The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


"Van Dael," continued Rodin, "regrets that he has not been able to prove
his zeal in this case. Supposing Prince Djalma set at liberty, or having
effected his escape, it is certain he would come to Batavia to claim his
inheritance from his mother, since he has nothing else left him in the
world. In that case, you may rely on Van Dael's devotedness. In return,
he solicits very precise information, by the next post, respecting the
fortune of M. le Baron Tripeaud, banker and manufacturer, with whom he
has business transactions."

"Answer that point evasively. Van Dael as yet has only shown zeal;
complete the information respecting Djalma from these new tidings."

Rodin wrote.

But in a few minutes his master said to him with a singular expression:

"Does not Van Dael mention General Simon in connection with Djalma's
imprisonment and his father's death?"

"He does not allude to him," said the secretary, continuing his task.

Rodin's master was silent, and paced the room.

In a few moments Rodin said to him: "I have done it."

"Go on, then."

"'NOTE, No. IV.

"'Jacques Rennepont, surnamed "Sleepinbuff," i.e. Lie naked, workman in
Baron Tripeaud's factory. This artisan is drunken, idle, noisy, and
prodigal; he is not without sense, but idleness and debauch have ruined
him. A clever agent, on whom we rely, has become acquainted with his
mistress, Cephyse Soliveau, nicknamed the Bacchanal Queen. Through her
means, the agent has formed such ties with him that he may even now be
considered beyond the reach of the interests that ought to insure his
presence in Paris on the 13th of February.

"'NOTE, No. V.

"'Gabriel Rennepont, priest of foreign missions, distant relation of the
above, but he is alike ignorant of the existence of his relative and the
relationship. An orphan foundling, he was adopted by Frances Baudoin, the
wife of a soldier going by the name Dagobert.

"'Should this soldier, contrary to expectation, reach Paris, his wife
would be a powerful means of influencing him. She is an excellent
creature, ignorant and credulous, of exemplary piety, over whom we have
long had unlimited control. She prevailed on Gabriel to take orders,
notwithstanding his repugnance.

"'Gabriel is five-and-twenty; disposition as angelic as his countenance;
rare and solid virtues; unfortunately he was brought up with his adopted
brother, Agricola, Dagobert's son. This Agricola is a poet and
workman--but an excellent workman; he is employed by M. Hardy; has
imbibed the most detestable doctrines; fond of his mother; honest,
laborious, but without religious feeling. Marked as very dangerous. This
causes his intimacy with Gabriel to be feared.

"'The latter, notwithstanding his excellent qualities, sometimes causes
uneasiness. We have even delayed confiding in him fully. A false step
might make him, too, one of the most dangerous. Much precaution must be
used then, especially till the 13th of February; since, we repeat it, on
him, on his presence in Paris at that time, depend immense hopes and
equally important interests.

"'Among other precautions, we have consented to his taking part in the
American mission, for he unites with angelic sweetness of character a
calm intrepidity and adventurous spirit which could only be satisfied by
allowing him to engage in the perilous existence of the missionaries.
Luckily, his superiors at Charlestown have received the strictest orders
not to endanger, on any account, so precious a life. They are to send him
to Paris, at least a month or two before February 13th."'

Rodin's master again interrupted him, and said: "Read the letter from
Charlestown, and see what it tells you in order to complete the
information upon this point also."

When he had read the letter, Rodin went on: "Gabriel is expected every
day from the Rocky Mountains, whither he had absolutely insisted on going
alone upon a mission."

"What imprudence!"

"He has no doubt escaped all danger, as he himself announces his speedy
return to Charlestown. As soon as he arrives, which cannot (they write)
be later than the middle of this month, he will be shipped off for
France."

"Add this to the note which concerns him," said Rodin's master.

"It is written," replied the secretary, a few moments later.

"Proceed, then," said his master. Rodin continued

"'NOTE, No. VI.
"'ADRIENNE RENNEPONT DE CARDOVILLE.

"'Distantly related (without knowing it) to Jacques Rennepont, alias
Sleepinbuff, and Gabriel Rennepont, missionary priest. She will soon be
twenty-one years of age, the most attractive person in the
world--extraordinary beauty, though red-haired--a mind remarkable for its
originality--immense fortune--all the animal instincts. The incredible
independence of her character makes one tremble for the future fate of
this young person. Happily, her appointed guardian, Baron Tripeaud (a
baron of 1829 creation, formerly agent to the late Count of Rennepont,
Duke of Cardoville), is quite in the interest, and almost in the
dependence, of the young lady's aunt. We count, with reason, upon this
worthy and respectable relative, and on the Baron Tripeaud, to oppose and
repress the singular, unheard-of designs which this young person, as
resolute as independent, does not fear to avow--and which, unfortunately,
cannot be turned to account in the interest of the affair in
question--for--"

Rodin was here interrupted by two discreet taps at the door. The
secretary rose, went to see who knocked, remained a moment without, and
then returned with two letters in his hand, saying: "The princess has
profited by the departure of a courier to--"

"Give me the letter!" cried his master, without leaving him time to
finish. "At length," he added, "I shall have news of my mother--"

He had scarcely read the first few lines of the letter, when he grew
deadly pale, and his features took an expression of painful astonishment
and poignant grief. "My mother!" he cried, "oh, heavens! my mother!"

"What misfortune has happened!" asked Rodin, with a look of alarm, as he
rose at the exclamation of his master.

"The symptoms of improvement were fallacious," replied the other,
dejectedly; "she has now relapsed into a nearly hopeless state. And yet
the doctor thinks my presence might save her, for she calls for me
without ceasing. She wishes to see me for the last time, that she may die
in peace. Oh, that wish is sacred! Not to grant it would be matricide. If
I can but arrive in time! Travelling day and night, it will take nearly
two days."

"Alas! what a misfortune!" said Rodin, wringing his hands, and raising
his eyes to heaven.

His master rang the bell violently, and said to the old servant that
opened the door: "Just put what is indispensable into the portmanteau of
my travelling-carriage. Let the porter take a cab, and go for post horses
instantly. Within an hour, I must be on the road. Mother! mother!" cried
he, as the servant departed in haste. "Not to see her again--oh, it would
be frightful!" And sinking upon a chair, overwhelmed with sorrow, he
covered his face with his hands.

This great grief was sincere--he loved tenderly his mother that divine
sentiment had accompanied him, unalterable and pure, through all the
phases of a too often guilty life.

After a few minutes, Rodin ventured to say to his master, as he showed
him the second letter: "This, also, has just been brought from M.
Duplessis. It is very important--very pressing--"

"See what it is, and answer it. I have no head for business."

"The letter is confidential," said Rodin, presenting it to his master. "I
dare not open it, as you may see by the mark on the cover."

At sight of this mark, the countenance of Rodin's master assumed an
indefinable expression of respect and fear. With a trembling hand he
broke the seal. The note contained only the following words: "Leave all
business, and without losing a minute, set out and come. M. Duplessis
will replace you. He has orders."

"Great God!" cried this man in despair. "Set out before I have seen my
mother! It is frightful, impossible--it would perhaps kill her--yes, it
would be matricide!"

Whilst he uttered these words, his eyes rested on the huge globe, marked
with red crosses. A sudden revolution seemed to take place within him; he
appeared to repent of the violence of his regrets; his face, though still
sad, became once more calm and grave. He handed the fatal letter to his
secretary, and said to him, whilst he stifled a sigh: "To be classed
under its proper number."

Rodin took the letter, wrote a number upon it, and placed it in a
particular box. After a moment's silence, his master resumed: "You will
take orders from M. Duplessis, and work with him. You will deliver to him
the note on the affair of the medals; he knows to whom to address it. You
will write to Batavia, Leipsic, and Charlestown, in the sense agreed.
Prevent, at any price, the daughters of General Simon from quitting
Leipsic; hasten the arrival of Gabriel in Paris; and should Prince Djalma
come to Batavia, tell M. Joshua Van Dael, that we count on his zeal and
obedience to keep him there."

And this man, who, while his dying mother called to him in vain, could
thus preserve his presence of mind, entered his own apartments; whilst
Rodin busied himself with the answers he had been ordered to write, and
transcribed them in cipher.

In about three quarters of an hour, the bells of the post-horses were
heard jingling without. The old servant again entered, after discreetly
knocking at the door, and said:

"The carriage is ready."

Rodin nodded, and the servant withdrew. The secretary, in his turn, went
to knock at the door of the inner room. His master appeared, still grave
and cold, but fearfully pale, and holding a letter in his hand.

"This for my mother," said he to Rodin; "you will send a courier on the
instant."

"On the instant," replied the secretary.

"Let the three letters for Leipsic, Batavia and Charlestown, leave to-day
by the ordinary channel. They are of the last importance. You know it."

Those were his last words. Executing merciless orders with a merciless
obedience, he departed without even attempting to see his mother. His
secretary accompanied him respectfully to his carriage.

"What road, sir?" asked the postilion, turning round on his saddle.

"The road to ITALY!" answered Rodin's master, with so deep a sigh that it
almost resembled a sob.

As the horses started at full gallop, Rodin made a low bow; then he
returned to the large, cold, bare apartment. The attitude, countenance,
and gait of this personage seemed to have undergone a sudden change. He
appeared to have increased in dimensions. He was no longer an automaton,
moved by the mechanism of humble obedience. His features, till now
impassible, his glance, hitherto subdued, became suddenly animated with
an expression of diabolical craft; a sardonic smile curled his thin, pale
lips, and a look of grim satisfaction relaxed his cadaverous face.

In turn, he stopped before the huge globe. In turn, he contemplated it in
silence, even as his master had done. Then, bending over it, and
embracing it, as it were, in his arms, he gloated with his reptile-eye on
it for some moments, drew his coarse finger along its polished surface,
and tapped his flat, dirty nail on three of the places dotted with red
crosses. And, whilst he thus pointed to three towns, in very different
parts of the world, he named them aloud, with a sneer.

"Leipsic--Charlestown--Batavia."

"In each of these three places," he added, "distant as they are from one
another, there exist persons who little think that here, in this obscure
street, from the recesses of this chamber, wakeful eyes are upon
them--that all their movements are followed, all their actions known--and
that hence will issue new instructions, which deeply concern them, and
which will be inexorably executed; for an interest is at stake, which may
have a powerful influence on Europe--on the world. Luckily, we have
friends at Leipsic, Charlestown, and Batavia."

This funny, old, sordid, ill-dressed man, with his livid and death-like
countenance, thus crawling over the sphere before him, appeared still
more awful than his master, when the latter, erect and haughty, had
imperiously laid his hand upon that globe, which he seemed desirous of
subjecting by the strength of his pride and courage. The one resembled
the eagle, that hovers above his prey--the other the reptile, that
envelops its victim in its inextricable folds.

After some minutes, Rodin approached his desk, rubbing his hands briskly
together, and wrote the following epistle in a cipher unknown even to his
master:

"Paris, 3/4 past 9 A.M.

"He is gone--but he hesitated!

"When he received the order, his dying mother had just summoned him to
her. He might, they told him, save her by his presence; and he exclaimed:
'Not to go to my mother would be matricide!'

"Still, he is gone--but he hesitated. I keep my eye upon him continually.
These lines will reach Rome at the same time as himself.

"P.S.--Tell the Cardinal-Prince that he may rely on me, but I hope for
his active aid in return."

When he had folded and sealed this letter, Rodin put it into his pocket.
The clock struck ten, M. Rodin's hour for breakfast. He arranged and
locked up his papers in a drawer, of which he carried away the key,
brushed his old greasy hat with his sleeve, took a patched umbrella in
his hand, and went out. [1]

Whilst these two men, in the depths of their obscure retreat, were thus
framing a plot, which was to involve the seven descendants of a race
formerly proscribed--a strange mysterious defender was planning how to
protect this family, which was also his own.

1 Having cited the excellent, courageous letters of M. Libri, and the
curious work edited by M. Paulin, it is our duty likewise to mention many
bold and conscientious writings on the subject of the "Society of Jesus,"
recently published by the elder Dupin, Michelet, Quinet, Genin, and the
Count de Saint Priest--works of high and impartial intellects, in which
the fatal theories of the order are admirably exposed and condemned. We
esteem ourselves happy, if we can bring one stone towards the erection of
the strong, and, we hope, durable embankment which these generous hearts
and noble minds are raising against the encroachments of an impure and
always menacing flood.--E. S.






THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue




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




INTERVAL.

THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.

The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with huge
boulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, their
foliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from the
background of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resembling
the reflection of a great fire.

From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady, fertile,
and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The rich meadows, the
tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe corn has been
gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint, which
contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of gray stone or
slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midst of this
valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering a high-road
which leads from the north to the west.

It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, every cottage
window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth, and shines
afar through shade and foliage, whilst clouds of smoke issue from the
chimneys, and curl up slowly towards the sky. But now, strange to say,
every hearth in the country seems cold and deserted. Stranger and more
fatal still, every steeple rings out a funeral knell. Whatever there is
of activity, movement, or life, appears concentrated in that lugubrious
and far-sounding vibration.

Lights begin to show themselves in the dark villages, but they rise not
from the cheerful and pleasant rustic hearth. They are as red as the
fires of the herdsmen, seen at night through the midst of the fog. And
then these lights do not remain motionless. They creep slowly towards the
churchyard of every village. Louder sounds the death-knell, the air
trembles beneath the strokes of so many bells, and, at rare intervals,
the funeral chant rises faintly to the summit of the hill.

Why so many interments? What valley of desolation is this, where the
peaceful songs which follow the hard labors of the day are replaced by
the death dirge? where the repose of evening is exchanged for the repose
of eternity? What is this valley of the shadow, where every village
mourns for its many dead, and buries them at the same hour of the same
night?

Alas! the deaths are so sudden and numerous and frightful that there is
hardly time to bury the dead. During day the survivors are chained to the
earth by hard but necessary toil; and only in the evening, when they
return from the fields, are they able, though sinking with fatigue, to
dig those other furrows, in which their brethren are to lie heaped like
grains of corn.

And this valley is not the only one that has seen the desolation. During
a series of fatal years, many villages, many towns, many cities, many
great countries, have seen, like this valley, their hearths deserted and
cold--have seen, like this valley, mourning take the place of joy, and
the death-knell substituted for the noise of festival--have wept in the
same day for their many dead, and buried them at night by the lurid glare
of torches.

For, during those fatal years, an awful wayfarer had slowly journeyed
over the earth, from one pole to the other--from the depths of India and
Asia to the ice of Siberia--from the ice of Siberia to the borders of the
seas of France.

This traveller, mysterious as death, slow as eternity, implacable as
fate, terrible as the hand of heaven, was the CHOLERA!

The tolling of bells and the funeral chants still rose from the depths of
the valley to the summit of the hill, like the complaining of a mighty
voice; the glare of the funeral torches was still seen afar through the
mist of evening; it was the hour of twilight--that strange hour, which
gives to the most solid forms a vague, indefinite fantastic
appearance--when the sound of firm and regular footsteps was heard on the
stony soil of the rising ground, and, between the black trunks of the
trees, a man passed slowly onward.

His figure was tall, his head was bowed upon his breast; his countenance
was noble, gentle, and sad; his eyebrows, uniting in the midst, extended
from one temple to the other, like a fatal mark on his forehead.

This man did not seem to hear the distant tolling of so many funeral
bells--and yet, a few days before, repose and happiness, health and joy,
had reigned in those villages through which he had slowly passed, and
which he now left behind him, mourning and desolate. But the traveller
continued on his way, absorbed in his own reflections.

"The 13th of February approaches," thought he; "the day approaches, in
which the descendants of my beloved sister, the last scions of our race,
should meet in Paris. Alas! it is now a hundred and fifty years since,
for the third time, persecution scattered this family over all the
earth--this family, that I have watched over with tenderness for eighteen
centuries, through all its migrations and exiles, its changes of
religion, fortune, and name!

"Oh! for this family, descended from the sister of the poor shoemaker,[2]
what grandeur and what abasement, what obscurity and what splendor, what
misery and what glory! By how many crimes has it been sullied, by how
many virtues honored! The history of this single family is the history of
the human race!

"Passing, in the course of so many generations, through the veins of the
poor and the rich, of the sovereign and the bandit, of the wise man and
the fool, of the coward and the brave, of the saint and the atheist, the
blood of my sister has transmitted itself to this hour.

"What scions of this family are now remaining? Seven only.

"Two orphans, the daughters of proscribed parents--a dethroned prince--a
poor missionary priest--a man of the middle class--a young girl of a
great name and large fortune--a mechanic.

"Together, they comprise in themselves the virtues, the courage, the
degradation, the splendor, the miseries of our species!

"Siberia--India--America--France--behold the divers places where fate has
thrown them!

"My instinct teaches me when one of them is in peril. Then, from the
North to the South, from the East to the West, I go to seek them.
Yesterday amid the polar frosts--to-day in the temperate zone--to-morrow
beneath the fires of the tropics--but often, alas! at the moment when my
presence might save them, the invisible hand impels me, the whirlwind
carries me away, and the voice speaks in my ear: 'GO ON! GO ON!'

"Oh, that I might only finish my task!--'GO ON!'--A single hour--only a
single hour of repose!--'GO ON!'--Alas! I leave those I love on the brink
of the abyss!--'GO ON! GO ON!'

"Such is my punishment. If it is great, my crime was greater still! An
artisan, devoted to privations and misery, my misfortunes had made me
cruel.

"Oh, cursed, cursed be the day, when, as I bent over my work, sullen with
hate and despair, because, in spite of my incessant labor, I and mine
wanted for everything, the Saviour passed before my door.

"Reviled, insulted, covered with blows, hardly able to sustain the weight
of his heavy cross, He asked me to let Him rest a moment on my stone
bench. The sweat poured from His forehead, His feet were bleeding, He was
well-nigh sinking with fatigue, and He said to me, in a mild, heart
piercing voice: 'I suffer!' 'And I too suffer,' I replied, as with harsh
anger I pushed Him from the place; 'I suffer, and no one comes to help
me! I find no pity, and will give none. Go on! go on!' Then, with a deep
sigh of pain, He answered, and spake this sentence: 'Verily, thou shalt
go on till the day of thy redemption, for so wills the Father which art
in heaven!'

"And so my punishment began. Too late I opened these eyes to the light,
too late I learned repentance and charity, too late I understood those
divine words of Him I had outraged, words which should be the law of the
whole human race. 'LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER.'

"In vain through successive ages, gathering strength and eloquence from
those celestial words, have I labored to earn my pardon, by filling with
commiseration and love hearts that were overflowing with envy and
bitterness, by inspiring many a soul with a sacred horror of oppression
and injustice. For me the day of mercy has not yet dawned!

"And even as the first man, by his fall, devoted his posterity to
misfortune, it would seem as if I, the workman, had consigned the whole
race of artisans to endless sorrows, and as if they were expiating my
crime: for they alone, during these eighteen centuries, have not yet been
delivered.

"For eighteen centuries, the powerful and the happy of this world have
said to the toiling people what I said to the imploring and suffering
Saviour: 'Go on! go on!' And the people, sinking with fatigue, bearing
their heavy cross, have answered in the bitterness of their grief: 'Oh,
for pity's sake! a few moments of repose; we are worn out with toil.'--Go
on!'--'And if we perish in our pain, what will become of our little
children and our aged mothers?'--'Go on! go on!' And, for eighteen
centuries, they and I have continued to struggle forward and to suffer,
and no charitable voice has yet pronounced the word 'Enough!'

"Alas! such is my punishment. It is immense, it is two-fold. I suffer in
the name of humanity, when I see these wretched multitudes consigned
without respite to profitless and oppressive toil. I suffer in the name
of my family, when, poor and wandering, I am unable to bring aid to the
descendants of my dear sister. But, when the sorrow is above my strength,
when I foresee some danger from which I cannot preserve my own, then my
thoughts, travelling over the world, go in search of that woman like me
accursed, that daughter of a queen, who, like me, the son of a laborer,
wanders, and will wander on, till the day of her redemption.[3]

"Once in a century, as two planets draw nigh to each other in their
revolutions, I am permitted to meet this woman during the dread week of
the Passion. And after this interview, filled with terrible remembrances
and boundless griefs, wandering stars of eternity, we pursue our infinite
course.