The Wandering Jew, Complete

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Wandering Jew, Complete


Night had fallen, dark and stormy. The wind rose in the midst of the
great pine-trees. Behind their black summits, through masses of dark
cloud, slowly sailed the silver disk of the moon. The invocation of the
Wandering Jewess had perhaps been heard. Suddenly, her eyes closed--with
hands clasped together, she remained kneeling in the heart of the
ruins--motionless as a statue upon a tomb. And then she had a wondrous
dream!




CHAPTER LI.

THE CALVARY.

This was the vision of Herodias: On the summit of a high, steep, rocky
mountain, there stands a cross. The sun is sinking, even as when the
Jewess herself, worn out with fatigue, entered the ruins of St. John's
Abbey. The great figure on the cross--which looks down from this Calvary,
on the mountain, and on the vast, dreary plain beyond--stands out white
and pale against the dark, blue clouds, which stretch across the heavens,
and assume a violent tint towards the horizon. There, where the setting
sun has left a long track of lurid light, almost of the hue of blood--as
far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on the surface of the
gloomy desert, covered with sand and stones, like the ancient bed of some
dried-up ocean. A silence as of death broods over this desolate tract.
Sometimes, gigantic black vultures, with red unfeathered necks, luminous
yellow eyes, stooping from their lofty flight in the midst of these
solitudes, come to make their bloody feast on the prey they have carried
off from less uncultivated regions.

How, then, did this Calvary, this place of prayer, come to be erected so
far from the abodes of men? This Calvary was prepared at a great cost by
a repentant sinner. He had done much harm to his fellow-creatures, and,
in the hope of obtaining pardon for his crimes, he had climbed this
mountain on his knees, and become a hermit, and lived there till his
death, at the foot of this cross, only sheltered by a roof of thatch, now
long since swept away by the wind. The sun is still sinking. The sky
becomes darker. The luminous lines on the horizon grow fainter and
fainter, like heated bars of iron that gradually grow cool. Suddenly, on
the eastern side of the Calvary, is heard the noise of some falling
stones, which, loosened from the side of the mountain, roll down
rebounding to its base. These stones have been loosened by the foot of a
traveller, who, after traversing the plain below, has, during the last
hour, been climbing the steep ascent. He is not yet visible--but one
hears the echo of his tread--slow, steady, and firm. At length, he
reaches the top of the mountain, and his tall figure stands out against
the stormy sky.

The traveller is pale as the great figure on the cross. On his broad
forehead a black line extends from one temple to the other. It is the
cobbler of Jerusalem. The poor artisan, who hardened by misery, injustice
and oppression, without pity for the suffering of the Divine Being who
bore the cross, repulsed him from his dwelling, and bade him: "Go ON! GO
ON! GO ON!" And, from that day, the avenging Deity has in his turn said
to the artisan of Jerusalem: "GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!"

And he has gone on, without end or rest. Nor did the divine vengeance
stop there. From time to time death has followed the steps of the
wanderer, and innumerable graves have been even as mile-stones on his
fatal path. And if ever he found periods of repose in the midst of his
infinite grief, it was when the hand of the Lord led him into deep
solitudes, like that where he now dragged his steps along. In passing
over that dreary plain, or climbing to that rude Calvary, he at least
heard no more the funeral knell, which always, always sounded behind him
in every inhabited region.

All day long, even at this hour, plunged in the black abyss of his
thoughts, following the fatal track--going whither he was guided by the
invisible hand, with head bowed on his breast, and eyes fixed upon the
ground, the wanderer had passed over the plain, and ascended the
mountain, without once looking at the sky--without even perceiving the
Calvary--without seeing the image upon the cross. He thought of the last
descendants of his race. He felt, by the sinking of his heart, that great
perils continued to threaten him. And in the bitterness of a despair,
wild and deep as the ocean, the cobbler of Jerusalem seated himself at
the foot of the cross. At this moment a farewell ray of the setting sun,
piercing the dark mass of clouds, threw a refection upon the Calvary,
vivid as a conflagration's glare. The Jew rested his forehead upon his
hand. His long hair, shaken by the evening breeze, fell over his pale
face--when sweeping it back from his brow, he started with surprise--he,
who had long ceased to wonder at anything. With eager glance he
contemplated the long lock of hair that he held between his fingers. That
hair, until now black as night, had become gray. He also, like unto
Herodias, was growing older.

His progress towards old age, stopped for eighteen hundred years, had
resumed its course. Like the Wandering Jewess, he might henceforth hope
for the rest of the grave. Throwing himself on his knees, he stretched
his hands towards heaven, to ask for the explanation of the mystery which
filled him with hope. Then, for the first time, his eyes rested on the
Crucified One, looking down upon the Calvary, even as the Wandering
Jewess had fixed her gaze on the granite eyelids of the Blessed Martyr.

The Saviour, his head bowed under the weight of his crown of thorns,
seemed from the cross to view with pity, and pardon the artisan, who for
so many centuries had felt his curse--and who, kneeling, with his body
thrown backward in an attitude of fear and supplication, now lifted
towards the crucifix his imploring hands.

"Oh, Messiah!" cried the Jew, "the avenging arm of heaven brings me back
to the foot of this heavy cross, which thou didst bear, when, stopping at
the door of my poor dwelling, thou wert repulsed with merciless
harshness, and I said unto thee: 'Go on! go on!'--After my long life of
wanderings, I am again before this cross, and my hair begins to whiten.
Oh Lord! in thy divine mercy, hast thou at length pardoned me? Have I
reached the term of my endless march? Will thy celestial clemency grant
me at length the repose of the sepulchre, which, until now, alas! has
ever fled before me?--Oh! if thy mercy should descend upon me, let it
fall likewise upon that woman, whose woes are equal to mine own! Protect
also the last descendants of my race! What will be their fate? Already,
Lord, one of them--the only one that misfortune had perverted--has
perished from the face of the earth. Is it for this that my hair grows
gray? Will my crime only be expiated when there no longer remains in this
world one member of our accursed race? Or does this proof of thy powerful
goodness, Lord, which restores me to the condition of humanity, serve
also as a sign of the pardon and happiness of my family? Will they at
length triumph over the perils which beset them? Will they, accomplishing
the good which their ancestor designed for his fellow creatures, merit
forgiveness both for themselves and me? Or will they, inexorably
condemned as the accursed scions of an accursed stock, expiate the
original stain of my detested crime?

"Oh, tell me--tell me, gracious Lord! shall I be forgiven with them, or
will they be punished with me?"

The twilight gave place to a dark and stormy night, yet the Jew continued
to pray, kneeling at the foot of the cross.




CHAPTER LII.

THE COUNCIL.

The following scene took place at Saint-Dizier House, two days after the
reconciliation of Marshal Simon with his daughters. The princess is
listening with the most profound attention to the words of Rodin. The
reverend father, according to his habit, stands leaning against the
mantelpiece, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old brown
great-coat. His thick, dirty shoes have left their mark on the ermine
hearth-rug. A deep sense of satisfaction is impressed on the Jesuit's
cadaverous countenance. Princess de Saint-Dizier, dressed with that sort
of modest elegance which becomes a mother of the church, keeps her eyes
fixed on Rodin--for the latter has completely supplanted Father
d'Aigrigny in the good graces of this pious lady. The coolness, audacity
lofty intelligence, and rough and imperious character of the ex-socius
have overawed this proud woman, and inspired her with a sincere
admiration. Even his filthy habits and often brutal repartees have their
charm for her, and she now prefers them to the exquisite politeness and
perfumed elegance of the accomplished Father d'Aigrigny.

"Yes, madame," said Rodin, in a sanctified tone, for these people do not
take off their masks even with their accomplices, "yes, madame, we have
excellent news from our house at St. Herem. M. Hardy, the infidel, the
freethinker, has at length entered the pale of the holy Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church." Rodin pronounced these last word with a nasal
twang, and the devout lady bowed her head respectfully.

"Grace has at length touched the heart of this impious man," continued
Rodin, "and so effectually that, in his ascetic enthusiasm, he has
already wished to take the vows which will bind him forever to our divine
Order."

"So soon, father?" said the princess, in astonishment.

"Our statutes are opposed to this precipitation, unless in the case of a
penitent in articulo mortis--on the very gasp of death--should such a
person consider it necessary for his salvation to die in the habit of our
Order, and leave us all his wealth for the greater glory of the Lord."

"And is M. Hardy in so dangerous a condition, father?"

"He has a violent fever. After so many successive calamities, which have
miraculously brought him into the path of salvation," said Rodin,
piously, "his frail and delicate constitution is almost broken up,
morally and physically. Austerities, macerations, and the divine joys of
ecstasy, will probably hasten his passage to eternal life, and in a few
clays," said the priest, shaking his head with a solemn air, "perhaps--"

"So soon as that, father?"

"It is almost certain. I have therefore made use of my dispensations, to
receive the dear penitent, as in articulo mortis, a member of our divine
Company, to which, in the usual course, he has made over all his
possessions, present and to come--so that now he can devote himself
entirely to the care of his soul, which will be one victim more rescued
from the claws of Satan."

"Oh, father!" cried the lady, in admiration; "it is a miraculous
conversion. Father d'Aigrigny told me how you had to contend against the
influence of Abbe Gabriel."

"The Abbe Gabriel," replied Rodin, "has been punished for meddling with
what did not concern him. I have procured his suspension, and he has been
deprived of his curacy. I hear that he now goes about the cholera
hospitals to administer Christian consolation; we cannot oppose that--but
this universal comforter is of the true heretical stamp."

"He is a dangerous character, no doubt," answered the princess, "for he
has considerable influence over other men. It must have needed all your
admirable and irresistible eloquence to combat the detestable counsels of
this Abbe Gabriel, who had taken it into his head to persuade M. Hardy to
return to the life of the world. Really, father, you are a second St.
Chrysostom."

"Tut, tut, madame!" said Rodin, abruptly, for he was very little sensible
to flattery; "keep that for others."

"I tell you that you're a second St. Chrysostom father," repeated the
princess with enthusiasm; "like him, you deserve the name of Golden
Mouth."

"Stuff, madame!" said Rodin, brutally, shrugging his shoulders; "my lips
are too pale, my teeth too black, for a mouth of gold. You must be only
joking."

"But, father--"

"No, madame, you will not catch old birds with chaff," replied Rodin,
harshly. "I hate compliments, and I never pay them."

"Your modesty must pardon me, father," said the princess, humbly; "I
could not resist the desire to express to you my admiration, for, as you
almost predicted, or at least foresaw, two members of the Rennepont
family, have, within the last few months, resigned all claim to the
inheritance."

Rodin looked at Madame de Saint-Dizier with a softened and approving air,
as he heard her thus describe the position of the two defunct claimants.
For, in Rodin's view of the case, M. Hardy, in consequence of his
donation and his suicidal asceticism, belonged no longer to this world.

The lady continued: "One of these men, a wretched artisan, has been led
to his ruin by the exaggeration of his vices. You have brought the other
into the path of salvation, by carrying out his loving and tender
qualities. Honor, then to your foresight, father! for you said that you
would make use of the passions to attain your end."

"Do not boast too soon," said Rodin, impatiently. "Have you forgotten
your niece, and the Hindoo, and the daughters of Marshal Simon? Have they
also made a Christian end, or resigned their claim to share in this
inheritance?"

"No, doubtless."

"Hence, you see, madame, we should not lose time in congratulating
ourselves on the past, but make ready for the future. The great day
approaches. The first of June is not far off. Heaven grant we may not see
the four surviving members of the family continue to live impenitent up
to that period, and so take possession of this enormous property--the
source of perdition in their hands--but productive of the glory of the
Church in the hands of our Company!"

"True, father!"

"By the way, you were to see your lawyers on the subject of your niece?"

"I have seen them, father. However uncertain may be the chance of which I
spoke, it is worth trying. I shall know to-day, I hope, if it is legally
possible."

"Perhaps then,--in the new condition of life to which she would be
reduced, we might find means to effect her conversion," said Rodin, with
a strange and hideous smile; "until now, since she has been so fatally
brought in contact with the Oriental, the happiness of these two pagans
appears bright and changeless as the diamond. Nothing bites into it, not
even Faringhea's tooth. Let us hope that the Lord will wreak justice on
their vain and guilty felicity!"

This conversation was here interrupted by Father d'Aigrigny, who entered
the room with an air of triumph, and exclaimed, "Victory!"

"What do you say"' asked the princess.

"He is gone--last night," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"Who?" said Rodin.

"Marshal Simon," replied the abbe.

"At last!" said Rodin, unable to hide his joy.

"It was no doubt his interview with General d'Havrincourt which filled up
the measure," cried the princess, "for I know he had a long conversation
with the general, who like so many others, believed the reports in
circulation. All means are good against the impious!" added the princess,
by way of moral.

"Have you any details?" asked Rodin.

"I have just left Robert," said Father d'Aigrigny. "His age and
description agree with the marshal's, and the latter travels with his
papers. Only one thing has greatly surprised your emissary."

"What is that?" said Rodin.

"Until now, he had always to contend with the hesitations of the marshal,
and had moreover noticed his gloomy and desponding air. Yesterday, on the
contrary, he found him so bright with happiness, that he could not help
asking him the cause of the alteration."

"Well?" said Rodin and the princess together, both extremely surprised.

"The marshal answered: 'I am indeed the happiest man in the world; for I
am going joyfully to accomplish a sacred duty!"

The three actors in this scene looked at each other in silence.

"And what can have produced this sudden change in the mind of the
marshal?" said the princess, with a pensive air. "We rather reckon on
sorrow and every kind of irritation to urge him to engage in this
adventurous enterprise."

"I cannot make it out," said Rodin, reflecting; "but no matter--he is
gone. We must not lose a moment, to commence operations on his daughters.
Has he taken that infernal soldier with him?"

"No," said Father d'Aigrigny; "unfortunately, he has not done so. Warned
by the past, he will redouble his precautions; and a man, whom we might
have used against him at a pinch, has just been taken with the
contagion."

"Who is that?" asked the princess.

"Morok. I could count upon him anywhere and for anything. He is lost to
us; for, should he recover from the cholera, I fear he will fall a victim
to a horrible and incurable disease."

"How so?"

"A few days ago, he was bitten by one of the mastiffs of his menagerie,
and, the next day, the dog showed symptoms of hydrophobia."

"Ah! it is dreadful," cried the princess; "and where is this unfortunate
man?"

"He has been taken to one of the temporary hospitals established in
Paris, for at present he has only been attacked with cholera. It is
doubly unfortunate, I repeat, for he was a devoted, determined fellow,
ready for anything. Now this soldier, who has the care of the orphans,
will be very difficult to get at, and yet only through him can we hope to
reach Marshal Simon's daughters."

"That is clear," said Rodin, thoughtfully.

"Particularly since the anonymous letters have again awakened his
suspicions," added Father d'Aigrigny "and--"

"Talking of the anonymous letters," said Rodin suddenly, interrupting
Father d'Aigrigny, "there is a fact that you ought to know; I will tell
you why."

"What is it?"

"Besides the letters that you know of, Marshal Simon has received a
number of others unknown to you, in which, by every possible means, it is
tried to exasperate his irritation against yourself--for they remind him
of all the reasons he has to hate you, and mock at him, because your
sacred character shelters you from his vengeance."

Father d'Aigrigny looked at Rodin with amazement, colored in spite of
himself, and said to him: "But for what purpose has your reverence acted
in this manner?"

"First of all, to clear myself of suspicion with regard to the letters;
then, to excite the rage of the marshal to madness, by incessantly
reminding him of the just grounds he has to hate you, and of the
impossibility of being avenged upon you. This, joined to the other
emotions of sorrow and anger, which ferment in the savage bosom of this
man of bloodshed, tended to urge him on to the rash enterprise, which is
the consequence and the punishment of his idolatry for a miserable
usurper."

"That may be," said Father d'Aigrigny, with an air of constraint: "but I
will observe to your reverence, that it was, perhaps, rather dangerous
thus to excite Marshal Simon against me."

"Why?" asked Rodin, as he fixed a piercing look upon Father d'Aigrigny.

"Because the marshal, excited beyond all bounds, and remembering only our
mutual hate, might seek me out--"

"Well! and what then?"

"Well! he might forget that I am a priest--"

"Oh, you are afraid are you?" said Rodin, disdainfully, interrupting
Father d'Aigrigny.

At the words: "You are afraid," the reverend father almost started from
his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered: "Your reverence is
right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should be
afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well that
I have been a soldier."

"Really?" said Rodin, with sovereign contempt. "You are still no further
than that stupid and savage point of honor? Your cassock has not yet
extinguished the warlike fire? So that if this brawling swordsman, whose
poor, weak head, empty and sonorous as a drum, is so easily turned with
the stupid jargon of 'Military honor, oaths, Napoleon II.'--if this
brawling bravo, I say, were to commit some violence against you, it would
require a great effort, I suppose, for you to remain calm?"

"It is useless, I think," said Father d'Aigrigny, quite unable to control
his agitation, "for your reverence to enter upon such questions."

"As your superior," answered Rodin, severely, "I have the right to ask.
If Marshal Simon had lifted his hand against you--"

"Sir," cried the reverend father.

"There are no sirs here--we are only priests," said Rodin, harshly.
Father d'Aigrigny held down his head, scarcely able to repress his rage.

"I ask you," continued Rodin, obstinately, "if Marshal Simon had struck
you? Is that clear?"

"Enough! in mercy," said Father d'Aigrigny, "enough!"

"Or, if you like it better, had Marshal Simon left the marks of his
fingers on your cheek?" resumed Rodin, with the utmost pertinacity.

Father d'Aigrigny, pale as death, ground his teeth in a kind of fury at
the very idea of such an insult, while Rodin, who had no doubt his object
in asking the question, raised his flabby eyelids, and seemed to watch
attentively the significant symptoms revealed in the agitated countenance
of the ex-colonel.

At length, recovering partly his presence of mind, Father d'Aigrigny
replied, in a forcedly calm tone: "If I were to be exposed to such an
insult, I would pray heaven to give me resignation and humility."

"And no doubt heaven would hear your prayers," said Rodin, coldly,
satisfied with the trial to which he had just put him. "Besides, you are
now warned, and it is not very probable," added he, with a grim smile,
"that Marshal Simon will ever return to test your humility. But if he
were to return," said Rodin, fixing on the reverend father a long and
piercing look, "you would know how to show this brutal swordsman, in
spite of all his violence, what resignation and humility there is in a
Christian soul!"

Two humble knocks at the door here interrupted the conversation for a
moment. A footman entered, bearing a large sealed packet on a salver,
which he presented to the princess. After this, he withdrew. Princess de
Saint-Dizier, having by a look asked Rodin's permission to open the
letter, began to read it--and a cruel satisfaction was soon visible on
her face.

"There is hope," cried she addressing herself to Rodin: "the demand is
rigorously legal, and the consequence may be such as we desire. In a
word, my niece may, any day, be exposed to complete destitution. She, who
is so extravagant! what a change in her life!"

"We shall then no doubt have some hold on that untamable character," said
Rodin with a meditative air; "for, till now, all has failed in that
direction, and one would suppose some kinds of happiness are
invulnerable," added the Jesuit, gnawing his flat and dirty nails.

"But, to obtain the result we desire, we must exasperate my niece's
pride. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, that I should see and talk
to her," said the Princess de Saint-Dizier, reflecting.

"Mdlle. de Cardoville will refuse this interview," said Father
d'Aigrigny.

"Perhaps," replied the princess. "But she is so happy that her audacity
must be at its height. Yes, yes--I know her--and I will write in such a
manner, that she will come."

"You think so?" asked Rodin, with a doubtful air.

"Do not fear it, father," answered the lady, "she will come. And her
pride once brought into play, we may hope a good deal from it."

"We must then act, lady," resumed Rodin; "yes, act promptly. The moment
approaches. Hate and suspicion are awake. There is not a moment to lose."

"As for hate," replied the princess, "Mdlle. de Cardoville must have seen
to what her lawsuit would lead, about what she called her illegal
detention in a lunatic asylum, and that of the two young ladies in St.
Mary's Convent. Thank heaven, we have friends everywhere! I know from
good authority, that the case will break down from want of evidence, in
spite of the animosity of certain parliamentary magistrates, who shall be
well remembered."

"Under these circumstances," replied Rodin, "the departure of the marshal
gives us every latitude. We must act immediately on his daughters."

"But how?" said the princess.

"We must see them," resumed Rodin, "talk with them, study them. Then we
shall act in consequence."

"But the soldier will not leave them a second," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"Then," replied Rodin, "we must talk to them in presence of the soldier,
and get him on our side."

"That hope is idle," cried Father d'Aigrigny. "You do not know the
military honor of his character. You do not know this man."

"Don't I know him?" said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. "Did not Mdlle.
de Cardoville present me to him as her liberator, when I denounced you as
the soul of the conspiracy? Did I not restore to him his ridiculous
imperial relic--his cross of honor--when we met at Dr. Baleinier's? Did I
not bring him back the girls from the convent, and place them in the arms
of their father?"

"Yes," replied the princess; "but, since that time, my abominable niece
has either guessed or discovered all. She told you so herself, father."

"She told me, that she considered me her most mortal enemy," said Rodin.
"Be it so. But did she tell the same to the marshal? Has she ever
mentioned me to him? and if she have done so, has the marshal
communicated this circumstance to his soldier? It may be so; but it is by
no means sure; in any case. I must ascertain the fact; if the soldier
treats me as an enemy, we shall see what is next to be done--but I will
first try to be received as a friend."