The Wandering Jew, Book XI.

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More and more alarmed, and again glancing at the dagger en which she now
perceived marks of blood--a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the
words of Djalma--Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed, "You have killed some
one, Djalma! Oh! what does he say? It is dreadful!"

"You are alive--I see you--you are here," said Djalma, in a voice
trembling with rapture. "You are here--beautiful! pure! for it was not
you! Oh, no! had it been you, the steel would have turned back upon
myself."

"You have killed some one?" cried the young lady, beside her with this
unforeseen revelation, and clasping her hands in horror. "Why? whom did
you kill?"

"I do not know. A woman that was like you--a man that I thought your
lover--it was an illusion, a frightful dream--you are alive--you are
here!"

And the oriental wept for joy.

"A dream? but no, it is not a dream. There is blood upon that dagger!"
cried the young lady, as she pointed wildly to the kandjiar. "I tell you
there is blood upon it!"

"Yes. I threw it down just now, when I took the poison from it, thinking
that I had killed you."

"The poison!" exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively.
"What poison?"

"I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die."

"To die? Oh! wherefore? who is to die?" cried the young lady, almost in
delirium.

"I," replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, "I thought I had
killed you--and I took poison."

"You!" exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death. "You!"

"Yes."

"Oh! it is not true!" said the young lady, shaking her head.

"Look!" said the Asiatic. Mechanically, he turned towards the
bed--towards the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal phial.

With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than
the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it
eagerly to her lips.

Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible
cry, made one spring to the drinker's side, and dragged away the phial,
which seemed almost glued to her mouth.

"No matter! I have swallowed as much as you," said Adrienne, with an air
of gloomy triumph.

For an instant, there followed an awful silence. Adrienne and Djalma
gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horror-struck. The young lady
was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which
she tried to make calm and steady, "Well! what is there extraordinary in
this? You have killed, and death most expiate your crime. It is just. I
will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus?
This poison has a sharp taste--does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma!"

The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked
down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet tint
appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly, almost
insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair at the
thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his courage
fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his hands. His
knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near which he was
standing.

"Already?" cried the young lady in horror, as she threw herself on her
knees at Djalma's feet. "Death already? Do you hide your face from me?"

In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was
bathed in tears.

"No, not yet," murmured he, through his sobs. "The poison is slow."

"Really!" cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of
Djalma, she added tenderly, "If the poison is slow, why do you weep?"

"For you! for you!" said the Indian, in a heart-rending tone.

"Think not of me," replied Adrienne, resolutely. "You have killed, and we
must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear by
our love that you did not do evil for evil's sake. There is some horrible
mystery in all this."

"On a pretence which I felt bound to believe," replied Djalma, speaking
quickly, and panting for breath, "Faringhea led me to a certain house.
Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him,
but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me--and then, through a
half-obscurity, I saw you--"

"Me!"

"No--not you--but a woman resembling you, dressed like you, so that I
believed the illusion--and then there came a man--and you flew to meet
him--and I--mad with rage--stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall--and
so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh,
misery! misery! that you should die through me!"

And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with the
weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate despair,
Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess in love,
thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman passion, as
the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady's countenance
became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness, that the
East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant that he
must have lost his reason.

"No more tears, my adored!" cried the young lady, exultingly. "No more
tears--but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not
triumph!"

"What do you say?"

"They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be
the envy of the world!"

"Adrienne--bethink you--"

"Oh! I have all my senses about me. Listen to me, my adored! I now
understand it all. Falling into a snare, which these wretches spread for
you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to
infamy, or the scaffold--and to-morrow--to-night, perhaps--you would be
thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: 'A man like Prince Djalma
does not wait for infamy--he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de
Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover--she
prefers to die.'"

"Therefore a frightful death awaits them both," said the black-robed men;
"and that immense inheritance, which we covet--'"

"And for you--so young, so beautiful so innocent--death is frightful, and
these monsters triumph!" cried Djalma. "They have spoken the truth!"

"They have lied!" answered Adrienne. "Our death shall be celestial. This
poison is slow--and I adore you, my Djalma!"

She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love,
and, leaning upon Djalma's knees, approached so near, that he felt her
warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid
flame that darted from the large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half
opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian
started--his young blood boiled in his veins--he forgot everything--his
despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne), only
showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young
girl's, became once more splendidly beautiful.

"Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!" said Adrienne, with
idolatry. "Those eyes--that brow--those lips--how I love them!--How many
times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your
love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves--even to this moment,
when I am wholly yours!--Yes, heaven wills that we should be united. Only
this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our union,
in thy name and mine, a royal gift--a gift, that will bring joy and peace
to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have we to
regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss, and
ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love!"

"Adrienne!"

"Djalma!"

The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and
funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma
breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.




CHAPTER LXVI.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

Adrienne and Djalma died on the 30th of May. The following scene took
place on the 31st, the eve of the day appointed for the last convocation
of the heirs of Marius de Rennepont. The reader will no doubt remember
the room occupied by M. Hardy, in the "house of retreat," in the Rue de
Vaugirard--a gloomy and retired apartment, opening on a dreary little
garden, planted with yew-trees, and surrounded by high walls. To reach
this chamber, it was necessary to cross two vast rooms, the doors of
which, once shut, intercepted all noise and communication from without.
Bearing this in mind, we may go on with our narrative. For the last three
or four days, Father d'Aigrigny occupied this apartment. He had not
chosen it, but had been induced to accept it, under most plausible
pretexts, given him at the instigation of Rodin. It was about noon.
Seated in an arm-chair, by the window opening on the little garden,
Father d'Aigrigny held in his hand a newspaper, in which he read as
follows, under the head of "Paris:"

"Eleven p.m.--A most horrible and tragical event has just excited the
greatest consternation in the quarter of the Rue de Richelieu. A double
murder has been committed, on the person of a young man and woman. The
girl was killed on the spot, by the stroke of a dagger; hopes are
entertained of saving the life of the young man. The crime is attributed
to jealousy. The officers of justice are investigating the matter. We
shall give full particulars tomorrow."

When he had read these lines, Father d'Aigrigny threw down the paper and
remained in deep thought.

"It is incredible," said he, with bitter envy, in allusion to Rodin. "He
has attained his end. Hardly one of his anticipations has been defeated.
This family is annihilated, by the mere play of the passions, good and
evil that he has known how to set in motion. He said it would be so. Oh!
I must confess," added Father d'Aigrigny, with a jealous and hateful
smile, "that Rodin is a man of rare dissimulation, patience, energy,
obstinacy and intelligence. Who would have told a few months ago, when he
wrote under my orders, a discreet and humble socius, that he had already
conceived the most audacious ambition, and dared to lift his eyes to the
Holy See itself? that, thanks to intrigues and corruption, pursued with
wondrous ability, these views were not so unreasonable? Nay, that this
infernal ambition would soon be realized, were it not that the secret
proceedings of this dangerous man have long been as secretly
watched?--Ah!" sneered Father d'Aigrigny, with a smile of irony and
triumph, "you wish to be a second Sixtus V., do you? And, not content
with this audacious pretension, you mean, if successful, to absorb our
Company in the Papacy, even as the Sultan has absorbed the Janissaries.
Ah! You would make us your stepping-stone to power! And you have thought
to humiliate and crush me with your insolent disdain! But patience,
patience: the day of retribution approaches. I alone am the depository of
our General's will. Father Caboccini himself does not know that. The fate
of Rodin is in my hands. Oh! it will not be what he expects. In this
Rennepont affair (which, I must needs confess, he has managed admirably),
he thinks to outwit us all, and to work only for himself. But
to-morrow--"

Father d'Aigrigny was suddenly disturbed in these agreeable reflections.
He heard the door of the next room open, and, as he turned round to see
who was coming, the door of the apartment in which he was turned upon its
hinges. Father d'Aigrigny started with surprise, and became almost
purple. Marshal Simon stood before him. And, behind the marshal, in the
shadow of the door, Father d'Aigrigny perceived the cadaverous face of
Rodin. The latter cast on him one glance of diabolical delight, and
instantly disappeared. The door was again closed, and Father d'Aigrigny
and Marshal Simon were left alone together. The father of Rose and
Blanche was hardly recognizable. His gray hair had become completely
white. His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days. His hollow
eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and
haggard. He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied
loosely about his neck. In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as
if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside. When he was
alone with the Jesuit, the marshal threw back his cloak from his
shoulders, and Father d'Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck
through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.

Father d'Aigrigny understood it all. He remembered how, a few days
before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the
marshal were to strike him in the face. There could be no doubt that he,
who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been brought
by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two outer rooms
being closed, there was no possibility of making himself heard, and that
the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some vacant lots. The
first thought which occurred to him, one by no means destitute of
probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome, or by his own
incredible penetration, had learned that his fate depended on Father
d'Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him, by delivering him over
to the inexorable vengeance of the father of Rose and Blanche. Without
speaking a word, the marshal unbound the handkerchief from his waist,
laid the two swords upon the table, and, folding his arms upon his
breast, advanced slowly towards Father d'Aigrigny. Thus these two men,
who through life had pursued each other with implacable hatred, at length
met face to face--they, who had fought in hostile armies, and measured
swords in single combat, and one of whom now came to seek vengeance for
the death of his children. As the marshal approached, Father d'Aigrigny
rose from his seat. He wore that day a black cassock, which rendered
still more visible the pale hue, which had now succeeded to the sudden
flush on his cheek. For a few seconds, the two men stood face to face
without speaking. The marshal was terrific in his paternal despair. His
calmness, inexorable as fate, was more impressive than the most furious
burst of anger.

"My children are dead," said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone. "I
come to kill you."

"Sir," cried Father d'Aigrigny, "listen to me. Do not believe--"

"I must kill you," resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; "your
hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished. You and your
accomplices sent my children to certain death. For twenty years you have
been my evil genius. I must have your life, and I will have it."

"My life belongs, first, to God," answered Father d'Aigrigny, piously,
"and then to who likes to take it."

"We will fight to the death in this room," said the marshal; "and, as I
have to avenge my wife and children, I am tranquil as to the result."

"Sir," answered Father d'Aigrigny, coldly, "you forget that my profession
forbids me to fight. Once I accepted your challenge--but my position is
changed since then."

"Ah!" said the marshal, with a bitter smile; "you refuse to fight because
you are a priest?"

"Yes, sir--because I am a priest."

"So that, because he is a priest, a wretch like you may commit any crime,
any baseness, under shelter of his black gown?"

"I do not understand a word of your accusations. In any case, the law is
open," said Father d'Aigrigny, biting his pale lips, for he felt deeply
the insult offered by the marshal; "if you have anything to complain of,
appeal to that law, before which all are equal."

Marshal Simon shrugged his shoulders in angry disdain. "Your crimes
escape the law--and, could it even reach you, that would not satisfy my
vengeance, after all the evil you have done me, after all you have taken
from me," said the marshal; and, at the memory of his children, his voice
slightly trembled; but he soon proceeded, with terrible calmness: "You
must feel that I now only live for vengeance. And I must have such
revenge as is worth the seeking--I must have your coward's heart
palpitating on the point of my sword. Our last duel was play; this will
be earnest--oh! you shall see."

The marshal walked up to the table, where he had laid the two swords.
Father d'Aigrigny needed all his resolution to restrain himself. The
implacable hate which he had always felt for Marshal Simon, added to
these insults, filled him with savage ardor. Yet he answered, in a tone
that was still calm: "For the last time, sir, I repeat to you, that my
profession forbids me to fight."

"Then you refuse?" said the marshal, turning abruptly towards him.

"I refuse."

"Positively?"

"Positively. Nothing on earth should force me to it."

"Nothing."

"No, sir; nothing."

"We shall see," said the marshal, as his hand fell with its full force on
the cheek of Father d'Aigrigny.

The Jesuit uttered a cry of fury; all his blood rushed to his face, so
roughly handled; the courage of the man (for he was brave), his ancient
military ardor, carried him away; his eyes sparkled, and, with teeth
firmly set, and clenched fists, he advanced towards the marshal,
exclaiming: "The swords! the swords!"

But suddenly, remembering the appearance of Rodin, and the interest which
the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to avoid
the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered
sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.

To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing to
play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head and
beating his bosom, repeated: "Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a
movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!"

In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit's voice was neatly
agitated. He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before
in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such an
insult. He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious
mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were
he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but give
way to his impetuous feelings. On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and on
hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in his
hand, shook with indignation.

"Stand up, scoundrel!" he said, "stand up, wretch!" And he spurned the
Jesuit with his boot.

At this new insult, Father d'Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved
by steel springs. It was too much; he could bear no more. Blinded with
rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed,
grinding his teeth together: "Ah! you will have blood. Well then! it
shall be yours--if possible!"

And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his
large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease
and skill of a finished swordsman.

"At last!" cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.

But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit. He
remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin,
whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than the
marshal. Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him, in spite of
his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and healthy did he
feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief on the
constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his rage, and,
to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his sword,
exclaiming: "I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed blood.
Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also."

Then placing the blade beneath his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly
towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces. The duel was no longer
possible. Father d'Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to yield to a
new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger. Marshal Simon
remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise and
indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible. But,
suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also under
his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about
eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled it round
the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father d'Aigrigny:
"Then we will fight with daggers."

Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:
"Is this then a demon of hell?"

"No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered," said the
marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and a
tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.

The Jesuit saw that tear. There was in this mixture of vindictive rage
and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the
first time in his life Father d'Aigrigny felt fear--cowardly, ignoble
fear--fear for his own safety. While a combat with swords was in
question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful
auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the ardor
of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body to body,
face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and exclaimed: "A
butchery with knives?--never!"

His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal
himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:
"After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or the vanity
of a fencer. This pitiful renegade--this traitor to his country--whom I
have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble marquis!--shame of your
ancient house--disgrace to the rank of gentleman, old or new--ah! it is
not hypocrisy, it is not calculation, as I at first thought--it is fear!
You need the noise of war, and the eyes of spectators to give you
courage--"

"Sir--have a care!" said Father d'Aigrigny, stammering through his
clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-"Must I
then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your
face?" cried the exasperated marshal.

"Oh! this is too much! too much!" said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed
piece of the blade that lay at his feet.

"It is not enough!" said the marshal, panting for breath. "There, Judas!"
and he spat in his face.

"If you will not fight now," added the marshal, "I will beat you like a
dog, base child-murderer!"

On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already
insulted man, Father d'Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot his
interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only the
frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced in the
prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength promised
success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this kind of
brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage.
In an instant, Father d'Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the
broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with
intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle
lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a
devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants,
mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been present
at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how
they dealt their blows. He would have seen two heads--frightful, livid,
convulsed--rising, falling, now here, now there--arms, now stiff as bars
of iron, and now twisting like serpents--and, in the midst of the
undulation of the blue coat of the marshal and the black cassock of the
Jesuit, from time to time the sudden gleam of the steel. He would have
heard only a dull stamping, and now and then a deep breath. In about two
minutes at most, the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other.
One of them--it was Father d'Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself
with a violent effort, and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell
powerless by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal murmured:
"My children! Dagobert!"

"I have killed him," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a weak voice; "but I
feel--that I am wounded--to death."

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to his
bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the blades,
which had served for the combat, being triangular and very sharp, the
blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing inwards.

"Oh! I die--I choke," said Father d'Aigrigny, whose features were already
changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the
threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet
voice: "May I come in?"

At this dreadful irony, Father d'Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon
Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.

"Monster of hell!" he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of
rage and agony. "Thou art the cause of my death."

"I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would
be fatal to you," answered Rodin with a frightful smile. "Only a few days
ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from this
old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which is
well--for the Scripture says: 'All they that take the sword shall perish
with the sword.' And then this Marshal Simon might have had some claim on
his daughter's inheritance. And, between ourselves, my dear father, what
was I to do? It was necessary to sacrifice you for the common interest;
the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for me to-morrow. But
I am not so easily caught napping."