The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


"And our father?"

"It was impossible for him to return to Russia; impossible for your
mother to think of flight, with two children; impossible for the general
to write to her, as he knew not where she was."

"So, since that time, you have had no news of him?"

"Yes, my children--once we had news."

"And by whom?"

After a moment's silence, Dagobert resumed with a singular expression of
countenance: "By whom?--by one who is not like other men. Yes--that you
may understand me better, I will relate to you an extraordinary
adventure, which happened to your father during his last French campaign.
He had been ordered by the Emperor to carry a battery, which was playing
heavily on our army; after several unsuccessful efforts, the general put
himself at the head of a regiment of cuirassiers, and charged the
battery, intending, as was his custom, to cut down the men at their guns.
He was on horseback, just before the mouth of a cannon, where all the
artillerymen had been either killed or wounded, when one of them still
found strength to raise himself upon one knee, and to apply the lighted
match to the touchhole--and that when your father was about ten paces in
front of the loaded piece."

"Oh! what a peril for our father!"

"Never, he told me, had he run such imminent danger for he saw the
artilleryman apply the match, and the gun go off--but, at the very nick,
a man of tall stature, dressed as a peasant, and whom he had not before
remarked, threw himself in front of the cannon."

"Unfortunate creature! what a horrible death!"

"Yes," said Dagobert, thoughtfully; "it should have been so. He ought by
rights to have been blown into a thousand pieces. But no--nothing of the
kind!"

"What do you tell us?"

"What the general told me. 'At the moment when the gun went off,' as he
often repeated to me, 'I shut my eyes by an involuntary movement, that I
might not see the mutilated body of the poor wretch who had sacrificed
himself in my place. When I again opened them, the first thing I saw in
the midst of the smoke, was the tall figure of this man, standing erect
and calm on the same spot, and casting a sad mild look on the
artilleryman, who, with one knee on the ground, and his body thrown
backward, gazed on him in as much terror as if he had been the devil.
Afterwards, I lost sight of this man in the tumult,' added your father."

"Bless me Dagobert! how can this be possible?"

"That is just what I said to the general. He answered me that he had
never been able to explain to himself this event, which seemed as
incredible as it was true. Moreover, your father must have been greatly
struck with the countenance of this man, who appeared, he said, about
thirty years of age--for he remarked, that his extremely black eyebrows
were joined together, and formed, as it were, one line from temple to
temple, so that he seemed to have a black streak across his forehead.
Remember this, my children; you will soon see why."

"Oh, Dagobert! we shall not forget it," said the orphans, growing more
and more astonished as he proceeded.

"Is it not strange--this man with a black seam on his forehead?"

"Well, you shall hear. The general had, as I told you, been left for dead
at Waterloo. During the night which he passed on the field of battle, in
a sort of delirium brought on by the fever of his wounds, he saw, or
fancied he saw, this same man bending over him, with a look of great
mildness and deep melancholy, stanching his wounds, and using every
effort to revive him. But as your father, whose senses were still
wandering, repulsed his kindness saying, that after such a defeat, it
only remained to die--it appeared as if this man replied to him; 'You
must live for Eva!' meaning your mother, whom the general had left at
Warsaw, to join the Emperor, and make this campaign of France."

"How strange, Dagobert!--And since then, did our father never see this
man?"

"Yes, he saw him--for it was he who brought news of the general to your
poor mother."

"When was that? We never heard of it."

"You remember that, on the day your mother died, you went to the pine
forest with old Fedora?"

"Yes," answered Rose, mournfully; "to fetch some heath, of which our
mother was so fond."

"Poor mother!" added Blanche; "she appeared so well that morning, that we
could not dream of the calamity which awaited us before night."

"True, my children; I sang and worked that morning in the garden,
expecting, no more than you did, what was to happen. Well, as I was
singing at my work, on a sudden I heard a voice ask me in French: 'Is
this the village of Milosk?'--I turned round, and saw before me a
stranger; I looked at him attentively, and, instead of replying, fell
back two steps, quite stupefied."

"Ah, why?"

"He was of tall stature, very pale, with a high and open forehead; but
his eyebrows met, and seemed to form one black streak across it."

"Then it was the same man who had twice been with our father in battle?"

"Yes--it was he."

"But, Dagobert," said Rose, thoughtfully, "is it not a long time since
these battles?"

"About sixteen years."

"And of what age was this stranger?"

"Hardly more than thirty."

"Then how can it be the same man, who sixteen years before, had been with
our father in the wars?"

"You are right," said Dagobert, after a moment's silence, and shrugging
his shoulders: "I may have been deceived by a chance likeness--and yet--"

"Or, if it were the same, he could not have got older all that while."

"But did you ask him, if he had not formerly relieved our father?"

"At first I was so surprised that I did not think of it; and afterwards,
he remained so short a time, that I had no opportunity. Well, he asked me
for the village of Milosk. 'You are there, sir,' said I, 'but how do you
know that I am a Frenchman?' 'I heard you singing as I passed,' replied
he; 'could you tell me the house of Madame Simon, the general's wife?'
'She lives here, sir.' Then looking at me for some seconds in silence, he
took me by the hand and said: 'You are the friend of General Simon--his
best friend?' Judge of my astonishment, as I answered: 'But, sir, how do
you know?' 'He has often spoken of you with gratitude.' 'You have seen
the general then?' 'Yes, some time ago, in India. I am also his friend: I
bring news of him to his wife, whom I knew to be exiled in Siberia. At
Tobolsk, whence I come, I learned that she inhabits this village. Conduct
me to her!'"

"The good traveller--I love him already," said Rose.

"Yes, being father's friend."

"I begged him to wait an instant, whilst I went to inform your mother, so
that the surprise might not do her harm; five minutes after, he was
beside her."

"And what kind of man was this traveller, Dagobert?"

"He was very tall; he wore a dark pelisse, and a fur cap, and had long
black hair."

"Was he handsome?"

"Yes, my children--very handsome; but with so mild and melancholy an air,
that it pained my heart to see him."

"Poor man! he had doubtless known some great sorrow."

"Your mother had been closeted with him for some minutes, when she called
me to her and said that she had just received good news of the general.
She was in tears, and had before her a large packet of papers; it was a
kind of journal, which your father had written every evening to console
himself; not being able to speak to her, he told the paper all that he
would have told her."

"Oh! where are these papers, Dagobert?"

"There, in the knapsack, with my cross and our purse. One day I will give
them to you: but I have picked out a few leaves here and there for you to
read presently. You will see why."

"Had our father been long in India?"

"I gathered from the few words which your mother said, that the general
had gone to that country, after fighting for the Greeks against the
Turks--for he always liked to side with the weak against the strong. In
India he made fierce war against the English, they had murdered our
prisoners in pontoons, and tortured the Emperor at St. Helena, and the
war was a doubly good one, for in harming them he served a just cause."

"What cause did he serve then?"

"That of one of the poor native princes, whose territories the English,
lay waste, till the day when they can take possession of them against law
and right. You see, my children, it was once more the weak against the
strong, and your father did not miss this opportunity. In a few months he
had so well-trained and disciplined the twelve or fifteen thousand men of
the prince, that, in two encounters, they cut to pieces the English sent
against them, and who, no doubt, had in their reckoning left out your
brave father, my children. But come, you shall read some pages of his
journal, which will tell you more and better than I can. Moreover, you
will find in them a name which you ought always to remember; that's why I
chose this passage."

"Oh, what happiness! To read the pages written by our father, is almost
to hear him speak," said Rose.

"It is as if he were close beside us," added Blanche.

And the girls stretched out their hands with eagerness, to catch hold of
the leaves that Dagobert had taken from his pocket. Then, by a
simultaneous movement, full of touching grace, they pressed the writing
of their father in silence to their lips.

"You will see also, my children, at the end of this letter, why I was
surprised that your guardian angel, as you say, should be called Gabriel.
Read, read," added the soldier, observing the puzzled air of the orphans.
"Only I ought to tell you that, when he wrote this, the general had not
yet fallen in with the traveller who brought the papers."

Rose, sitting up in her bed, took the leaves, and began to read in a soft
and trembling voice, Blanche, with her head resting on her sister's
shoulder, followed attentively every word. One could even see, by the
slight motion of her lips, that she too was reading, but only to herself.




CHAPTER VIII.

EXTRACTS FROM GENERAL SIMON'S DIARY.

Bivouac on the Mountains of Avers February the 20th, 1830.

"Each time I add some pages to this journal, written now in the heart of
India, where the fortune of my wandering and proscribed existence has
thrown me--a journal which, alas! my beloved Eva, you may never read--I
experience a sweet, yet painful emotion; for, although to converse thus
with you is a consolation, it brings back the bitter thought that I am
unable to see or speak to you.

"Still, if these pages should ever meet your eyes, your generous heart
will throb at the name of the intrepid being, to whom I am this day
indebted for my life, and to whom I may thus perhaps owe the happiness of
seeing you again--you and my child--for of course our child lives. Yes,
it must be--for else, poor wife, what an existence would be yours amid
the horrors of exile! Dear soul! he must now be fourteen. Whom does he
resemble? Is he like you? Has he your large and beautiful blue
eyes?--Madman that I am! how many times, in this long day-book, have I
already asked the same idle question, to which you can return no
answer!--How many times shall I continue to ask it?--But you will teach
our child to speak and love the somewhat savage name of Djalma."

"Djalma!" said Rose, as with moist eyes she left off reading.

"Djalma!" repeated Blanche, who shared the emotion of her sister. "Oh, we
shall never forget that name."

"And you will do well, my children; for it seems to be the name of a
famous soldier, though a very young one. But go on, my little Rose!"

"I have told you in the preceding pages, my dear Eva, of the two glorious
days we had this month. The troops of my old friend, the prince, which
daily make fresh advances in European discipline, have performed wonders.
We have beaten the English, and obliged them to abandon a portion of this
unhappy country, which they had invaded in contempt of all the rights of
justice, and which they continue to ravage without mercy, for, in these
parts, warfare is another name for treachery, pillage, and massacre. This
morning, after a toilsome march through a rocky and mountainous district,
we received information from our scouts, that the enemy had been
reinforced, and was preparing to act on the offensive; and, as we were
separated from them by a distance of a few leagues only, an engagement
became inevitable. My old friend the prince, the father of my deliverer,
was impatient to march to the attack. The action began about three
o'clock; it was very bloody and furious. Seeing that our men wavered for
a moment, for they were inferior in number, and the English
reinforcements consisted of fresh troops, I charged at the head of our
weak reserve of cavalry. The old prince was in the centre, fighting, as
he always fights, intrepidly; his son, Djalma, scarcely eighteen, as
brave as his father, did not leave my side. In the hottest part of the
engagement, my horse was killed under me, and rolling over into a ravine,
along the edge of which I was riding, I found myself so awkwardly
entangled beneath him, that for an instant I thought my thigh was
broken."

"Poor father!" said Blanche.

"This time, happily, nothing more dangerous ensued thanks to Djalma! You
see, Dagobert," added Rose, "that I remember the name." And she continued
to read,

"The English thought--and a very flattering opinion it was--that, if they
could kill me, they would make short work of the prince's army. So a
Sepoy officer, with five or six irregulars--cowardly, ferocious
plunderers--seeing me roll down the ravine, threw themselves into it to
despatch me. Surrounded by fire and smoke, and carried away by their
ardor, our mountaineers had not seen me fall; but Djalma never left me.
He leaped into the ravine to my assistance, and his cool intrepidity
saved my life. He had held the fire of his double-barrelled carbine; with
one load, he killed the officer on the spot; with the other he broke the
arm of an irregular, who had already pierced my left hand with his
bayonet. But do not be alarmed, dear Eva; it is nothing--only a scratch."

"Wounded--again wounded--alas!" cried Blanche, clasping her hands
together, and interrupting her sister.

"Take courage!" said Dagobert: "I dare say it was only a scratch, as the
general calls it. Formerly, he used to call wounds, which did not disable
a man from fighting, blank wounds. There was no one like him for such
sayings."

"Djalma, seeing me wounded," resumed Rose, wiping her eyes, "made use of
his heavy carbine as a club, and drove back the soldiers. At that
instant, I perceived a new assailant, who, sheltered behind a clump of
bamboos which commanded the ravine, slowly lowered his long gun, placed
the barrel between two branches, and took deliberate aim at Djalma.
Before my shouts could apprise him of his danger, the brave youth had
received a ball in his breast. Feeling himself hit, he fell bark
involuntarily two paces, and dropped upon one knee: but he still remained
firm, endeavoring to cover me with his body. You may conceive my rage and
despair, whilst all my efforts to disengage myself were paralyzed by the
excruciating pain in my thigh. Powerless and disarmed, I witnessed for
some moments this unequal struggle.

"Djalma was losing blood rapidly; his strength of arm began to fail him;
already one of the irregulars, inciting his comrades with his voice, drew
from his belt a huge, heavy kind of bill-hook, when a dozen of our
mountaineers made their appearance, borne towards the spot by the
irresistible current of the battle. Djalma was rescued in his turn, I was
released, and, in a quarter of an hour, I was able to mount a horse. The
fortune of the day is ours, though with severe loss; but the fires of the
English camp are still visible, and to-morrow the conflict will be
decisive. Thus, my beloved Eva, I owe my life to this youth. Happily, his
wound occasions us no uneasiness; the ball only glanced along the ribs in
a slanting direction."

"The brave boy might have said: 'A blank wound,' like the general,"
observed Dagobert.

"Now, my dear Eva," continued Rose, "you must become acquainted, by means
of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma. He is but just
eighteen. With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant
nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only
fifteen, he was called 'The Generous'--by which was, of course, meant
generous in heart and mind. By another custom, no less touching than
whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called 'The
Father of the Generous,' and who might, with equal propriety, be called
'The Just,' for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor and
proud independence. He might, like so many other poor princes of this
country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of the
English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power, and
submitted to brute force--but it was not in his nature. 'My whole rights,
or a grave in my native mountains!'--such is his motto. And this is no
empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and just.
'But you will be crushed in the struggle,' I have said to him--'My
friend,' he answered, 'what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you
were told to yield or die?'--From that day I understood him, and have
devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak
against the strong. You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of
such a father. This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery,
that, like a young Greek of Leonidas' age, he fights with his breast
bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have
arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick,
impenetrable vest. The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat,
King of Naples, who, I have so often told you, I have seen a hundred
times leading the most desperate charges with nothing but a riding-whip
in his hand."

"That's another of those kings I was telling you of, whom the Emperor set
up for his amusement," said Dagobert. "I once saw a Prussian officer
prisoner, whose face had been cut across by that mad-cap King of Naples'
riding-whip; the mark was there, a black and blue stripe. The Prussian
swore he was dishonored, and that a sabre-cut would have been preferable.
I should rather think so! That devil of a king; he only had one idea:
'Forward, on to the cannon!' As soon as they began to cannonade, one
would have thought the guns were calling him with all their might, for he
was soon up to them with his 'Here I am!' If I speak to you about him, my
children, it's because he was fond of repeating,--'No one can break
through a square of infantry, if General Simon or I can't do it.'"

Rose continued:

"I have observed with pain, that, notwithstanding his youth, Djalma is
often subject to fits of deep melancholy. At times, I have seen him
exchange with his father looks of singular import. In spite of our mutual
attachment, I believe that both conceal from me some sad family secret,
in so far as I can judge from expressions which have dropped from them by
chance.

"It relates to some strange event which their vivid imaginations have
invested with a supernatural character.

"And yet, my love, you and I have no longer the right to smile at the
credulity of others. I, since the French campaign, when I met with that
extraordinary adventure, which, to this day, I am quite unable to
understand--"

"This refers to the man who threw himself before the mouth of the
cannon," said Dagobert.

"And you," continued the maiden, still reading, "you, my dear Eva, since
the visits of that young and beautiful woman, whom, as your mother
asserted, she had seen at her mother's house forty years before."

The orphans, in amazement, looked at the soldier.

"Your mother never spoke to me of that, nor the general either, my
children; this is as strange to me as it is to you."

With increasing excitement and curiosity, Rose continued:

"After all, my dear Eva, things which appear very extraordinary, may
often be explained by a chance resemblance or a freak of nature. Marvels
being always the result of optical illusion or heated fancy, a time must
come, when that which appeared to be superhuman or supernatural, will
prove to be the most simple and natural event in the world. I doubt not,
therefore, that the things, which we denominate our prodigies, will one
day receive this commonplace solution."

"You see, my children--things appear marvelous, which at bottom are quite
simple--though for a long time we understand nothing about them."

"As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be
astonished--eh, sister?"

"Yes, truly--since it will all be explained one day."

"For example," said Dagobert, after a moment's reflection, "you two are
so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you
daily, might easily take one for the other. Well! if they did not know
that you are, so to speak,'doubles,' they might think an imp was at work
instead of such good little angels as you are."

"You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even
as our father says." And Rose continued to read:

"Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French
blood in his veins. His father married, some years ago, a young girl,
whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the
island of Java. This similarity of circumstances between my old friend
and myself--for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long
settled in a foreign land--has only served to augment my sympathy for
him. Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom he
adored.

"See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words. I am
weak--I am foolish--but, alas! my heart sinks within me. If such a
misfortune were to happen to me--Oh, my God!--what would become of our
child without thee--without his father--in that barbarous country? But
no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is
uncertainty! Where may you now be? What are you doing? What has become of
you? Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for me.
They are the cause of my worst moments--for, when free from them, I can
at least say to myself: I am proscribed, I am every way unfortunate--but,
at the other end of the world, two hearts still beat for me with
affection--yours, my Eva, and our child's!"

Rose could hardly finish this passage; for some seconds her voice was
broken by sobs. There was indeed a fatal coincidence between the fears of
General Simon and the sad reality; and what could be more touching than
these outpourings of the heart, written by the light of a watch fire, on
the eve of battle, by a soldier who thus sought to soothe the pangs of a
separation, which he felt bitterly, but knew not would be eternal?

"Poor general! he is unaware of our misfortune," said Dagobert, after a
moment's silence; "but neither has he heard that he has two children,
instead of one. That will be at least some consolation. But come,
Blanche; do go on reading: I fear that this dwelling on grief fatigues
your sister, and she is too much affected by it. Besides, after all, it
is only just, that you should take your share of its pleasure and its
sorrow."

Blanche took the letter, and Rose, having dried her eyes, laid in her
turn her sweet head on the shoulder of her sister, who thus continued:

"I am calmer now, my dear Eva; I left off writing for a moment, and
strove to banish those black presentiments. Let us resume our
conversation! After discoursing so long about India, I will talk to you a
little of Europe. Yesterday evening, one of our people (a trusty fellow)
rejoined our outposts. He brought me a letter, which had arrived from
France at Calcutta; at length, I have news of my father, and am no longer
anxious on his account. This letter is dated in August of last year. I
see by its contents, that several other letters, to which he alludes,
have either been delayed or lost; for I had not received any for two
years before, and was extremely uneasy about him. But my excellent father
is the same as ever! Age has not weakened him; his character is as
energetic, his health as robust, as in times past--still a workman, still
proud of his order, still faithful to his austere republican ideas, still
hoping much.

"For he says to me, 'the time is at hand,' and he underlines those words.
He gives me also, as you will see, good news of the family of old
Dagobert, our friend--for in truth, my dear Eva, it soothes my grief to
think, that this excellent man is with you, that he will have accompanied
you in your exile--for I know him--a kernel of gold beneath the rude rind
of a soldier! How he must love our child!"

Here Dagobert coughed two or three times, stooped down, and appeared to
be seeking on the ground the little red and blue check-handkerchief
spread over his knees. He remained thus bent for some seconds, and, when
he raised himself, he drew his hand across his moustache.

"How well father knows you!"