The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


"Yes, my dear," replied Catherine; "but do not expose yourself."

"Kiss me--it will bring me luck," said the bailiff; and he started at a
full run, crying: "Quick! quick; by this time not a plank may remain of
the vessels."

"My dear madam," said Rodin, always impassible, "will you be obliging
enough to show me the Green Chamber?"

"Please to follow me, sir," answered Catherine, drying her tears--for she
trembled on account of her husband, whose courage she well knew.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE TEMPEST

The sea is raging. Mountainous waves of dark green, marbled with white
foam, stand out, in high, deep undulations, from the broad streak of red
light, which extends along the horizon. Above are piled heavy masses of
black and sulphurous vapor, whilst a few lighter clouds of a reddish
gray, driven by the violence of the wind, rush across the murky sky.

The pale winter sun, before he quite disappears in the great clouds,
behind which he is slowly mounting, casts here and there some oblique
rays upon the troubled sea, and gilds the transparent crest of some of
the tallest waves. A band of snow-white foam boils and rages as far as
the eye can reach, along the line of the reefs that bristle on this
dangerous coast.

Half-way up a rugged promontory, which juts pretty far into the sea,
rises Cardoville Castle; a ray of the sun glitters upon its windows; its
brick walls and pointed roofs of slate are visible in the midst of this
sky loaded with vapors.

A large, disabled ship, with mere shreds of sail still fluttering from
the stumps of broken masts, drives dead upon the coast. Now she rolls her
monstrous hull upon the waves--now plunges into their trough. A flash is
seen, followed by a dull sound, scarcely perceptible in the midst of the
roar of the tempest. That gun is the last signal of distress from this
lost vessel, which is fast forging on the breakers.

At the same moment, a steamer, with its long plume of black smoke, is
working her way from east to west, making every effort to keep at a
distance from the shore, leaving the breakers on her left. The dismasted
ship, drifting towards the rocks, at the mercy of the wind and tide, must
some time pass right ahead of the steamer.

Suddenly, the rush of a heavy sea laid the steamer upon her side; the
enormous wave broke furiously on her deck; in a second the chimney was
carried away, the paddle box stove in, one of the wheels rendered
useless. A second white-cap, following the first, again struck the vessel
amidships, and so increased the damage that, no longer answering to the
helm, she also drifted towards the shore, in the same direction as the
ship. But the latter, though further from the breakers, presented a
greater surface to the wind and sea, and so gained upon the steamer in
swiftness that a collision between the two vessels became imminent--a new
clanger added to all the horrors of the now certain wreck.

The ship was an English vessel, the "Black Eagle," homeward bound from
Alexandria, with passengers, who arriving from India and Java, via the
Red Sea, had disembarked at the Isthmus of Suez, from on board the
steamship "Ruyter." The "Black Eagle," quitting the Straits of Gibraltar,
had gone to touch at the Azores. She headed thence for Portsmouth, when
she was overtaken in the Channel by the northwester. The steamer was the
"William Tell," coming from Germany, by way of the Elbe, and bound, in
the last place, for Hamburg to Havre.

These two vessels, the sport of enormous rollers, driven along by tide
and tempest, were now rushing upon the breakers with frightful speed. The
deck of each offered a terrible spectacle; the loss of crew and
passengers appeared almost certain, for before them a tremendous sea
broke on jagged rocks, at the foot of a perpendicular cliff.

The captain of the "Black Eagle," standing on the poop, holding by the
remnant of a spar, issued his last orders in this fearful extremity with
courageous coolness. The smaller boats had been carried away by the
waves; it was in vain to think of launching the long-boat; the only
chance of escape in case the ship should not be immediately dashed to
pieces on touching the rocks, was to establish a communication with the
land by means of a life-line--almost the last resort for passing between
the shore and a stranded vessel.

The deck was covered with passengers, whose cries and terror augmented
the general confusion. Some, struck with a kind of stupor, and clinging
convulsively to the shrouds, awaited their doom in a state of stupid
insensibility. Others wrung their hands in despair, or rolled upon the
deck uttering horrible imprecations. Here, women knelt down to pray;
there, others hid their faces in their hands, that they might not see the
awful approach of death. A young mother, pale as a specter, holding her
child clasped tightly to her bosom, went supplicating from sailor to
sailor, and offering a purse full of gold and jewels to any one that
would take charge of her son.

These cries, and tears, and terror contrasted with the stern and silent
resignation of the sailors. Knowing the imminence of the inevitable
danger, some of them stripped themselves of part of their clothes,
waiting for the moment to make a last effort, to dispute their lives with
the fury of the waves; others renouncing all hope, prepared to meet death
with stoical indifference.

Here and there, touching or awful episodes rose in relief, if one may so
express it, from this dark and gloomy background of despair.

A young man of about eighteen or twenty, with shiny black hair, copper
colored complexion, and perfectly regular and handsome features,
contemplated this scene of dismay and horror with that sad calmness
peculiar to those who have often braved great perils; wrapped in a cloak,
he leaned his back against the bulwarks, with his feet resting against
one of the bulkheads. Suddenly, the unhappy mother, who, with her child
in her arms, and gold in her hand, had in vain addressed herself to
several of the mariners, to beg them to save her boy, perceiving the
young man with the copper-colored complexion, threw herself on her knees
before him, and lifted her child towards him with a burst of
inexpressible agony. The young man took it, mournfully shook his head,
and pointed to the furious waves--but, with a meaning gesture, he
appeared to promise that he would at least try to save it. Then the young
mother, in a mad transport of hope, seized the hand of the youth, and
bathed it with her tears.

Further on, another passenger of the "Black Eagle," seemed animated by
sentiments of the most active pity. One would hardly have given him
five-and-twenty years of age. His long, fair locks fell in curls on
either side of his angelic countenance. He wore a black cassock and white
neck-band. Applying himself to comfort the most desponding, he went from
one to the other, and spoke to them pious words of hope and resignation;
to hear him console some, and encourage others, in language full of
unction, tenderness, and ineffable charity, one would have supposed him
unaware or indifferent to the perils that he shared.

On his fine, mild features, was impressed a calm and sacred intrepidity,
a religious abstraction from every terrestrial thought; from time to
time, he raised to heaven his large blue eyes, beaming with gratitude,
love, and serenity, as if to thank God for having called him to one of
those formidable trials in which the man of humanity and courage may
devote himself for his brethren, and, if not able to rescue them at all,
at least die with them, pointing to the sky. One might almost have taken
him for an angel, sent down to render less cruel the strokes of
inexorable fate.

Strange contrast! not far from this young man's angelic beauty, there was
another being, who resembled an evil spirit!

Boldly mounted on what was left of the bowsprit, to which he held on by
means of some remaining cordage, this man looked down upon the terrible
scene that was passing on the deck. A grim, wild joy lighted up his
countenance of a dead yellow, that tint peculiar to those who spring from
the union of the white race with the East. He wore only a shirt and linen
drawers; from his neck was suspended, by a cord, a cylindrical tin box,
similar to that in which soldiers carry their leave of absence.

The more the danger augmented, the nearer the ship came to the breakers,
or to a collision with the steamer, which she was now rapidly
approaching--a terrible collision, which would probably cause the two
vessels to founder before even they touched the rocks--the more did the
infernal joy of this passenger reveal itself in frightful transports. He
seemed to long, with ferocious impatience, for the moment when the work
of destruction should be accomplished. To see him thus feasting with
avidity on all the agony, the terror, and the despair of those around
him, one might have taken him for the apostle of one of those sanguinary
deities, who, in barbarous countries, preside over murder and carnage.

By this time the "Black Eagle," driven by the wind and waves, came so
near the "William Tell" that the passengers on the deck of the nearly
dismantled steamer were visible from the first-named vessel.

These passengers were no longer numerous. The heavy sea, which stove in
the paddle-box and broke one of the paddles, had also carried away nearly
the whole of the bulwarks on that side; the waves, entering every instant
by this large opening, swept the decks with irresistible violence, and
every time bore away with them some fresh victims.

Amongst the passengers, who seemed only to have escaped this danger to be
hurled against the rocks, or crushed in the encounter of the two vessels,
one group was especially worthy of the most tender and painful interest.
Taking refuge abaft, a tall old man, with bald forehead and gray
moustache, had lashed himself to a stanchion, by winding a piece of rope
round his body, whilst he clasped in his arms, and held fast to his
breast, two girls of fifteen or sixteen, half enveloped in a pelisse of
reindeer-skin. A large, fallow, Siberian dog, dripping with water, and
barking furiously at the waves, stood close to their feet.

These girls, clasped in the arms of the old man, also pressed close to
each other; but, far from being lost in terror, they raised their eyes to
heaven, full of confidence and ingenuous hope, as though they expected to
be saved by the intervention of some supernatural power.

A frightful shriek of horror and despair, raised by the passengers of
both vessels, was heard suddenly above the roar of the tempest. At the
moment when, plunging deeply between two waves, the broadside of the
steamer was turned towards the bows of the ship, the latter, lifted to a
prodigious height on a mountain of water, remained, as it were, suspended
over the "William Tell," during the second which preceded the shock of
the two vessels.

There are sights of so sublime a horror, that it is impossible to
describe them. Yet, in the midst of these catastrophes, swift as thought,
one catches sometimes a momentary glimpse of a picture, rapid and
fleeting, as if illumined by a flash of lightning.

Thus, when the "Black Eagle," poised aloft by the flood, was about to
crash down upon the "William Tell," the young man with the angelic
countenance and fair, waving locks bent over the prow of the ship, ready
to cast himself into the sea to save some victim. Suddenly, he perceived
on board the steamer, on which he looked down from the summit of the
immense wave, the two girls extending their arms towards him in
supplication. They appeared to recognize him, and gazed on him with a
sort of ecstacy and religious homage!

For a second, in spite of the horrors of the tempest, in spite of the
approaching shipwreck, the looks of those three beings met. The features
of the young man were expressive of sudden and profound pity; for the
maidens with their hands clasped in prayer, seemed to invoke him as their
expected Saviour. The old man, struck down by the fall of a plank, lay
helpless on the deck. Soon all disappeared together.

A fearful mass of water dashed the "Black Eagle" down upon the "William
Tell," in the midst of a cloud of boiling foam. To the dreadful crash of
the two great bodies of wood and iron, which splintering against one
another, instantly foundered, one loud cry was added--a cry of agony and
death--the cry of a hundred human creatures swallowed up at once by the
waves!

And then--nothing more was visible!

A few moments after, the fragments of the two vessels appeared in the
trough of the sea, and on the caps of the waves--with here and there the
contracted arms, the livid and despairing faces of some unhappy wretches,
striving to make their way to the reefs along the shore, at the risk of
being crushed to death by the shock of the furious breakers.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE SHIPWRECK.

While the bailiff was gone to the sea-shore, to render help to those of
the passengers who might escape from the inevitable shipwreck, M. Rodin,
conducted by Catherine to the Green Chamber, had there found the articles
that he was to take with him to Paris.

After passing two hours in this apartment, very indifferent to the fate
of the shipwrecked persons, which alone absorbed the attention of the
inhabitants of the Castle, Rodin returned to the chamber commonly
occupied by the bailiff, a room which opened upon a long gallery. When he
entered it he found nobody there. Under his arm he held a casket, with
silver fastenings, almost black from age, whilst one end of a large red
morocco portfolio projected from the breast-pocket of his half buttoned
great coat.

Had the cold and livid countenance of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's secretary
been able to express joy otherwise than by a sarcastic smile, his
features would have been radiant with delight; for, just then, he was
under the influence of the most agreeable thoughts. Having placed the
casket upon a table, it was with marked satisfaction that he thus
communed with himself:

"All goes well. It was prudent to keep these papers here till this
moment, for one must always be on guard against the diabolical spirit of
that Adrienne de Cardoville, who appears to guess instinctively what it
is impossible she should know. Fortunately, the time approaches when we
shall have no more need to fear her. Her fate will be a cruel one; it
must be so. Those proud, independent characters are at all times our
natural enemies--they are so by their very essence--how much more when
they show themselves peculiarly hurtful and dangerous! As for La Sainte
Colombe, the bailiff is sure to act for us; between what the fool calls
his conscience, and the dread of being at his age deprived of a
livelihood, he will not hesitate. I wish to have him because he will
serve us better than a stranger; his having been here twenty years will
prevent all suspicion on the part of that dull and narrow-minded woman.
Once in the hands of our man at Roiville, I will answer for the result.
The course of all such gross and stupid women is traced beforehand: in
their youth, they serve the devil; in riper years, they make others serve
him; in their old age, they are horribly afraid of him; and this fear
must continue till she has left us the Chateau de Cardoville, which, from
its isolated position, will make us an excellent college. All then goes
well. As for the affair of the medals, the 13th of February approaches,
without news from Joshua--evidently, Prince Djalma is still kept prisoner
by the English in the heart of India, or I must have received letters
from Batavia. The daughters of General Simon will be detained at Leipsic
for at least a month longer. All our foreign relations are in the best
condition. As for our internal affairs--"

Here M. Rodin was interrupted in the current of his reflections by the
entrance of Madame Dupont, who was zealously engaged in preparations to
give assistance in case of need.

"Now," said she to the servant, "light a fire in the next room; put this
warm wine there; your master may be in every minute."

"Well, my dear madam," said Rodin to her, "do they hope to save any of
these poor creatures?"

"Alas! I do not know, sir. My husband has been gone nearly two hours. I
am terribly uneasy on his account. He is so courageous, so imprudent, if
once he thinks he can be of any service."

"Courageous even to imprudence," said Rodin to himself, impatiently; "I
do not like that."

"Well," resumed Catherine, "I have here at hand my hot linen, my
cordials--heaven grant it may all be of use!"

"We may at least hope so, my dear madam. I very much regretted that my
age and weakness did not permit me to assist your excellent husband. I
also regret not being able to wait for the issue of his exertions, and to
wish him joy if successful--for I am unfortunately compelled to depart,
my moments are precious. I shall be much obliged if you will have the
carriage got ready."

"Yes, Sir; I will see about it directly."

"One word, my dear, good Madame Dupont. You are a woman of sense, and
excellent judgment. Now I have put your husband in the way to keep, if he
will, his situation as bailiff of the estate--"

"Is it possible? What gratitude do we not owe you! Without this place
what would become of us at our time of life?"

"I have only saddled my promise with two conditions--mere trifles--he
will explain all that to you."

"Ah, sir! we shall regard you as our deliverer."

"You are too good. Only, on two little conditions--"

"If there were a hundred, sir we should gladly accept them. Think what we
should be without this place--penniless--absolutely penniless!"

"I reckon upon you then; for the interest of your husband, you will try
to persuade him."

"Missus! I say, missus! here's master come back," cried a servant,
rushing into the chamber.

"Has he many with him?"

"No, missus; he is alone."

"Alone! alone?"

"Quite alone, missus."

A few moments after, M. Dupont entered the room; his clothes were
streaming with water; to keep his hat on in the midst of the storm, he
had tied it down to his head by means of his cravat, which was knotted
under his chin; his gaiters were covered with chalky stains.

"There I have thee, my dear love!" cried his wife, tenderly embracing
him. "I have been so uneasy!"

"Up to the present moment--THREE SAVED."

"God be praised, my dear M. Dupont!" said Rodin; "at least your efforts
will not have been all in vain."

"Three, only three?" said Catherine. "Gracious heaven!"

"I only speak of those I saw myself, near the little creek of Goelands.
Let us hope there may be more saved on other parts of the coast."

"Yes, indeed; happily, the shore is not equally steep in all parts."

"And where are these interesting sufferers, my dear sir?" asked Rodin,
who could not avoid remaining a few instants longer.

"They are mounting the cliffs, supported by our people. As they cannot
walk very fast, I ran on before to console my wife, and to take the
necessary measures for their reception. First of all, my dear, you must
get ready some women's clothes."

"There is then a woman amongst the persons saved?"

"There are two girls--fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most--mere
children--and so pretty!"

"Poor little things!" said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.

"The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real
hero!"

"A hero?"

"Yes; only fancy--"

"You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm
dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through."

"I'll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you that
the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly his
courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left here
with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path, and
arrived at the foot of the cliff--near the little creek of Goelands,
fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous
masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find
there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet
still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though
they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the
sea."

"Dear children! it is quite touching!" said M. Rodin, raising, as usual,
the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though to
dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.

"What struck me was their great resemblance to each other," resumed the
bailiff; "only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the
difference."

"Twin--sisters, no doubt," said Madame Dupont.

"One of the poor things," continued the bailiff, "held between her
clasped hands a little bronze medal, which was suspended from her neck by
a chain of the same material."

Rodin generally maintained a very stooping posture; but at these last
words of the bailiff, he drew himself up suddenly, whilst a faint color
spread itself over his livid cheeks. In any other person, these symptoms
would have appeared of little consequence; but in Rodin, accustomed for
long years to control and dissimulate his emotions, they announced no
ordinary excitement. Approaching the bailiff, he said to him in a
slightly agitated voice, but still with an air of indifference: "It was
doubtless a pious relic. Did you see what was inscribed on this medal?"

"No, sir; I did not think of it."

"And the two young girls were like one another--very much like, you say?"

"So like, that one would hardly know which was which. Probably they are
orphans, for they are dressed in mourning."

"Oh! dressed in mourning?" said M. Rodin, with another start.

"Alas! orphans so young!" said Madame Dupont, wiping her eyes.

"As they had fainted away, we carried them further on to a place where
the sand was quite dry. While we were busy about this, we saw the head of
a man appear from behind one of the rocks, which he was trying to climb,
clinging to it by one hand; we ran to him, and luckily in the nick of
time, for he was clean worn out, and fell exhausted into the arms of our
men. It was of him I spoke when I talked of a hero; for, not content with
having saved the two young girls by his admirable courage, he had
attempted to rescue a third person, and had actually gone back amongst
the rocks and breakers--but his strength failed him, and, without the aid
of our men, he would certainly have been washed away from the ridge to
which he clung."

"He must indeed be a fine fellow!" said Catherine.

Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to
this conversation. The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged,
only increased upon reflection. The two girls, who had just been saved,
were fifteen years of age; were dressed in mourning; were so like, that
one might be taken for the other; one of them wore round her neck a chain
with a bronze medal; he could scarcely doubt that they were the daughters
of General Simon. But how could those sisters be amongst the number of
shipwrecked passengers? How could they have escaped from the prison at
Leipsic? How did it happen, that he had not been informed of it? Could
they have fled, or had they been set at liberty? How was it possible that
he should not be apprise of such an event? But these secondary thoughts,
which offered themselves in crowds to the mind of M. Rodin, were
swallowed up in the one fact: "the daughters of General Simon are
here!"--His plan, so laboriously laid, was thus entirely destroyed.

"When I speak of the deliverer of these young girls," resumed the
bailiff, addressing his wife, and without remarking M. Rodin's absence of
mind, "you are expecting no doubt to see a Hercules?--well, he is
altogether the reverse. He is almost a boy in look, with fair, sweet
face, and light, curling locks. I left him a cloak to cover him, for he
had nothing on but his shirt, black knee-breeches, and a pair of black
worsted stockings--which struck me as singular."

"Why, it was certainly not a sailor's dress."

"Besides, though the ship was English, I believe my hero is a Frenchman,
for he speaks our language as well as we do. What brought the tears to my
eyes, was to see the young girls, when they came to themselves. As soon
as they saw him, they threw themselves at his feet, and seemed to look up
to him and thank him, as one would pray. Then they cast their eyes around
them, as if in search of some other person, and, having exchanged a few
words, they fell sobbing into each other's arms."

"What a dreadful thing it is! How many poor creatures must have
perished!"

"When we quitted the rocks, the sea had already cast ashore seven dead
bodies, besides fragments of the wrecks, and packages. I spoke to some of
the coast-guard, and they will remain all day on the look-out; and if, as
I hope, any more should escape with life, they are to be brought here.
But surely that is the sound of voices!--yes, it is our shipwrecked
guests!"

The bailiff and his wife ran to the door of the room--that door, which
opened on the long gallery--whilst Rodin, biting convulsively his flat
nails, awaited with angry impatience the arrival of the strangers. A
touching picture soon presented itself to his view.