The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


Amazed, in spite of his audacity, the half-caste recoiled a step.

"What, sir!" resumed Rodin. "You come here into a respectable house, to
boast that you have stolen letters, strangled this man, drugged that
other?--Why, sir, it is downright madness. I wished to hear you to the
end, to see to what extent you would carry your audacity--for none but a
monstrous rascal would venture to plume himself on such infamous crimes.
But I prefer believing, that they exist only in your imagination."

As he barked out these words, with a degree of animation not usual in
him, Rodin rose from his seat, and approached the chimney, while
Faringhea, who had not yet recovered from his surprise, looked at him in
silence. In a few seconds, however, the half-caste returned, with a
gloomy and savage mien: "Take care, brother; do not force me to prove to
you that I have told the truth."

"Come, come, sir; you must be fresh from the Antipodes, to believe us
Frenchmen such easy dupes. You have, you say, the prudence of a serpent,
and the courage of a lion. I do not know if you are a courageous lion,
but you are certainly not a prudent serpent. What! you have about you a
letter from M. Van Dael, by which I might be compromised--supposing all
this not to be a fable--you have left Prince Djalma in a stupor, which
would serve my projects, and from which you alone can rouse him--you are
able, you say, to strike a terrible blow at my interests--and yet you do
not consider (bold lion! crafty serpent as you are!) that I only want to
gain twenty-four hours upon you. Now, you come from the end of India to
Paris, an unknown stranger--you believe me to be as great a scoundrel as
yourself,--since you call me brother--and do not once consider, that you
are here in my power--that this street and house are solitary, and that I
could have three or four persons to bind you in a second, savage
Strangler though you are!--and that just by pulling this bell-rope," said
Rodin, as he took it in his hand. "Do not be alarmed," added he, with a
diabolical smile, as he saw Faringhea make an abrupt movement of surprise
and fright; "would I give you notice, if I meant to act in this
manner?--But just answer me. Once bound and put in confinement for
twenty-four hours, how could you injure me? Would it not be easy for me
to possess myself of Van Dael's letter, and Djalma's medal? and the
latter, plunged in a stupor till to-morrow evening, need not trouble me
at all. You see, therefore, that your threats are vain because they rest
upon falsehood--because it is not true, that Prince Djalma is here and in
your power. Begone, sir--leave the house; and when next you wish to make
dupes, show more judgment in the selection."

Faringhea seemed struck with astonishment. All that he had just heard
seemed very probable. Rodin might seize upon him, the letter, and the
medal, and, by keeping him prisoner, prevent Djalma from being awakened.
And yet Rodin ordered him to leave the house, at the moment when
Faringhea had imagined himself so formidable. As he thought for the
motives of this inexplicable conduct, it struck him that Rodin,
notwithstanding the proofs he had brought him, did not yet believe that
Djalma was in his power. On that theory, the contempt of Van Dael's
correspondent admitted of a natural explanation. But Rodin was playing a
bold and skillful game; and, while he appeared to mutter to himself, as
in anger, he was observing, with intense anxiety, the Strangler's
countenance.

The latter, almost certain that he had divined the secret motive of
Rodin, replied: "I am going--but one word more. You think I deceive you?"

"I am certain of it. You have told me nothing but a tissue of fables, and
I have lost much time in listening to them. Spare me the rest; it is
late--and I should like to be alone."

"One minute more: you are a man, I see, from whom nothing should be hid,"
said Faringhea, "from Djalma, I could now only expect alms and
disdain--for, with a character like this, to say to him, 'Pay me, because
I might have betrayed you and did not,' would be to provoke his anger and
contempt. I could have killed him twenty times over, but his day is not
yet come," said the Thug, with a gloomy air; "and to wait for that and
other fatal days, I must have gold, much gold. You alone can pay me for
the betrayal of Djalma, for you alone profit by it. You refuse to hear
me, because you think I am deceiving you. But I took the direction of the
inn where we stopped--and here it is. Send some one to ascertain the
truth of what I tell you, and then you will believe me. But the price of
my services will be high; for I told you that I wanted much."

So saying, Faringhea offered a printed card to Rodin: the socius, who,
out of the corner of his eye, followed all the half-caste's movements,
appeared to be absorbed in thought, and taking no heed of anything.

"Here is the address," repeated Faringhea, as he held out the card to
Rodin; "assure yourself that I do not lie."

"Eh? what is it?" said the other, casting a rapid but stolen glance at
the address, which he read greedily, without touching the card.

"Take this address," repeated the half-caste, "and you may then assure
yourself--"

"Really, sir," cried Rodin, pushing back the card with his hand, "your
impudence confounds me. I repeat that I wish to have nothing in common
with you. For the last time, I tell you to leave the house. I know
nothing about your Prince Djalma. You say you can injure me--do so--make
no ceremonies--but, in heaven's name, leave me to myself."

So saying, Rodin rang the bell violently. Faringhea made a movement as if
to stand upon the defensive; but only the old servant, with his quiet and
placid mien, appeared at the door.

"Lapierre, light the gentleman out," said Rodin, pointing to Faringhea.

Terrified at Rodin's calmness, the half-caste hesitated to leave the
room.

"Why do you wait, sir?" said Rodin, remarking his hesitation. "I wish to
be alone."

"So, sir," said Faringhea, as he withdrew, slowly, "you refuse my offers?
Take care! to-morrow it will be too late."

"I have the honor to be your most humble servant, sir," said Rodin,
bowing courteously. The Strangler went out, and the door closed upon him.

Immediately, Father d'Aigrigny entered from the next room. His
countenance was pale and agitated.

"What have you done?" exclaimed he addressing Rodin.

"I have heard all. I am unfortunately too sure that this wretch spoke the
truth. The Indian is in his power, and he goes to rejoin him."

"I think not," said Rodin, humbly, as bowing, he reassumed his dull and
submissive countenance.

"What will prevent this man from rejoining the prince?"

"Allow me. As soon as the rascal was shown in, I knew him; and so, before
speaking a word to him, I wrote a few lines to Morok, who was waiting
below with Goliath till your reverence should be at leisure. Afterwards,
in the course of the conversation, when they brought me Morok's answer, I
added some fresh instructions, seeing the turn that affairs were taking."

"And what was the use of all this, since you have let the man leave the
house?"

"Your reverence will perhaps deign to observe that he did not leave it;
till he had given me the direction of the hotel where the Indian now is,
thanks to my innocent stratagem of appearing to despise him. But, if it
had failed, Faringhea would still have fallen into the hands of Goliath
and Morok, who are waiting for him in the street, a few steps from the
door. Only we should have been rather embarrassed, as we should not have
known where to find Prince Djalma."

"More violence!" said Father d'Aigrigny, with repugnance.

"It is to be regretted, very much regretted," replied Rodin; "but it was
necessary to follow out the system already adopted."

"Is that meant for a reproach?" said Father d'Aigrigny, who began to
think that Rodin was something more than a mere writing-machine.

"I could not permit myself to blame your reverence," said Rodin, cringing
almost to the ground. "But all that will be required is to confine this
man for twenty-four hours."

"And afterwards--his complaints?"

"Such a scoundrel as he is will not dare to complain. Besides, he left
this house in freedom. Morok and Goliath will bandage his eyes when they
seize him. The house has another entrance in the Rue Vieille-des-Ursins.
At this hour, and in such a storm, no one will be passing through this
deserted quarter of the town. The knave will be confused by the change of
place; they will put him into a cellar, of the new building, and to
morrow night, about the same hour, they will restore him to liberty with
the like precautions. As for the East Indian, we now know where to find
him; we must send to him a confidential person, and, if he recovers from
his trance, there would be, in my humble opinion," said Rodin, modestly,
"a very simple and quiet manner of keeping him away from the Rue Saint
Francois all day to-morrow."

The same servant with the mild countenance, who had introduced and shown
out Faringhea, here entered the room, after knocking discreetly at the
door. He held in his hand a sort of game-bag, which he gave to Rodin,
saying: "Here is what M. Morok has just brought; he came in by the Rue
Vieille."

The servant withdrew, and Rodin, opening the bag, said to Father
d'Aigrigny, as he showed him the contents: "The medal, and Van Dael's
letter. Morok has been quick at his work."

"One more danger avoided," said the marquis; "it is a pity to be forced
to such measures."

"We must only blame the rascal who has obliged us to have recourse to
them. I will send instantly to the hotel where the Indian lodges."

"And, at seven in the morning, you will conduct Gabriel to the Rue Saint
Francois. It is there that I must have with him the interview which he
has so earnestly demanded these three days."

"I informed him of it this evening, and he awaits your orders."

"At last, then," said Father d'Aigrigny, "after so many struggles, and
fears, and crosses, only a few hours separate us from the moment which we
have so long desired."

We now conduct the reader to the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.

[13] The doctrine of passive and absolute obedience, the principal tool in
the hands of the Jesuits, as summed up in these terrible words of the
dying Loyola--that every member of the order should be in the hands of
his superiors as a dead body--'perinde ad cadaver'.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-FRANCOIS.

On entering the Rue Saint-Gervais, by the Rue Dore (in the Marais), you
would have found yourself, at the epoch of this narrative, directly
opposite to an enormously high wall, the stones of which were black and
worm-eaten with age. This wall, which extended nearly the whole length of
that solitary street, served to support a terrace shaded by trees of some
hundred years old, which thus grew about forty feet above the causeway.
Through their thick branches appeared the stone front, peaked roof and
tall brick chimneys of an antique house, the entrance of which was
situated in the Rue Saint-Francois, not far from the Rue Saint Gervais
corner. Nothing could be more gloomy than the exterior of this abode. On
the entrance-side also was a very high wall, pierced with two or three
loop-holes, strongly grated. A carriage gateway in massive oak, barred
with iron, and studded with large nail-heads, whose primitive color
disappeared beneath a thick layer of mud, dust, and rust, fitted close
into the arch of a deep recess, forming the swell of a bay window above.
In one of these massive gates was a smaller door, which served for
ingress and egress to Samuel the Jew, the guardian of this dreary abode.
On passing the threshold, you came to a passage, formed in the building
which faced in the street. In this building was the lodging of Samuel,
with its windows opening upon the rather spacious inner court yard,
through the railing of which you perceived the garden. In the middle of
this garden stood a two-storied stone house, so strangely built, that you
had to mount a flight of steps, or rather a double-flight of at least
twenty steps, to reach the door, which had been walled up a hundred and
fifty years before. The window-blinds of this habitation had been
replaced by large thick plates of lead, hermetically soldered and kept in
by frames of iron clamped in the stone. Moreover, completely to intercept
air and light, and thus to guard against decay within and without, the
roof had been covered with thick sheets of lead, as well as the vents of
the tall chimneys, which had previously been bricked up. The same
precautions had been taken with respect to a small square belvedere,
situated on the top of the house; this glass cage was covered with a sort
of dome, soldered to the roof. Only, in consequence of some singular
fancy, in every one of the leaden plates, which concealed the four sides
of the belvedere, corresponding to the cardinal points, seven little
round holes had been bored in the form of a cross, and were easily
distinguishable from the outside. Everywhere else the plates of lead were
completely unpierced. Thanks to these precautions, and to the substantial
structure of the building, nothing but a few outward repairs had been
necessary; and the apartments, entirely removed from the influence of the
external air, no doubt remained, during a century and a half, exactly in
the same state as at the time of their being shut up. The aspect of walls
in crevices, of broken, worm-eaten shutters, of a roof half fallen in,
and windows covered with wall-flowers, would perhaps have been less sad
than the appearance of this stone house, plated with iron and lead, and
preserved like a mausoleum. The garden, completely deserted, and only
regularly visited once a week by Samuel, presented to the view,
particularly in summer, an incredible confusion of parasites and
brambles. The trees, left to themselves, had shot forth and mingled their
branches in all directions; some straggling vines, reproduced from
offshoots, had crept along the ground to the foot of the trees, and,
climbing up their trunks, had twined themselves about them, and encircled
their highest branches with their inextricable net. You could only pass
through this virgin forest by following the path made by the guardian, to
go from the grating to the house, the approaches to which were a little
sloped to let the water run off, and carefully paved to the width of
about ten feet. Another narrow path which extended all around the
enclosure, was every night perambulated by two or three Pyrenees dogs--a
faithful race, which had been perpetuated in the house during a century
and a half. Such was the habitation destined for the meeting of the
descendants of the family of Rennepont. The night which separated the
12th from the 13th day of February was near its close. A calm had
succeeded the storm, and the rain had ceased; the sky was clear and full
of stars; the moon, on its decline, shone with a mild lustre, and threw a
melancholy light over that deserted, silent house, whose threshold for so
many years no human footstep had crossed.

A bright gleam of light, issuing from one of the windows of the
guardian's dwelling, announced that Samuel was awake. Figure to yourself
a tolerably large room, lined from top to bottom with old walnut
wainscoting browned to an almost black, with age. Two half-extinguished
brands are smoking amid the cinders on the hearth. On the stone
mantelpiece, painted to resemble gray granite, stands an old iron
candlestick, furnished with a meagre candle, capped by an extinguisher.
Near it one sees a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and a sharp cutlass,
with a hilt of carved bronze, belonging to the seventeenth century.
Moreover, a heavy rifle rests against one of the chimney jambs. Four
stools, an old oak press, and a square table with twisted legs, formed
the sole furniture of this apartment. Against the wall were
systematically suspended a number of keys of different sizes, the shape
of which bore evidence to their antiquity, whilst to their rings were
affixed divers labels. The back of the old press, which moved by a secret
spring, had been pushed aside, and discovered, built in the wall, a large
and deep iron chest, the lid of which, being open, displayed the wondrous
mechanism of one of those Florentine locks of the sixteenth century,
which, better than any modern invention, set all picklocks at defiance;
and, moreover, according to the notions of that age, are supplied with a
thick lining of asbestos cloth, suspended by gold wire at a distance from
the sides of the chest, for the purpose of rendering incombustible the
articles contained in it. A large cedar-wood box had been taken from the
chest, and placed upon a stool; it contained numerous papers, carefully
arranged and docketed. By the light of a brass lamp, the old keeper
Samuel, was writing in a small register, whilst Bathsheba, his wife, was
dictating to him from an account. Samuel was about eighty two years old,
and, notwithstanding his advanced age, a mass of gray curling hair
covered his head. He was short, thin, nervous, and the involuntary
petulance of his movements proved that years had not weakened his energy
and activity; though, out of doors, where, however, he made his
appearance very seldom, he affected a sort of second childhood, as had
been remarked by Rodin to Father d'Aigrigny. An old dressing-gown, of
maroon-colored camlet, with large sleeves, completely enveloped the old
man, and reached to his feet.

Samuel's features were cast in the pure, Eastern mould of his race. His
complexion was of a dead yellow, his nose aquiline, his chin shaded by a
little tuft of white beard, while projecting cheek-bones threw a harsh
shadow upon the hollow and wrinkled cheeks. His countenance was full of
intelligence, fine sharpness, and sagacity. On his broad, high forehead
one might read frankness, honesty, and firmness; his eyes, black and
brilliant as an Arab's, were at once mild and piercing.

His wife, Bathsheba, some fifteen years younger than himself, was of tall
stature, and dressed entirely in black. A low cap, of starched lawn,
which reminded one of the grave head-dresses of Dutch matrons, encircled
a pale and austere countenance, formerly of a rare and haughty beauty,
and impressed with the Scriptural character. Some lines in the forehead,
caused by the almost continual knitting of her gray brows, showed that
this woman had often suffered from the pressure of intense grief.

At this very moment her countenance betrayed inexpressible sorrow. Her
look was fixed, her head resting on her bosom. She had let her right
hand, which held a small account-book, fall upon her lap, while the other
hand grasped convulsively a long tress of jet-black hair, which she bore
about her neck. It was fastened by a golden clasp, about an inch square,
in which, under a plate of crystal, that shut in one side of it like a
relic-case, could be seen a piece of linen, folded square, and almost
entirely covered with dark red spots that resembled blood a long time
dried.

After a short silence, during which Samuel was occupied with his
register, he read aloud what he had just been writing: "Per contra, 5,000
Austrian Metallics of 1,000 florins, under date of October 19th, 1826."

After which enumeration, Samuel raised his head, and said to his wife:
"Well, is it right, Bathsheba? Have you compared it with the account
book?"

Bathsheba did not answer. Samuel looked at her, and, seeing that she was
absorbed in grief, said to her, with an expression of tender anxiety:
"What is the matter? Good heaven! what is the matter with you?"

"The 19th of October, 1826," said she, slowly, with her eyes still fixed,
and pressing yet more closely the lock of black hair which she wore about
her neck; "It was a fatal day--for, Samuel, it was the date of the last
letter which we received from--"

Bathsheba was unable to proceed. She uttered a long sigh, and concealed
her face in her hands.

"Oh! I understand you," observed the old man, in a tremulous voice; "a
father may be taken up by the thought of other cares; but the heart of a
mother is ever wakeful." Throwing his pen down upon the table, Samuel
leaned his forehead upon his hands in sorrow.

Bathsheba resumed, as if she found a melancholy pleasure in these cruel
remembrances: "Yes; that was the last day on which our son, Abel, wrote
to us from Germany, to announce to us that he had invested the funds
according to your desire and was going thence into Poland, to effect
another operation."

"And in Poland he met the death of a martyr," added Samuel. "With no
motive and no proof, they accused him falsely of coming to organize
smuggling, and the Russian governor, treating him as they treat our
brothers in that land of cruel tyranny, condemned him to the dreadful
punishment of the knout, without even hearing him in his defence. Why
should they hear a Jew? What is a Jew? A creature below a serf, whom they
reproach for all the vices that a degrading slavery has engendered. A Jew
beaten to death? Who would trouble themselves about it?"

"And poor Abel, so good, so faithful, died beneath their stripes, partly
from shame, partly from the wounds," said Bathsheba, shuddering. "One of
our Polish brethren obtained with great difficulty permission to bury
him. He cut off this lock of beautiful black hair--which, with this scrap
of linen, bathed in the blood of our dear son, is all that now remains to
us of him." Bathsheba covered the hair and clasp with convulsive kisses.

"Alas!" said Samuel, drying his tears, which had burst forth at these sad
recollections, "the Lord did not at last remove our child, until the task
which our family has accomplished faithfully for a century and a half was
nearly at an end. Of what use will our race be henceforth upon earth?"
added Samuel, most bitterly. "Our duty is performed. This casket contains
a royal fortune--and yonder house, walled up for a hundred and fifty
years, will be opened to-morrow to the descendants of my ancestor's
benefactor." So saying, Samuel turned his face sorrowfully towards the
house, which he could see through the window. The dawn was just about to
appear. The moon had set; belvedere, roof, and chimneys formed a black
mass upon the dark blue of the starry firmament.

Suddenly, Samuel grew pale, and, rising abruptly, said to his wife in a
tremulous tone, whilst he still pointed to the house: "Bathsheba! the
seven points of light--just as it was thirty years ago. Look! look:"

Indeed, the seven round holes, bored in the form of a cross in the leaden
plates which covered the window of the belvedere, sparkled like so many
luminous points, as if some one in the house ascended with a light to the
roof.




CHAPTER XVIII.

DEBIT AND CREDIT.

For some seconds, Samuel and Bathsheba remained motionless, with their
eyes fixed in fear and uneasiness on the seven luminous points, which
shone through the darkness of the night from the summit of the belvedere;
while, on the horizon, behind the house, a pale, rosy hue announced the
dawn of day.

Samuel was the first to break silence, and he said to his wife, as he
drew his hand across his brow: "The grief caused by the remembrance of
our poor child has prevented us from reflecting that, after all, there
should be nothing to alarm us in what we see."

"How so, Samuel?"

"My father always told me that he, and my grandfather before him, had
seen such lights at long intervals."

"Yes, Samuel--but without being able, any more than ourselves, to explain
the cause."

"Like my father and grandfather, we can only suppose that some secret
passage gives admittance to persons who, like us, have some mysterious
duty to fulfil in this dwelling. Besides, my father warned me not to be
uneasy at these appearances, foretold by him, and now visible for the
second time in thirty years."

"No matter for that, Samuel, it does strike one as if it was something
supernatural."

"The days of miracles are over." said the Jew, shaking his head
sorrowfully: "many of the old houses in this quarter have subterraneous
communications with distant places--some extending even to the Seine and
the Catacombs. Doubtless, this house is so situated, and the persons who
make these rare visits enter by some such means."

"But that the belvedere should be thus lighted up?"

"According to the plan of the building, you know that the belvedere forms
a kind of skylight to the apartment called the Great Hall of Mourning,
situated on the upper story. As it is completely dark, in consequence of
the closing of all the windows, they must use a light to visit this Hall
of Mourning--a room which is said to contain some very strange and gloomy
things," added the Jew, with a shudder.

Bathsheba, as well as her husband, gazed attentively on the seven
luminous points, which diminished in brightness as the daylight gradually
increased.

"As you say, Samuel, the mystery may be thus explained," resumed the
Hebrew's wife. "Besides, the day is so important a one for the family of
Rennepont, that this apparition: ought not to astonish us under the
circumstances."