The Wandering Jew, Complete

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CHAPTER XIX

THE SMUGGLER

The tempest of the morning has long been over. The sun is verging towards
the horizon. Some hours have elapsed, since the Strangler introduced
himself into Djalma's cabin, and tattooed him with a mysterious sign
during his sleep.

A horseman advances rapidly down a long avenue of spreading trees.
Sheltered by the thick and verdant arch, a thousand birds salute the
splendid evening with songs and circlings; red and green parrots climb,
by help of their hooked beaks, to the top of pink-blossomed acacias;
large Morea birds of the finest and richest blue, whose throats and long
tails change in the light to a golden brown, are chasing the prince
oriels, clothed in their glossy feathers of black and orange; Kolo doves,
of a changeable violet hue, are gently cooing by the side of the birds of
paradise, in whose brilliant plumage are mingled the prismatic colors of
the emerald and ruby, the topaz and sapphire.

This avenue, a little raised, commanded a view of a small pond, which
reflected at intervals the green shade of tamarind trees. In the calm,
limpid waters, many fish were visible, some with silver scales and purple
fins, others gleaming with azure and vermilion; so still were they that
they looked as if set in a mass of bluish crystal, and, as they dwelt
motionless near the surface of the pool, on which played a dazzling ray
of the sun, they revelled in the enjoyment of the light and heat. A
thousand insects--living gems, with wings of flame--glided, fluttered and
buzzed over the transparent wave, in which, at an extraordinary depth,
were mirrored the variegated tints of the aquatic plants on the bank.

It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the exuberant nature of this
scene, luxuriant in the sunlight, colors, and perfumes, which served, so
to speak, as a frame to the young and brilliant rider, who was advancing
along the avenue. It was Djalma. He had not yet perceived the indelible
marks, which the Strangler had traced upon his left arm.

His Japanese mare, of slender make, full of fire and vigor, is black as
night. A narrow red cloth serves instead of saddle. To moderate the
impetuous bounds of the animal, Djalma uses a small steel bit, with
headstall and reins of twisted scarlet silk, fine as a thread.

Not one of those admirable riders, sculptured so masterly on the frieze
of the Parthenon, sits his horse more gracefully and proudly than this
young Indian, whose fine face, illumined by the setting sun, is radiant
with serene happiness; his eyes sparkle with joy, and his dilated
nostrils and unclosed lips inhale with delight the balmy breeze, that
brings to him the perfume of flowers and the scent of fresh leaves, for
the trees are still moist from the abundant rain that fell after the
storm.

A red cap, similar to that worn by the Greeks, surmounting the black
locks of Djalma, sets off to advantage the golden tint of his complexion;
his throat is bare; he is clad in his robe of white muslin with large
sleeves, confined at the waist by a scarlet sash; very full drawers, in
white cotton stuff, leave half uncovered his tawny and polished legs;
their classic curve stands out from the dark sides of the horse, which he
presses tightly between his muscular calves. He has no stirrups; his
foot, small and narrow, is shod with a sandal of morocco leather.

The rush of his thoughts, by turns impetuous and restrained, was
expressed in some degree by the pace he imparted to his horse--now bold
and precipitate, like the flight of unbridled imagination--now calm and
measured, like the reflection which succeeds an idle dream. But, in all
this fantastic course, his least movements were distinguished by a proud,
independent and somewhat savage grace.

Dispossessed of his paternal territory by the English, and at first
detained by them as a state-prisoner after the death of his father--who
(as M. Joshua Van Dael had written to M. Rodin) had fallen sword in
hand--Djalma had at length been restored to liberty. Abandoning the
continent of India, and still accompanied by General Simon, who had
lingered hard by the prison of his old friend's son, the young Indian
came next to Batavia, the birthplace of his mother, to collect the modest
inheritance of his maternal ancestors. And amongst this property, so long
despised or forgotten by his father, he found some important papers, and
a medal exactly similar to that worn by Rose and Blanche.

General Simon was not more surprised than pleased at this discovery,
which not only established a tie of kindred between his wife and Djalma's
mother, but which also seemed to promise great advantages for the future.
Leaving Djalma at Batavia, to terminate some business there, he had gone
to the neighboring island of Sumatra, in the hope of finding a vessel
that would make the passage to Europe directly and rapidly; for it was
now necessary that, cost what it might, the young Indian also should be
at Paris on the 13th February, 1832. Should General Simon find a vessel
ready to sail for Europe, he was to return immediately, to fetch Djalma;
and the latter, expecting him daily, was now going to the pier of
Batavia, hoping to see the father of Rose and Blanche arrive by the mail
boat from Sumatra.

A few words are here necessary on the early life of the son of Kadja
sing.

Having lost his mother very young, and brought up with rude simplicity,
he had accompanied his father, whilst yet a child, to the great tiger
hunts, as dangerous as battles; and, in the first dawn of youth, he had
followed him to the stern bloody war, which he waged in defence of his
country. Thus living, from the time of his mother's death, in the midst
of forests and mountains and continual combats, his vigorous and
ingenuous nature had preserved itself pure, and he well merited the name
of "The Generous" bestowed on him. Born a prince, he was--which by no
means follows--a prince indeed. During the period of his captivity, the
silent dignity of his bearing had overawed his jailers. Never a reproach,
never a complaint--a proud and melancholy calm was all that he opposed to
a treatment as unjust as it was barbarous, until he was restored to
freedom.

Having thus been always accustomed to a patriarchal life, or to a war of
mountaineers, which he had only quitted to pass a few months in prison,
Djalma knew nothing, so to speak, of civilized society. Without its
exactly amounting to a defect, he certainly carried his good qualities to
their extreme limits. Obstinately faithful to his pledged word, devoted
to the death, confiding to blindness, good almost to a complete
forgetfulness of himself, he was inflexible towards ingratitude,
falsehood, or perfidy. He would have felt no compunction to sacrifice a
traitor, because, could he himself have committed a treason, he would
have thought it only just to expiate it with his life.

He was, in a word, the man of natural feelings, absolute and entire. Such
a man, brought into contact with the temperaments, calculations,
falsehoods, deceptions, tricks, restrictions, and hollowness of a refined
society, such as Paris, for example, would, without doubt, form a very
curious subject for speculation. We raise this hypothesis, because, since
his journey to France had been determined on, Djalma had one fixed,
ardent desire--to be in Paris.

In Paris--that enchanted city--of which, even in Asia, the land of
enchantment, so many marvelous tales were told.

What chiefly inflamed the fresh, vivid imagination of the young Indian,
was the thought of French women--those attractive Parisian beauties,
miracles of elegance and grace, who eclipsed, he was informed, even the
magnificence of the capitals of the civilized world. And at this very
moment, in the brightness of that warm and splendid evening, surrounded
by the intoxication of flowers and perfumes, which accelerated the pulses
of his young fiery heart, Djalma was dreaming of those exquisite
creatures, whom his fancy loved to clothe in the most ideal garbs.

It seemed to him as if, at the end of the avenue, in the midst of that
sheet of golden light, which the trees encompassed with their full, green
arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a host of
adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tips of
their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carried away
by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep, manly,
and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him in the
excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the dark vault
of the avenue, shone full upon him.

For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,
which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stopped
a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It was indeed
a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling lustre,
this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white and
flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare, who
covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick mane
floated on the evening breeze.

But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma
soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.
He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed the
reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly stopping,
stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the direction of the
personage, whom it could see approaching through the coppice.

This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.
He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a very
low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-marked features,
and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.

In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. "You are Prince
Djalma?" said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfully
to his hat.

"What would you?" said the Indian.

"You are the son of Kadja-sing?"

"Once again, what would you?"

"The friend of General Simon?"

"General Simon?" cried Djalma.

"You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since you
expect his return from Sumatra?"

"Yes, but how do you know all this?" said the Indian looking at the
Smuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.

"Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?"

"Are you sent by him?"

"Perhaps," said Mahal, with a distrustful air. "But are you really the
son of Kadja-sing?"

"Yes, I tell you--but where have you seen General Simon?"

"If you are the son of Kadja-sing," resumed Mahal, continuing to regard
Djalma with a suspicious eye, "what is your surname?"

"My sire was called the 'Father of the Generous,'" answered the young
Indian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.

These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity of Djalma;
but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed: "You must
have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon, written from
Sumatra?"

"Yes; but why so many questions?"

"To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and to
execute the orders I have received."

"From whom?"

"From General Simon."

"But where is he?"

"When I have proof that you are Prince Djalma, I will tell you. I was
informed that you would be mounted on a black mare, with a red bridle.
But--"

"By the soul of my mother! speak what you have to say!"

"I will tell you all--if you can tell me what was the printed paper,
contained in the last letter that General Simon wrote you from Sumatra."

"It was a cutting from a French newspaper."

"Did it announce good or bad news for the general?"

"Good news--for it related that, during his absence, they had
acknowledged the last rank and title bestowed on him by the Emperor, as
they had done for others of his brothers in arms, exiled like him."

"You are indeed Prince Djalma," said the Smuggler, after a moment's
reflection. "I may speak. General Simon landed last night in Java, but on
a desert part of the coast."

"On a desert part?"

"Because he has to hide himself."

"Hide himself!" exclaimed Djalma, in amazement; "why?"

"That I don't know."

"But where is he?" asked Djalma, growing pale with alarm.

"He is three leagues hence--near the sea-shore--in the ruins of Tchandi."

"Obliged to hide himself!" repeated Djalma, and his countenance expressed
increasing surprise and anxiety.

"Without being certain, I think it is because of a duel he fought in
Sumatra," said the Smuggler, mysteriously.

"A duel--with whom?"

"I don't know--I am not at all certain on the subject. But do you know
the ruins of Tchandi?"

"Yes."

"The general expects you there; that is what he ordered me to tell you."

"So you came with him from Sumatra?"

"I was pilot of the little smuggling coaster, that landed him in the
night on a lonely beach. He knew that you went every day to the mole, to
wait for him; I was almost sure that I should meet you. He gave me
details about the letter you received from him as a proof that he had
sent me. If he could have found the means of writing, he would have
written."

"But he did not tell you why he was obliged to hide himself?"

"He told me nothing. Certain words made me suspect what I told you--a
duel."

Knowing the mettle of General Simon, Djalma thought the suspicions of the
Smuggler not unfounded. After a moment's silence he said to him: "Can you
undertake to lead home my horse? My dwelling is without the town--there,
in the midst of those trees--by the side of the new mosque. In ascending
the mountain of Tchandi, my horse would be in my way; I shall go much
faster on foot."

"I know where you live; General Simon told me. I should have gone there
if I had not met you. Give me your horse."

Djalma sprang lightly to the ground, threw the bridle to Mahal, unrolled
one end of his sash, took out a silk purse, and gave it to the Smuggler,
saying: "You have been faithful and obedient. Here!--it is a trifle--but
I have no more."

"Kadja-sing was rightly called the 'Father of the Generous,'" said the
Smuggler, bowing with respect and gratitude. He took the road to Batavia,
leading Djalma's horse. The young Indian, on the contrary, plunged into
the coppice, and, walking with great strides, he directed his course
towards the mountain, on which were the ruins of Tchandi, where he could
not arrive before night.




CHAPTER XX.

M. JOSHUA VAN DAEL.

M. Joshua Van Dael a Dutch merchant, and correspondent of M. Rodin, was
born at Batavia, the capital of the island of Java; his parents had sent
him to be educated at Pondicherry, in a celebrated religious house, long
established in that place, and belonging to the "Society of Jesus." It
was there that he was initiated into the order as "professor of the three
vows," or lay member, commonly called "temporal coadjutor."

Joshua was a man of probity that passed for stainless; of strict accuracy
in business, cold, careful, reserved, and remarkably skillful and
sagacious; his financial operations were almost always successful, for a
protecting power gave him ever in time, knowledge of events which might
advantageously influence his commercial transactions. The religious house
of Pondicherry was interested in his affairs, having charged him with the
exportation and exchange of the produce of its large possessions in this
colony.

Speaking little, hearing much, never disputing, polite in the
extreme--giving seldom, but with choice and purpose--Joshua, without
inspiring sympathy, commanded generally that cold respect, which is
always paid to the rigid moralist; for instead of yielding to the
influence of lax and dissolute colonial manners, he appeared to live with
great regularity, and his exterior had something of austerity about it,
which tended to overawe.

The following scene took place at Batavia, while Djalma was on his way to
the ruins of Tchandi in the hope of meeting General Simon.

M. Joshua had just retired into his cabinet, in which were many shelves
filled with paper boxes, and huge ledgers and cash boxes lying open upon
desks. The only window of this apartment, which was on the ground floor,
looked out upon a narrow empty court, and was protected externally by
strong iron bars; instead of glass, it was fitted with a Venetian blind,
because of the extreme heat of the climate.

M. Joshua, having placed upon his desk a taper in a glass globe, looked
at the clock. "Half-past nine," said he. "Mahal ought soon to be here."

Saying this, he went out, passing through an antechamber, opened a second
thick door, studded with nail-heads, in the Dutch fashion, cautiously
entered the court (so as not to be heard by the people in the house), and
drew back the secret bolt of a gate six feet high, formidably garnished
with iron spikes. Leaving this gate unfastened, he regained his cabinet,
after he had successively and carefully closed the two other doors behind
him.

M. Joshua next seated himself at his desk, and took from a drawer a long
letter, or rather statement, commenced some time before, and continued
day by day. It is superfluous to observe, that the letter already
mentioned, as addressed to M. Rodin, was anterior to the liberation of
Djalma and his arrival at Batavia.

The present statement was also addressed to M. Rodin, and Van Dael thus
went on with it:

"Fearing the return of General Simon, of which I had been informed by
intercepting his letters--I have already told you, that I had succeeded
in being employed by him as his agent here; having then read his letters,
and sent them on as if untouched to Djalma, I felt myself obliged, from
the pressure of the circumstances, to have recourse to extreme
measures--taking care always to preserve appearances, and rendering at
the same time a signal service to humanity, which last reason chiefly
decided me.

"A new danger imperiously commanded these measures. The steamship
'Ruyter' came in yesterday, and sails tomorrow in the course of the day.
She is to make the voyage to Europe via the Arabian Gulf; her passengers
will disembark at Suez, cross the Isthmus, and go on board another vessel
at Alexandria, which will bring them to France. This voyage, as rapid as
it is direct, will not take more than seven or eight weeks. We are now at
the end of October; Prince Djalma might then be in France by the
commencement of the month of January; and according to your instructions,
of which I know not the motive, but which I execute with zeal and
submission, his departure must be prevented at all hazards, because, you
tell me, some of the gravest interests of the Society would be
compromised, by the arrival of this young Indian in Paris before the 13th
of February. Now, if I succeed, as I hope, in making him miss this
opportunity of the 'Ruyter' it will be materially impossible for him to
arrive in France before the month of April; for the 'Ruyter' is the only
vessel which makes the direct passage, the others taking at least four or
five months to reach Europe.

"Before telling you the means which I have thought right to employ, to
detain Prince Djalma--of the success of which means I am yet
uncertain--it is well that you should be acquainted with the following
facts.

"They have just discovered, in British India, a community whose members
call themselves 'Brothers of the Good Work,' or 'Phansegars,' which
signifies simply 'Thugs' or 'Stranglers;' these murderers do not shed
blood, but strangle their victims, less for the purpose of robbing them,
than in obedience to a homicidal vocation, and to the laws of an infernal
divinity named by them 'Bowanee.'

"I cannot better give you an idea of this horrible sect, than by
transcribing here some lines from the introduction of a report by Colonel
Sleeman, who has hunted out this dark association with indefatigable
zeal. The report in question was published about two months ago. Here is
the extract; it is the colonel who speaks:

"'From 1822 to 1824, when I was charged with the magistracy and civil
administration of the district of Nersingpore, not a murder, not the
least robbery was committed by an ordinary criminal, without my being
immediately informed of it; but if any one had come and told me at this
period, that a band of hereditary assassins by profession lived in the
village of Kundelie, within about four hundred yards of my court of
justice--that the beautiful groves of the village of Mundesoor, within a
day's march of my residence, formed one of the most frightful marts of
assassination in all India--that numerous bands of 'Brothers of the Good
Work,' coming from Hindostan and the Deccan, met annually beneath these
shades, as at a solemn festival, to exercise their dreadful vocation upon
all the roads which cross each other in this locality--I should have
taken such a person for a madman, or one who had been imposed upon by
idle tales. And yet nothing could be truer; hundreds of travellers had
been buried every year in the groves of Mundesoor; a whole tribe of
assassins lived close to my door, at the very time I was supreme
magistrate of the province, and extended their devastations to the cities
of Poonah and Hyderabad. I shall never forget, when, to convince me of
the fact, one of the chiefs of the Stranglers, who had turned informer
against them, caused thirteen bodies to be dug up from the ground beneath
my tent, and offered to produce any number from the soil in the immediate
vicinity.'[5]

"These few words of Colonel Sleeman will give some idea of this dread
society, which has its laws, duties, customs, opposed to all other laws,
human and divine. Devoted to each other, even to heroism, blindly
obedient to their chiefs, who profess themselves the immediate
representatives of their dark divinity, regarding as enemies all who do
not belong to them, gaining recruits everywhere by a frightful system of
proselytising--these apostles of a religion of murder go preaching their
abominable doctrines in the shade, and spreading their immense net over
the whole of India.

"Three of their principal chiefs, and one of their adepts, flying from
the determined pursuit of the English governor-general, having succeeded
in making their escape, had arrived at the Straits of Malacca, at no
great distance from our island; a smuggler, who is also something of a
pirate, attached to their association, and by name Mahal, took them on
board his coasting vessel, and brought them hither, where they think
themselves for some time in safety--as, following the advice of the
smuggler, they lie concealed in a thick forest, in which are many ruined
temples and numerous subterranean retreats.

"Amongst these chiefs, all three remarkably intelligent, there is one in
particular, named Faringhea, whose extraordinary energy and eminent
qualities make him every way redoubtable. He is of the mixed race, half
white and Hindoo, has long inhabited towns in which are European
factories and speaks English and French very well. The other two chiefs
are a Negro and a Hindoo; the adept is a Malay.

"The smuggler, Mahal, considering that he could obtain a large reward by
giving up these three chiefs and their adept, came to me, knowing, as all
the world knows, my intimate relations with a person who has great
influence with our governor. Two days ago, he offered me, on certain
conditions, to deliver up the Negro, the half-caste, the Hindoo, and the
Malay. These conditions are--a considerable sum of money, and a free
passage on board a vessel sailing for Europe or America, in order to
escape the implacable vengeance of the Thugs.

"I joyfully seized the occasion to hand over three such murderers to
human justice, and I promised Mahal to arrange matters for him with the
governor, but also on certain conditions, innocent in themselves, and
which concerned Djalma. Should my project succeed, I will explain myself
more at length; I shall soon know the result, for I expect Mahal every
minute.

"But before I close these despatches, which are to go tomorrow by the
'Ruyter'--in which vessel I have also engaged a passage for Mahal the
Smuggler, in the event of the success of my plans--I must include in
parentheses a subject of some importance.

"In my last letter, in which I announced to you the death of Djalma's
father, and his own imprisonment by the English, I asked for some
information as to the solvency of Baron Tripeaud, banker and manufacturer
at Paris, who has also an agency at Calcutta. This information will now
be useless, if what I have just learned should, unfortunately, turn out
to be correct, and it will be for you to act according to circumstances.

"This house at Calcutta owes considerable sums both to me and our
colleague at Pondicherry, and it is said that M. Tripeaud has involved
himself to a dangerous extent in attempting to ruin, by opposition, a
very flourishing establishment, founded some time ago by M. Francois
Hardy, an eminent manufacturer. I am assured that M. Tripeaud has already
sunk and lost a large capital in this enterprise: he has no doubt done a
great deal of harm to M. Francois Hardy; but he has also, they say,
seriously compromised his own fortune--and, were he to fail, the effects
of his disaster would be very fatal to us, seeing that he owes a large
sum of money to me and to us.