The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


This kind of savage eloquence made a deep impression on the negro and the
Indian, over whom Faringhea generally exercised considerable influence,
his intellectual powers being very superior to theirs, though they were
themselves two of the most eminent chiefs of this bloody association.
"Yes, you are right, brother!" cried the Indian, sharing the enthusiasm
of Faringhea; "the world is ours. Even here, in Java, let us leave some
trace of our passage. Before we depart, let us establish the good work in
this island; it will increase quickly, for here also is great misery, and
the Dutch are rapacious as the English. Brother, I have seen in the
marshy rice-fields of this island, always fatal to those who cultivate
them, men whom absolute want forced to the deadly task--they were livid
as corpses--some of them worn out with sickness, fatigue, and hunger,
fell--never to rise again. Brothers, the good work will prosper in this
country!"

"The other evening," said the half-caste, "I was on the banks of the
lake, behind a rock; a young woman came there--a few rags hardly covered
her lean and sun-scorched body--in her arms she held a little child,
which she pressed weeping to her milkless breast. She kissed it three
times, and said to it: 'You, at least, shall not be so unhappy as your
father'--and she threw it into the lake. It uttered one wail, and
disappeared. On this cry, the alligators, hidden amongst the reeds,
leaped joyfully into the water. There are mothers here who kill their
children out of pity.--Brothers, the good work will prosper in this
country!"

"This morning," said the negro, "whilst they tore the flesh of one of his
black slaves with whips, a withered old merchant of Batavia left his
country-house to come to the town. Lolling in his palanquin, he received,
with languid indolence, the sad caresses of two of those girls, whom he
had bought, to people his harem, from parents too poor to give them food.
The palanquin, which held this little old man, and the girls, was carried
by twelve young and robust men. There are here, you see, mothers who in
their misery sell their own daughters--slaves that are scourged--men that
carry other men, like beasts of burden.--Brothers, the good work will
prosper in this country!"

"Yes, in this country--and in every land of oppression, distress,
corruption, and slavery."

"Could we but induce Djalma to join us, as Mahal the Smuggler advised,"
said the Indian, "our voyage to Java would doubly profit us; for we
should then number among our band this brave and enterprising youth, who
has so many motives to hate mankind."

"He will soon be here; let us envenom his resentments."

"Remind him of his father's death!"

"Of the massacre of his people!"

"His own captivity!"

"Only let hatred inflame his heart, and he will be ours."

The negro, who had remained for some time lost in thought, said suddenly:
"Brothers, suppose Mahal the Smuggler were to betray us?"

"He" cried the Hindoo, almost with indignation; "he gave us an asylum on
board his bark; he secured our flight from the Continent; he is again to
take us with him to Bombay, where we shall find vessels for America,
Europe, Africa."

"What interest would Mahal have to betray us?" said Faringhea. "Nothing
could save him from the vengeance of the sons of Bowanee, and that he
knows."

"Well," said the black, "he promised to get Djalma to come hither this
evening, and, once amongst us, he must needs be our own."

"Was it not the Smuggler who told us to order the Malay to enter the
ajoupa of Djalma, to surprise him during his sleep, and, instead of
killing him as he might have done, to trace the name of Bowanee upon his
arm? Djalma will thus learn to judge of the resolution, the cunning and
obedience of our brethren, and he will understand what he has to hope or
fear from such men. Be it through admiration or through terror, he must
become one of us."

"But if he refuses to join us, notwithstanding the reasons he has to hate
mankind?"

"Then--Bowanee will decide his fate," said Faringhea, with a gloomy look;
"I have my plan."

"But will the Malay succeed in surprising Djalma during his sleep?" said
the negro.

"There is none nobler, more agile, more dexterous, than the Malay," said
Faringhea. "He once had the daring to surprise in her den a black
panther, as she suckled her cub. He killed the dam, and took away the
young one, which he afterwards sold to some European ship's captain."

"The Malay has succeeded!" exclaimed the Indian, listening to a singular
kind of hoot, which sounded through the profound silence of the night and
of the woods.

"Yes, it is the scream of the vulture seizing its prey," said the negro,
listening in his turn; "it is also the signal of our brethren, after they
have seized their prey."

In a few minutes, the Malay appeared at the door of the hut. He had wound
around him a broad length of cotton, adorned with bright colored stripes.

"Well," said the negro, anxiously; "have you succeeded?"

"Djalma must bear all his life the mark of the good work," said the
Malay, proudly. "To reach him, I was forced to offer up to Bowanee a man
who crossed my path--I have left his body under the brambles, near the
ajoupa. But Djalma is marked with the sign. Mahal the Smuggler was the
first to know it."

"And Djalma did not awake?" said the Indian, confounded by the Malay's
adroitness.

"Had he awoke," replied the other, calmly, "I should have been a dead
man--as I was charged to spare his life."

"Because his life may be more useful to us than his death," said the
half-caste. Then, addressing the Malay, he added: "Brother, in risking
life for the good work, you have done to-day what we did yesterday, what
we may do again to-morrow. This time, you obey; another you will
command."

"We all belong to Bowanee," answered the Malay. "What is there yet to
do?--I am ready." Whilst he thus spoke, his face was turned towards the
door of the hut; on a sudden, he said in a low voice: "Here is Djalma. He
approaches the cabin. Mahal has not deceived us."

"He must not see me yet," said Faringhea, retiring to an obscure corner
of the cabin, and hiding himself under a mat; "try to persuade him. If he
resists--I have my project."

Hardly had Faringhea disappeared, saying these words, when Djalma arrived
at the door of the hovel. At sight of those three personages with their
forbidding aspect, Djalma started in surprise. But ignorant that these
men belonged to the Phansegars, and knowing that, in a country where
there are no inns, travellers often pass the night under a tent, or
beneath the shelter of some ruins, he continued to advance towards them.
After the first moment, he perceived by the complexion and the dress of
one of these men, that he was an Indian, and he accosted him in the
Hindoo language: "I thought to have found here a European--a Frenchman--"

"The Frenchman is not yet come," replied the Indian; "but he will not be
long."

Guessing by Djalma's question the means which Mahal had employed to draw
him into the snare, the Indian hoped to gain time by prolonging his
error.

"You knew this Frenchman?" asked Djalma of the Phansegar.

"He appointed us to meet here, as he did you," answered the Indian.

"For what?" inquired Djalma, more and more astonished.

"You will know when he arrives."

"General Simon told you to be at this place?"

"Yes, General Simon," replied the Indian.

There was a moment's pause, during which Djalma sought in vain to explain
to himself this mysterious adventure. "And who are you?" asked he, with a
look of suspicion; for the gloomy silence of the Phansegar's two
companions, who stared fixedly at each other, began to give him some
uneasiness.

"We are yours, if you will be ours," answered the Indian.

"I have no need of you--nor you of me."

"Who knows?"

"I know it."

"You are deceived. The English killed your father, a king; made you a
captive; proscribed you, you have lost all your possessions."

At this cruel reminder, the countenance of Djalma darkened. He started,
and a bitter smile curled his lip. The Phansegar continued:

"Your father was just and brave--beloved by his subjects--they called him
'Father of the Generous,' and he was well named. Will you leave his death
unavenged? Will the hate, which gnaws at your heart, be without fruit?"

"My father died with arms in his hand. I revenged his death on the
English whom I killed in war. He, who has since been a father to me, and
who fought also in the same cause, told me, that it would now be madness
to attempt to recover my territory from the English. When they gave me my
liberty, I swore never again to set foot in India--and I keep the oaths I
make."

"Those who despoiled you, who took you captive, who killed your
father--were men. Are there not other men, on whom you can avenge
yourself! Let your hate fall upon them!"

"You, who speak thus of men, are not a man!"

"I, and those who resemble me, are more than men. We are, to the rest of
the human race, what the bold hunter is to the wild beasts, which they
run down in the forest. Will you be, like us, more than a man? Will you
glut surely, largely, safely--the hate which devours your heart, for all
the evil done you?"

"Your words become more and more obscure: I have no hatred in my heart,"
said Djalma. "When an enemy is worthy of me, I fight with him; when he is
unworthy, I despise him. So that I have no hate--either for brave men or
cowards."

"Treachery!" cried the negro on a sudden, pointing with rapid gesture to
the door, for Djalma and the Indian had now withdrawn a little from it,
and were standing in one corner of the hovel.

At the shout of the negro, Faringhea, who had not been perceived by
Djalma, threw off abruptly the mat which covered him, drew his crease,
started up like a tiger, and with one bound was out of the cabin. Then,
seeing a body of soldiers advancing cautiously in a circle, he dealt one
of them a mortal stroke, threw down two others, and disappeared in the
midst of the ruins. All this passed so instantaneously, that, when Djalma
turned round, to ascertain the cause of the negro's cry of alarm,
Faringhea had already disappeared.

The muskets of several soldiers, crowding to the door, were immediately
pointed at Djalma and the three Stranglers, whilst others went in pursuit
of Faringhea. The negro, the Malay, and the Indian, seeing the
impossibility of resistance, exchanged a few rapid words, and offered
their hands to the cords, with which some of the soldiers had provided
themselves.

The Dutch captain, who commanded the squad, entered the cabin at this
moment. "And this other one?" said he, pointing out Djalma to the
soldiers, who were occupied in binding the three Phansegars.

"Each in his turn, captain!" said an old sergeant. "We come to him next."

Djalma had remained petrified with surprise, not understanding what was
passing round him; but, when he saw the sergeant and two soldiers
approach with ropes to bind him, he repulsed them with violent
indignation, and rushed towards the door where stood the officer. The
soldiers, who had supposed that Djalma would submit to his fate with the
same impassibility as his companions, were astounded by this resistance,
and recoiled some paces, being struck in spite of themselves, with the
noble and dignified air of the son of Kadja-sing.

"Why would you bind me like these men?" cried Djalma, addressing himself
in Hindostanee to the officer, who understood that language from his long
service in the Dutch colonies.

"Why would we bind you, wretch?--because you form part of this band of
assassins. What?" added the officer in Dutch, speaking to the soldiers,
"are you afraid of him?--Tie the cord tight about his wrists; there will
soon be another about his neck."

"You are mistaken," said Djalma, with a dignity and calmness which
astonished the officer; "I have hardly been in this place a quarter of an
hour--I do not know these men. I came here to meet a Frenchman."

"Not a Phansegar like them?--Who will believe the falsehood?"

"Them!" cried Djalma, with so natural a movement and expression of
horror, that with a sign the officer stopped the soldiers, who were again
advancing to bind the son of Kadja-sing; "these men form part of that
horrible band of murderers! and you accuse me of being their
accomplice!--Oh, in this case, sir! I am perfectly at ease," said the
young man, with a smile of disdain.

"It will not be sufficient to say that you are tranquil," replied the
officer; "thanks to their confessions, we now know by what mysterious
signs to recognize the Thugs."

"I repeat, sir, that I hold these murderers in the greatest horror, and
that I came here--"

The negro, interrupting Djalma, said to the officer with a ferocious joy:
"You have hit it; the sons of the good work do know each other by marks
tattooed on their skin. For us, the hour has come--we give our necks to
the cord. Often enough have we twined it round the necks of those who
served not with us the good work. Now, look at our arms, and look at the
arms of this youth!"

The officer, misinterpreting the words of the negro, said to Djalma: "It
is quite clear, that if, as this negro tells us, you do not bear on your
arm the mysterious symbol--(we are going to assure ourselves of the
fact), and if you can explain your presence here in a satisfactory
manner, you may be at liberty within two hours."

"You do not understand me," said the negro to the officer; "Prince Djalma
is one of us, for he bears on his left arm the name of Bowanee."

"Yes! he is like us, a son of Kale!" added the Malay.

"He is like us, a Phansegar," said the Indian.

The three men, irritated at the horror which Djalma had manifested on
learning that they were Phansegars, took a savage pride in making it
believed that the son of Kadja-sing belonged to their frightful
association.

"What have you to answer?" said the officer to Djalma. The latter again
gave a look of disdainful pity, raised with his right hand his long, wide
left sleeve, and displayed his naked arm.

"What audacity!" cried the officer, for on the inner part of the fore
arm, a little below the bend, the name of the Bowanee, in bright red
Hindoo characters, was distinctly visible. The officer ran to the Malay,
and uncovered his arm; he saw the same word, the same signs. Not yet
satisfied, he assured himself that the negro and the Indian were likewise
so marked.

"Wretch!" cried he, turning furiously towards Djalma; "you inspire even
more horror than your accomplices. Bind him like a cowardly assassin,"
added he to the soldiers; "like a cowardly assassin, who lies upon the
brink of the grave, for his execution will not be long delayed."

Struck with stupor, Djalma, who for some moments had kept his eye riveted
on the fatal mark, was unable to pronounce a word, or make the least
movement: his powers of thought seemed to fail him, in presence of this
incomprehensible fact.

"Would you dare deny this sign?" said the officer to him, with
indignation.

"I cannot deny what I see--what is," said Djalma, quite overcome.

"It is lucky that you confess at last," replied the officer. "Soldiers,
keep watch over him and his accomplices--you answer for them."

Almost believing himself the sport of some wild dream. Djalma offered no
resistance, but allowed himself to be bound and removed with mechanical
passiveness. The officer, with part of his soldiers, hoped still to
discover Faringhea amongst the ruins; but his search was vain, and, after
spending an hour in fruitless endeavors, he set out for Batavia, where
the escort of the prisoners had arrived before him.

Some hours after these events, M. Joshua van Dael thus finished his long
despatch, addressed to M. Rodin, of Paris:

"Circumstances were such, that I could not act otherwise; and, taking all
into consideration, it is a very small evil for a great good. Three
murderers are delivered over to justice, and the temporary arrest of
Djalma will only serve to make his innocence shine forth with redoubled
luster.

"Already this morning I went to the governor, to protest in favor of our
young prince. 'As it was through me,' I said, 'that those three great
criminals fell into the hands of the authorities, let them at least show
me some gratitude, by doing everything to render clear as day the
innocence of Prince Djalma, so interesting by reason of his misfortunes
and noble qualities. Most certainly,' I added, 'when I came yesterday to
inform the governor, that the Phansegars would be found assembled in the
ruins of Tchandi, I was far from anticipating that any one would confound
with those wretches the adopted son of General Simon, an excellent man,
with whom I have had for some time the most honorable relations. We must,
then, at any cost, discover the inconceivable mystery that has placed
Djalma in this dangerous position;' and, I continued, 'so convinced am I
of his innocence, that, for his own sake, I would not ask for any favor
on his behalf. He will have sufficient courage and dignity to wait
patiently in prison for the day of justice.' In all this, you see, I
spoke nothing but the truth, and had not to reproach myself with the
least deception, for nobody in the world is more convinced than I am of
Djalma's innocence.

"The governor answered me as I expected, that morally he felt as certain
as I did of the innocence of the young prince, and would treat him with
all possible consideration; but that it was necessary for justice to have
its course, because it would be the only way of demonstrating the
falsehood of the accusation, and discovering by what unaccountable
fatality that mysterious sign was tattooed upon Djalma's arm.

"Mahal the Smuggler, who alone could enlighten justice on this subject,
will in another hour have quitted Batavia, to go on board the 'Ruyter,'
which will take him to Egypt; for he has a note from me to the captain,
to certify that he is the person for whom I engaged and paid the passage.
At the same time, he will be the bearer of this long despatch, for the
'Ruyter' is to sail in an hour, and the last letter-bag for Europe was
made up yesterday evening. But I wished to see the governor this morning,
before closing the present.

"Thus, then, is Prince Djalma enforced detained for a month, and, this
opportunity of the 'Ruyter' once lost, it is materially impossible that
the young Indian can be in France by the 13th of next February. You see,
therefore, that, even as you ordered, so have I acted according to the
means at my disposal--considering only the end which justifies them--for
you tell me a great interest of the society is concerned.

"In your hands, I have been what we all ought to be in the hands of our
superiors--a mere instrument: since, for the greater glory of God, we
become corpses with regard to the will.[7] Men may deny our unity and
power, and the times appear opposed to us; but circumstances only change;
we are ever the same.

"Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft and audacity, union
and devotion--these become us, who have the world for our country, our
brethren for family, Rome for our Queen!

"J. V."

About ten o'clock in the morning, Mahal the Smuggler set out with this
despatch (sealed) in his possession, to board the "Ruyter." An hour
later, the dead body of this same Mahal, strangled by Thuggee, lay
concealed beneath some reeds on the edge of a desert strand, whither he
had gone to take boat to join the vessel.

When at a subsequent period, after the departure of the steamship, they
found the corpse of the smuggler, M. Joshua sought in vain for the
voluminous packet, which he had entrusted to his care. Neither was there
any trace of the note which Mahal was to have delivered to the captain of
the "Ruyter," in order to be received as passenger.

Finally, the searches and bushwhacking ordered throughout the country for
the purpose of discovering Faringhea, were of no avail. The dangerous
chief of the Stranglers was never seen again in Java.

[7] It is known that the doctrine of passive and absolute obedience, the
main-spring of the Society of Jesus, is summed up in those terrible words
of the dying Loyola: "Every member of the Order shall be, in the hands of
his superiors, even as a corpse (Perinde ac Cadaver)."--E. S.




CHAPTER XXIII.

M. RODIN.

Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown into Batavia Prison
accused of belonging to the murderous gang of Megpunnas. The following
scene takes place in France, at the commencement of the month of
February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal habitation
standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy, not far from Saint Valery, a
dangerous coast on which almost every year many ships are totally
wrecked, being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render the
navigation of the Channel so perilous.

From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling of a violent
tempest, which has arisen during the night; a frequent formidable noise,
like the discharge of artillery, thunders in the distance, and is
repeated by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking with fury
against the high rocks which are overlooked by the ancient Manor House.

It is about seven o'clock in the morning. Daylight is not yet visible
through the windows of a large room situated on the ground-floor. In this
apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman of about sixty years of
age, with a simple and honest countenance, dressed as a rich farmer's
wife of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work,
notwithstanding the early hour. Close by, the husband of this woman,
about the same age as herself, is seated at a large table, sorting and
putting up in bags divers samples of wheat and oats. The face of this
white-haired man is intelligent and open, announcing good sense and
honesty, enlivened by a touch of rustic humor; he wears a shooting-jacket
of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather, which half
conceal his black velveteen breeches.

The terrible storm which rages without renders still more agreeable the
picture of this peaceful interior. A rousing fire burns in a broad
chimney-place faced with white marble, and throws its joyous light on the
carefully polished floor; nothing can be more cheerful than the old
fashioned chintz hangings and curtains with red Chinese figures upon a
white ground, and the panels over the door painted with pastoral scenes
in the style of Watteau. A clock of Sevres china, and rosewood furniture
inlaid with green--quaint and portly furniture, twisted into all sorts of
grotesque shapes--complete the decorations of this apartment.

Out-doors, the gale continued to howl furiously, and sometimes a gust of
wind would rush down the chimney, or shake the fastenings of the windows.
The man who was occupied in sorting the samples of grain was M. Dupont,
bailiff of Cardoville manor.

"Holy Virgin!" said his wife; "what dreadful weather, my dear! This M.
Rodin, who is to come here this morning, as the Princess de Saint
Dizier's steward announced to us, picked out a very bad day for it."

"Why, in truth, I have rarely heard such a hurricane. If M. Rodin has
never seen the sea in its fury, he may feast his eyes to-day with the
sight."

"What can it be that brings this M. Rodin, my dear?"

"Faith! I know nothing about it. The steward tells me in his letter to
show M. Rodin the greatest attention, and to obey him as if he were my
master. It will be for him to explain himself, and for me to execute his
orders, since he comes on the part of the princess."

"By rights he should come from Mademoiselle Adrienne, as the land belongs
to her since the death of the duke her father."

"Yes; but the princess being aunt to the young lady, her steward manages
Mademoiselle Adrienne's affairs--so whether one or the other, it amounts
to the same thing."

"May be M. Rodin means to buy the estate. Though, to be sure, that stout
lady who came from Paris last week on purpose to see the chateau appeared
to have a great wish for it."

At these words the bailiff began to laugh with a sly look.

"What is there to laugh at, Dupont?" asked his wife, a very good
creature, but not famous for intelligence or penetration.

"I laugh," answered Dupont, "to think of the face and figure of that
enormous woman: with such a look, who the devil would call themselves
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe--Mrs. Holy Dove? A pretty saint, and a pretty
dove, truly! She is round as a hogshead, with the voice of a town-crier;
has gray moustachios like an old grenadier, and without her knowing it, I
heard her say to her servant: 'Stir your stumps, my hearty!'--and yet she
calls herself Sainte-Colombe!"

"How hard on her you are, Dupont; a body don't choose one's name. And, if
she has a beard, it is not the lady's fault."

"No--but it is her fault to call herself Sainte-Colombe. Do you imagine
it her true name? Ah, my poor Catherine, you are yet very green in some
things."

"While you, my poor Dupont, are well read in slander! This lady seems
very respectable. The first thing she asked for on arriving was the
chapel of the Castle, of which she had heard speak. She even said that
she would make some embellishments in it; and, when I told her we had no
church in this little place, she appeared quite vexed not to have a
curate in the village."