, in hope of catching a glimpse of one another, across the arm
of the sea dividing the two worlds--the Old and the New.

More strange still! the man and the woman have crossed the solitudes
during a terrific storm! Black pines, the growth of centuries, pointing
their bent heads in different parts of the solitude like crosses in a
churchyard, have been uprooted, rent, and hurled aside by the blasts!

Yet the two travellers face this furious tempest, which has plucked up
trees, and pounded the frozen masses into splinters, with the roar of
thunder.

They face it, without for one single instant deviating from the straight
line hitherto followed by them.

Who then are these two beings who advance thus calmly amidst the storms
and convulsions of nature?

Is it by chance, or design, or destiny, that the seven nails in the sole
of the man's shoe form a cross--thus:

*
* * *
*
*
*

Everywhere he leaves this impress behind him.

On the smooth and polished snow, these footmarks seem imprinted by a foot
of brass on a marble floor.

Night without twilight has soon succeeded day--a night of foreboding
gloom.

The brilliant reflection of the snow renders the white steppes still
visible beneath the azure darkness of the sky; and the pale stars glimmer
on the obscure and frozen dome.

Solemn silence reigns.

But, towards the Straits, a faint light appears.

At first, a gentle, bluish light, such as precedes moonrise; it increases
in brightness, and assumes a ruddy hue.

Darkness thickens in every other direction; the white wilds of the desert
are now scarcely visible under the black vault of the firmament.

Strange and confused noises are heard amidst this obscurity.

They sound like the flight of large night--birds--now flapping
now-heavily skimming over the steppes-now descending.

But no cry is heard.

This silent terror heralds the approach of one of those imposing
phenomena that awe alike the most ferocious and the most harmless, of
animated beings. An Aurora Borealis (magnificent sight!) common in the
polar regions, suddenly beams forth.

A half circle of dazzling whiteness becomes visible in the horizon.
Immense columns of light stream forth from this dazzling centre, rising
to a great height, illuminating earth, sea, and sky. Then a brilliant
reflection, like the blaze of a conflagration, steals over the snow of
the desert, purples the summits of the mountains of ice, and imparts a
dark red hue to the black rocks of both continents.

After attaining this magnificent brilliancy, the Northern Lights fade
away gradually, and their vivid glow is lost in a luminous fog.

Just then, by a wondrous mirage an effect very common in high latitudes,
the American Coast, though separated from Siberia by a broad arm of the
sea, loomed so close that a bridge might seemingly be thrown from one
world to other.

Then human forms appeared in the transparent azure haze overspreading
both forelands.

On the Siberian Cape, a man on his knees, stretched his arms towards
America, with an expression of inconceivable despair.

On the American promontory, a young and handsome woman replied to the
man's despairing gesture by pointing to heaven.

For some seconds, these two tall figures stood out, pale and shadowy, in
the farewell gleams of the Aurora.

But the fog thickens, and all is lost in the darkness.

Whence came the two beings, who met thus amidst polar glaciers, at the
extremities of the Old and New worlds?

Who were the two creatures, brought near for a moment by a deceitful
mirage, but who seemed eternally separated?




CHAPTER I.

MOROK.

The month of October, 1831, draws to its close.

Though it is still day, a brass lamp, with four burners, illumines the
cracked walls of a large loft, whose solitary window is closed against
outer light. A ladder, with its top rungs coming up through an open trap
leads to it.

Here and there at random on the floor lie iron chains, spiked collars,
saw-toothed snaffles, muzzles bristling with nails, and long iron rods
set in wooden handles. In one corner stands a portable furnace, such as
tinkers use to melt their spelter; charcoal and dry chips fill it, so
that a spark would suffice to kindle this furnace in a minute.

Not far from this collection of ugly instruments, putting one in mind of
a torturer's kit of tools, there are some articles of defence and offence
of a bygone age. A coat of mail, with links so flexible, close, and
light, that it resembles steel tissue, hangs from a box beside iron
cuishes and arm-pieces, in good condition, even to being properly fitted
with straps. A mace, and two long three-cornered-headed pikes, with ash
handles, strong, and light at the same time; spotted with lately-shed
blood, complete the armory, modernized somewhat by the presence of two
Tyrolese rifles, loaded and primed.

Along with this arsenal of murderous weapons and out-of-date instruments,
is strangely mingled a collection of very different objects, being small
glass-lidded boxes, full of rosaries, chaplets, medals, AGNUS DEI, holy
water bottles, framed pictures of saints, etc., not to forget a goodly
number of those chapbooks, struck off in Friburg on coarse bluish paper,
in which you can hear about miracles of our own time, or "Jesus Christ's
Letter to a true believer," containing awful predictions, as for the
years 1831 and '32, about impious revolutionary France.

One of those canvas daubs, with which strolling showmen adorn their
booths, hangs from a rafter, no doubt to prevent its being spoilt by too
long rolling up. It bore the following legend:

"THE DOWNRIGHT TRUE AND MOST MEMORABLE CONVERSION OF IGNATIUS MOROK,
KNOWN AS THE PROPHET, HAPPENING IN FRIBURG, 1828TH YEAR OF GRACE."

This picture, of a size larger than natural, of gaudy color, and in bad
taste, is divided into three parts, each presenting an important phase in
the life of the convert, surnamed "The Prophet." In the first, behold a
long-bearded man, the hair almost white, with uncouth face, and clad in
reindeer skin, like the Siberian savage. His black foreskin cap is topped
with a raven's head; his features express terror. Bent forward in his
sledge, which half-a-dozen huge tawny dogs draw over the snow, he is
fleeing from the pursuit of a pack of foxes, wolves, and big bears, whose
gaping jaws, and formidable teeth, seem quite capable of devouring man,
sledge, and dogs, a hundred times over. Beneath this section, reads:

"IN 1810, MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS."

In the second picture, Morok, decently clad in a catechumen's white gown
kneels, with clasped hands, to a man who wears a white neckcloth, and
flowing black robe. In a corner, a tall angel, of repulsive aspect, holds
a trumpet in one hand, and flourishes a flaming sword with the other,
while the words which follow flow out of his mouth, in red letters on a
black ground:

"MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS; BUT WILD BEASTS WILL FLEE
FROM IGNATIUS MOROK, CONVERTED AND BAPTIZED IN FRIBURG."

Thus, in the last compartment, the new convert proudly, boastfully, and
triumphantly parades himself in a flowing robe of blue; head up, left arm
akimbo, right hand outstretched, he seems to scare the wits out of a
multitude of lions, tigers, hyenas, and bears, who, with sheathed claws,
and masked teeth, crouch at his feet, awestricken, and submissive.

Under this, is the concluding moral:

"IGNATIUS MOROK BEING CONVERTED, WILD BEASTS CROUCH BEFORE HIM."

Not far from this canvas are several parcels of halfpenny books, likewise
from the Friburg press, which relate by what an astounding miracle Morok,
the Idolater, acquired a supernatural power almost divine, the moment he
was converted--a power which the wildest animal could not resist, and
which was testified to every day by the lion tamer's performances, "given
less to display his courage than to show his praise unto the Lord."

Through the trap-door which opens into the loft, reek up puffs of a rank,
sour, penetrating odor. From time to time are heard sonorous growls and
deep breathings, followed by a dull sound, as of great bodies stretching
themselves heavily along the floor.

A man is alone in this loft. It is Morok, the tamer of wild beasts,
surnamed the Prophet.

He is forty years old, of middle height, with lank limbs, and an
exceedingly spare frame; he is wrapped in a long, blood-red pelisse,
lined with black fur; his complexion, fair by nature is bronzed by the
wandering life he has led from childhood; his hair, of that dead yellow
peculiar to certain races of the Polar countries, falls straight and
stiff down his shoulders; and his thin, sharp, hooked nose, and prominent
cheek-bones, surmount a long beard, bleached almost to whiteness.
Peculiarly marking the physiognomy of this man is the wide open eye, with
its tawny pupil ever encircled by a rim of white. This fixed,
extraordinary look, exercises a real fascination over animals--which,
however, does not prevent the Prophet from also employing, to tame them,
the terrible arsenal around him.

Seated at a table, he has just opened the false bottom of a box, filled
with chaplets and other toys, for the use of the devout. Beneath this
false bottom, secured by a secret lock, are several sealed envelopes,
with no other address than a number, combined with a letter of the
alphabet. The Prophet takes one of these packets, conceals it in the
pocket of his pelisse, and, closing the secret fastening of the false
bottom, replaces the box upon a shelf.

This scene occurs about four o'clock in the afternoon, in the White
Falcon, the only hostelry in the little village of Mockern, situated near
Leipsic, as you come from the north towards France.

After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.

"Judas! be quiet!" exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns
his head towards the trap door.

Another deep growl is heard, formidable as distant thunder.

"Lie down, Cain!" cries Morok, starting from his seat.

A third roar, of inexpressible ferocity, bursts suddenly on the ear.

"Death! Will you have done," cries the Prophet, rushing towards the trap
door, and addressing a third invisible animal, which bears this ghastly
name.

Notwithstanding the habitual authority of his voice--notwithstanding his
reiterated threats--the brute-tamer cannot obtain silence: on the
contrary, the barking of several dogs is soon added to the roaring of the
wild beasts. Morok seizes a pike, and approaches the ladder; he is about
to descend, when he sees some one issuing from the aperture.

The new-comer has a brown, sun-burnt face; he wears a gray hat, bell
crowned and broad-brimmed, with a short jacket, and wide trousers of
green cloth; his dusty leathern gaiters show that he has walked some
distance; a game-bag is fastened by straps to his back.

"The devil take the brutes!" cried he, as he set foot on the floor; "one
would think they'd forgotten me in three days. Judas thrust his paw
through the bars of his cage, and Death danced like a fury. They don't
know me any more, it seems?"

This was said in German. Morok answered in the same language, but with a
slightly foreign accent.

"Good or bad news, Karl?" he inquired, with some uneasiness.

"Good news."

"You've met them!"

"Yesterday; two leagues from Wittenberg."

"Heaven be praised!" cried Morok, clasping his hands with intense
satisfaction.

"Oh, of course, 'tis the direct road from Russia to France, 'twas a
thousand to one that we should find them somewhere between Wittenberg and
Leipsic."

"And the description?"

"Very close: two young girls in mourning; horse, white; the old man has
long moustache, blue forage-cap; gray topcoat and a Siberian dog at his
heels."

"And where did you leave them?"

"A league hence. They will be here within the hour."

"And in this inn--since it is the only one in the village," said Morok,
with a pensive air.

"And night drawing on," added Karl.

"Did you get the old man to talk?"

"Him!--you don't suppose it!"

"Why not?"

"Go, and try yourself."

"And for what reason?"

"Impossible."

"Impossible--why?"

"You shall know all about it. Yesterday, as if I had fallen in with them
by chance, I followed them to the place where they stopped for the night.
I spoke in German to the tall old man, accosting him, as is usual with
wayfarers, 'Good-day, and a pleasant journey, comrade!' But, for an
answer, he looked askant at me, and pointed with, the end of his stick to
the other side of the road."

"He is a Frenchman, and, perhaps, does not understand German."

"He speaks it, at least as well as you; for at the inn I heard him ask
the host for whatever he and the young girls wanted."

"And did you not again attempt to engage him in conversation?"

"Once only; but I met with such a rough reception, that for fear of
making mischief, I did not try again. Besides, between ourselves, I can
tell you this man has a devilish ugly look; believe me, in spite of his
gray moustache, he looks so vigorous and resolute, though with no more
flesh on him than a carcass, that I don't know whether he or my mate
Giant Goliath, would have the best of it in a struggle. I know not your
plans: only take care, master--take care!"

"My black panther of Java was also very vigorous and very vicious," said
Morok, with a grim, disdainful, smile.

"What, Death? Yes; in truth; and she is vigorous and vicious as ever.
Only to you she is almost mild."

"And thus I will break this tall old man; notwithstanding his strength
and surliness."

"Humph! humph! be on your guard, master. You are clever, you are as brave
as any one; but, believe me, you will never make a lamb out of the old
wolf that will be here presently."

"Does not my lion, Cain--does not my tiger, Judas, crouch in terror
before me?"

"Yes, I believe you there--because you have means--"

"Because I have faith: that is all--and it is all," said Morok,
imperiously interrupting Karl, and accompanying these words with such a
look, that the other hung his head and was silent.

"Why should not he whom the Lord upholds in his struggle with wild
beasts, be also upheld in his struggle with men, when those men are
perverse and impious?" added the Prophet, with a triumphant, inspired
air.

Whether from belief in his master's conviction, or from inability to
engage in a controversy with him on so delicate a subject, Karl answered
the Prophet, humbly: "you are wiser than I am, master; what you do must
be well done."

"Did you follow this old man and these two young girls all day long?"
resumed the Prophet, after a moment's silence.

"Yes; but at a distance. As I know the country well, I sometimes cut
across a valley, sometimes over a hill, keeping my eye upon the road,
where they were always to be seen. The last time I saw them, I was hid
behind the water-mill by the potteries. As they were on the highway for
this place, and night was drawing on, I quickened my pace to get here
before them, and be the bearer of what you call good news."

"Very good--yes--very good: and you shall be rewarded; for if these
people had escaped me--"

The Prophet started, and did not conclude the sentence. The expression of
his face, and the tones of his voice, indicated the importance of the
intelligence which had just been brought him.

"In truth," rejoined Karl, "it may be worth attending to; for that
Russian courier, all plastered with lace, who came, without slacking
bridle, from St. Petersburg to Leipsic, only to see you, rode so fast,
perhaps, for the purpose--"

Morok abruptly interrupted Karl, and said:

"Who told you that the arrival of the courier had anything to do with
these travellers? You are mistaken; you should only know what I choose to
tell you."

"Well, master, forgive me, and let's say no more about it. So! I will get
rid of my game-bag, and go help Goliath to feed the brutes, for their
supper time draws near, if it is not already past. Does our big giant
grow lazy, master?"

"Goliath is gone out; he must not know that you are returned; above all,
the tall old man and the maidens must not see you here--it would make
them suspect something."