The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


"Master!" replied a hoarse voice.

"Come up to me."

"Here I am--just come from the slaughter-house with the meat."

The steps of the ladder creaked as an enormous head appeared on a level
with the floor. The new-comer, who was more than six feet high, and
gifted with herculean proportions, had been well-named Goliath. He was
hideous. His squinting eyes were deep set beneath a low and projecting
forehead; his reddish hair and beard, thick and coarse as horse-hair,
gave his features a stamp of bestial ferocity; between his broad jaws,
armed with teeth which resembled fangs, he held by one corner a piece of
raw beef weighing ten or twelve pounds, finding it, no doubt, easier to
carry in that fashion, whilst he used his hands to ascend the ladder,
which bent beneath his weight.

At length the whole of this tall and huge body issued from the aperture.
Judging by his bull-neck, the astonishing breadth of his chest and
shoulders, and the vast bulk of his arms and legs, this giant need not
have feared to wrestle single-handed with a bear. He wore an old pair of
blue trousers with red stripes, faced with tanned sheep's-skin, and a
vest, or rather cuirass, of thick leather, which was here and there
slashed by the sharp claws of the animals.

When he was fairly on the floor, Goliath unclasped his fangs, opened his
mouth, and let fall the great piece of beef, licking his blood-stained
lips with greediness. Like many other mountebanks, this species of
monster had began by eating raw meat at the fairs for the amusement of
the public. Thence having gradually acquired a taste for this barbarous
food, and uniting pleasure with profit, he engaged himself to perform the
prelude to the exercises of Morok, by devouring, in the presence of the
crowd, several pounds of raw flesh.

"My share and Death's are below stairs, and here are those of Cain and
Judas," said Goliath, pointing to the chunk of beef. "Where is the
cleaver, that I may cut it in two?--No preference here--beast or
man--every gullet must have it's own."

Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm
hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one's thumb.

"I say, master, where's the cleaver?"--He again began, as he cast round
his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this
inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.

"Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?"

"Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house."

"Who are these travellers?"

"Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a big
moustache. But the cleaver?--my beasts are hungry and so am I--the
cleaver!"

"Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?"

"The host took them to the far end of the court-yard."

"The building, which overlooks the fields?"

"Yes, master--but the cleaver--"

A burst of frightful roaring shook the loft, and interrupted Goliath.

"Hark to them!" he exclaimed; "hunger has driven the beasts wild. If I
could roar, I should do as they do. I have never seen Judas and Cain as
they are to-night; they leap in their cages as if they'd knock all to
pieces. As for Death, her eyes shine more than usual like candles--poor
Death!"

"So these girls are lodged in the building at the end of the court-yard,"
resumed Morok, without attending to the observations of Goliath.

"Yes, yes--but in the devil's name, where is the cleaver? Since Karl went
away I have to do all the work, and that makes our meals very late."

"Did the old man remain with the young girls?" asked Morok.

Goliath, amazed that, notwithstanding his importunities, his master
should still appear to neglect the animals' supper, regarded the Prophet
with an increase of stupid astonishment.

"Answer, you brute!"

"If I am a brute, I have a brute's strength," said Goliath, in a surly
tone, "and brute against brute, I have not always come the worst off."

"I ask if the old man remained with the girls," repeated Morok.

"Well, then--no!" returned the giant. "The old man, after leading his
horse to the stable, asked for a tub and some water, took his stand under
the porch--and there--by the light of a lantern--he is washing out
clothes. A man with a gray moustache!--paddling in soap-suds like a
washerwoman--it's as if I were to feed canaries!" added Goliath,
shrugging his shoulders with disdain. "But now I've answered you, master,
let me attend to the beasts' supper,"--and, looking round for something,
he added, "where is the cleaver?"

After a moment of thoughtful silence, the Prophet said to Goliath, "You
will give no food to the beasts this evening."

At first the giant could not understand these words, the idea was so
incomprehensible to him.

"What is your pleasure, master?" said he.

"I forbid you to give any food to the beasts this evening."

Goliath did not answer, but he opened wide his squinting eyes, folded his
hands, and drew back a couple of steps.

"Well, dost hear me?" said Morok, with impatience. "Is it plain enough?"

"Not feed? when our meat is there, and supper is already three hours
after time!" cried Goliath, with ever-increasing amazement.

"Obey, and hold your tongue."

"You must wish something bad to happen this evening. Hunger makes the
beasts furious--and me also."

"So much the better!"

"It'll drive 'em mad."

"So much the better!"

"How, so much the better?--But--"

"It is enough!"

"But, devil take me, I am as hungry as the beasts!"

"Eat then--who prevents it? Your supper is ready, as you devour it raw."

"I never eat without my beasts, nor they without me."

"I tell you again, that, if you dare give any food to the beasts--I will
turn you away."

Goliath uttered a low growl as hoarse as a bear's, and looked at the
Prophet with a mixture of anger and stupefaction.

Morok, having given his orders, walked up and down the loft, appearing to
reflect. Then, addressing himself to Goliath, who was still plunged in
deep perplexity, he said to him.

"Do you remember the burgomaster's, where I went to get my passport
signed?--To-day his wife bought some books and a chaplet."

"Yes," answered the giant shortly.

"Go and ask his servant if I may be sure to find the burgomaster early
to-morrow morning."

"What for?"

"I may, perhaps, have something important to communicate; at all events,
say that I beg him not to leave home without seeing me."

"Good! but may I feed the beasts before I go to the burgomaster's?--only
the panther, who is most hungry? Come, master; only poor Death? just a
little morsel to satisfy her; Cain and I and Judas can wait."

"It is the panther, above all, that I forbid you to feed. Yes, her, above
all the rest."

"By the horns of the devil!" cried Goliath, "what is the matter with you
to-day? I can make nothing of it. It is a pity that Karl's not here; he,
being cunning, would help me to understand why you prevent the beasts
from eating when they are hungry."

"You have no need to understand it."

"Will not Karl soon come back?"

"He has already come back."

"Where is he, then?"

"Off again."

"What can be going on here? There is something in the wind. Karl goes,
and returns, and goes again, and--"

"We are not talking of Karl, but of you; though hungry as a wolf you are
cunning as a fox, and, when it suits you, as cunning as Karl." And,
changing on the sudden his tone and manner, Morok slapped the giant
cordially on the shoulder.

"What! am I cunning?"

"The proof is, that there are ten florins to earn to-night--and you will
be keen enough to earn them, I am sure."

"Why, on those terms, yes--I am awake," said the giant, smiling with a
stupid, self-satisfied air. "What must I do for ten florins?"

"You shall see."

"Is it hard work?"

"You shall see. Begin by going to the burgomaster's--but first light the
fire in that stove." He pointed to it with his finger.

"Yes, master," said Goliath, somewhat consoled for the delay of his
supper by the hope of gaining ten florins.

"Put that iron bar in the stove," added the Prophet, "to make it
red-hot."

"Yes, master."

"You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster's, and return here to
wait for me."

"Yes, master.

"You will keep the fire up in the stove."

"Yes, master."

Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: "You say
the old man is busy washing under the porch?"

"Yes, master."

"Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire--the burgomaster--and return
here to wait my orders." So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and
disappeared.




CHAPTER IV.

MOROK and DAGOBERT

Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that
imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.

When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be
astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of
sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and
trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself to
all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his
apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he had
industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle
always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to
receive a sabre-cut--the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the
stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in
the cloth.

Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement,
you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine
military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a
housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other
such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning, with
a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy.

We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert,
given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he was
considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the
Imperial Guard.

They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In
the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers
to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half
the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed their
horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged valiantly
that day without receiving any wound--for he counted as a mere memento
the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted in
awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.

"You donkey! my new breeches!" the grenadier had exclaimed, when he saw
the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the Austrian
through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he showed a
stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it was not so
with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform.

He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair this
accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of his
housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play the
tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his
cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment
itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the
stitches.

This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the
captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight of
the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position, with
his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots by his
side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the coolness
of a tailor upon his own shop-board.

Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the
detachment, calling to arms. "To horse!" cries the captain, in a voice of
thunder.

In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes
mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the
unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out,
and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.

A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had
attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero
foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day
had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he
hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene
of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor
of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner,
with his own hand.

After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its position,
the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their success, and
ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that he might thank
him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could have dispensed with
this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to obey.

Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this
tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his naked
feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his charger.

The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of
the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the
whole mystery. "Ha, my old comrade!" he exclaimed, "thou art like King
Dagobert--wearing thy breeches inside out."

In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain's was received with
peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his
saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his
sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and
returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after he
had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day,
Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert.

Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the
great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious
eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.

In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray
top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand,
and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief,
spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of water.
Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and blue colors,
two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly visible. No
wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying their pots of
beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the singular occupation
of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with the forbidding
countenance--for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh and grim
expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.

The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began to put
him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite natural. At
this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving the soldier,
eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching, he said to
him in French, in a rather sly tone: "It would seem, comrade, that you
have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?"

Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a
frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.

Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: "If I do not deceive myself,
you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your
military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I
find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats."

Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap,
with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry
style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him more than
he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet continued: "I
am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor dumb; why, then,
will you not answer me?"

Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full in
the face, and said to him in a rough voice: "I don't know you: I don't
wish to know you! Chain up your curb!" And he betook himself again to his
washing.

"But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine
together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I
assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil."

The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw in
the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him,
something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.

"I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me--we could
talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and
when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable--particularly when they
know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I'd send
her to your school."

The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado were
legible in the Prophet's looks. Thinking that, with such an adversary,
the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to avoid a quarrel
at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of the porch, hoping
thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore trial of his temper. A
flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the brute-tamer. The white
circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to dilate. He ran his crooked
fingers two or three times through his yellow beard, in token of
satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the soldier, accompanied by
several idlers from the common-room.

Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the
impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break the
washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought
better of it.

Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and
insolent tone: "It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!"
Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: "I tell this
Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall see
what answer he'll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him a
lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!" he added, with mock
compunction; "but the Lord has enlightened me--I am his creature, and I
ought to make his work respected."

The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of the
idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a
performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the
company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not help
saying in the German language: "I know German. Speak in German--the rest
will understand you."

New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure
had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most
concerned.

The Prophet resumed in German: "I said that you were not civil, and I now
say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?"

"Nothing!" said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another
piece of linen.

"Nothing!" returned Morok; "that is very little. I will be less brief,
and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to
a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and
deserves to be taught manners if he does so."

Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert's forehead and cheeks; his large
imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling--but he restrained
himself. Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief which he had
just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began to hum to
himself the burden of the old camp ditty:

"Out of Tirlemont's flea-haunted den,
We ride forth next day of the sen,
With sabre in hand, ah!
Good-bye to Amanda," etc.

The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him;
this song afforded him some relief.

Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of
hypocritical restraint: "We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were
pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a
hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the
Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord, to
punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage--their single gift.
Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by divine
grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an apology; or
else--"

"What?" said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet.

"Or you must give me satisfaction!--I have already told you that I have
seen service. We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to
morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the
color of our blood--that is, if you have any in your veins!"

This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared
for so tragical a conclusion.

"What, fight?--a very, fine idea!" said one. "To get yourself both locked
up in prison: the laws against duelling are strict."

"Particularly with relation to strangers or nondescripts," added another.
"If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the burgomaster would
shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three months before
trial."

"Would you be so mean as to denounce us?" asked Morok.

"No, certainly not," cried several; "do as you like. We are only giving
you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think
fit."

"What care I for prison?" exclaimed the Prophet. "Only give me a couple
of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the
burgomaster can do or say."

"What would you do with two swords?" asked Dagobert, quietly.

"When you have one in your grasp, and I one in mine, you'd see. The Lord
commands us to have a care of his honor!"

Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, made a bundle of his linen in his
handkerchief, dried his soap, and put it carefully into a little oil-silk
bag--then, whistling his favorite air of Tirlemont, moved to depart.

The Prophet frowned; he began to fear that his challenge would not be
accepted. He advanced a step or so to encounter Dagobert, placed himself
before him, as if to intercept his passage, and, folding his arms, and
scanning him from head to foot with bitter insolence, said to him: "So!
an old soldier of that arch-robber, Napoleon, is only fit for a
washerwoman, and refuses to fight!"

"Yes, he refuses to fight," answered Dagobert, in a firm voice, but
becoming fearfully pale. Never, perhaps, had the soldier given to his
orphan charge such a proof of tenderness and devotion. For a man of his
character to let himself be insulted with impunity, and refuse to
fight--the sacrifice was immense.

"So you are a coward--you are afraid of me--and you confess it?"

At these words Dagobert made, as it were, a pull upon himself--as if a
sudden thought had restrained him the moment he was about to rush on the
Prophet. Indeed, he had remembered the two maidens, and the fatal
hindrance which a duel, whatever might be the result, would occasion to
their journey. But the impulse of anger, though rapid, had been so
significant--the expression of the stern, pale face, bathed in sweat, was
so daunting, that the Prophet and the spectators drew back a step.

Profound silence reigned for some seconds, and then, by a sudden
reaction, Dagobert seemed to have gained the general interest. One of the
company said to those near him; "This man is clearly not a coward."

"Oh, no! certainly not."

"It sometimes requires more courage to refuse a challenge than to accept
one."

"After all the Prophet was wrong to pick a quarrel about nothing--and
with a stranger, too."

"Yes, for a stranger, if he fought and was taken up, would have a good
long imprisonment."

"And then, you see," added another, "he travels with two young girls. In
such a position, ought a man to fight about trifles? If he should be
killed or put in prison, what would become of them, poor children?"

Dagobert turned towards the person who had pronounced these last words.
He saw a stout fellow, with a frank and simple countenance; the soldier
offered him his hand, and said with emotion:

"Thank you, sir."

The German shook cordially the hand, which Dagobert had proffered, and,
holding it still in his own, he added: "Do one thing, sir--share a bowl
of punch with us. We will make that mischief-making Prophet acknowledge
that he has been too touchy, and he shall drink to your health."

Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene,
for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on
with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him. But now his
features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects to
hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to him,
with a tolerably good grace: "Well, I give way to these gentlemen. I own
I was wrong. Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master of
myself. I repeat, that I was wrong," he added, with suppressed vexation;
"the Lord commands humility--and--I beg your pardon."